simonejester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
simonejester) wrote2013-04-30 11:49 pm
simonejester) wrote2013-04-30 11:49 pm
Sherlock Fic Quotes #15 (Pretty much SFW)
Ships this post: pre-Greg/Mycroft, Greg/Mycroft
Sherlock ate chocolate by the pound, lay about for days immersed in a book and the weight melted off of him like warmed butter. Mycroft wondered if it was possible to schedule an appointment with the Almighty to discuss his notion of fairness…
--
“What did you do?”
“I called your defiler and attempted to persuade him to forego your instructions and make himself present immediately, but he refused. Not even the knowledge that you were waffling like a confused terrier over your outfit could force him to accede.”
Mycroft dropped heavily on the bed next to his personal demon and laid his head in his hands.
“Yes, you should be upset. He is a bounder if he will not relieve your distress over your grotesque appearance.”
“I am going to kill you. I am going to evict your soul from your body. Your flesh shall be feasted upon by the hounds of hell and I shall deliver it in silver bowls to their lair personally!”
--
“Why, Sherlock… why would you do this to me?”
“Test the strength of his commitment to you? I would think it would be obvious.”
“You hate me.”
“Quite the contrary. You are very useful to me and if he dissolves your ability to function because of some cruelty or slight, I shall be highly inconvenienced.”
Mycroft cut his eyes over to look at his brother, whose own eyes were fixed firmly to stare straight ahead. Only Sherlock could say that he cared and make it sound dismissive and insulting. And Mycroft was not sure he would ever want that to change.
--
Mycroft? What’s first?”
"[...] Mycroft wondered if was appropriate to hold his soulmate’s hand as they explored his home and decided that it was very appropriate. It would do for the staff to fully understand the nature of their relationship since some of them might be hired away to the employ of the newlywed couple.
“My lab!”
“Sherlock, we are not…”
“Come on, Mycroft. Let’s check out the little man’s playroom.”
“It is not a ‘playroom’ you insipid cretin. It is my laboratory, where I conduct important research.”
“I’m sure the world will thank you.”
“Doubtful. Humanity is an ungrateful beast.”
“Price of genius, I guess.”
“That is the first intelligent thing you’ve ever said.”
“Had to happen sometime.”
--
Lestrade waved the server over and paid the check then leaned back in his chair to wait on His Majesty. Who had left his notebook on the table. Lestrade had never asked about what the boy wrote when he was filling pages with scratches, so he pulled the book over to take a quick, and only slightly guilty, peek. There was a lot of information packed in there, but a couple of snippets especially caught his attention.
The hut is miniscule, but not entirely lacking in interest. The space is fully used and evidence of familial activities is plentiful and diverse. It cannot be called unclean and is not obviously in a state of disrepair, indicating an attachment to the structure and its appointments. There are numerous photographs in prominent positions, chosen for maximum visibility. Many of the photographs are of Lestrade at various stages of development. Lestrade’s personal space reminiscent of his personality – uncomplicated, but only partially predictable. Limited possessions, but choices prudent for level of income. No frivolous expenditures of significance, in keeping with quality of remainder of shack.
Lestrade was surprised to find that his house passed some degree of muster. And that he was actually referred to by name.
Second recreational day with Lestrade can be considered agreeable. Activities were acceptable and Lestrade is not uncompanionable or completely unable of following conversation, provided it is leveled appropriately. Is willing to compromise, though does negotiate well for his degree of naiveté. Based on sum total of interactions, I will not object to further outings.
And wasn’t that the sweetest thing Sherlock could possibly say. Lestrade pushed the notebook back into position and reflected on Sherlock’s notes. He’d not been put off, really, by the ‘hut.’ Actually he’d seemed to focus heavily on the lived-in quality of their place, which made an odd, but sad sort of sense. Sherlock and Mycroft’s home was anything but lived-in. And, now that he thought about it, there weren’t photos anywhere. Portraits, yes… but none of the stupid photos his Mum had all around. It was quiet, too. The few people he saw milling around were quiet as stones as they went about their business, unlike his house which always had people going in and out, staying to eat or watch telly or just sit and chat for an evening. And it was interesting to have some of that data the kid was always going on about for the fact that Sherlock didn’t consider him a total wreck. Good to have a little fuel for his own growing soft spot for the lad.
“I have contracted cholera!”
That soft spot seemed to actually be in his skull, however.
--
“Piss off you little demon.”
“Those who speak the truth are usually derided by those who cannot bear the righteousness of their judgments.”
“That’s it. You’re free to stay on the phone, but I’m now going to recite a love poem dedicated to your brother and…”
And Lestrade could hear Sherlock’s dramatic disgust in the click that ended their conversation. That kid would go far one day, provided someone was on hand 24/7 to keep hold of his leash.
--The Shop Boy, by (AO3)EventHorizon, (Greg/Mycroft, teen AU)
===
It wouldn’t be the strangest thing in the flat, he thinks, peering toward the skull, now sitting beside a stuffed fox squirrel that must be at least seventy years old. He suspects the squirrel is there to keep the skull company, now that John goes most places with Sherlock.
--
[...] Lestrade is glad, not for the first time, that his phone is waterproof to a depth of fuck-it-you’re-going-to-drown-anyway.
--
“You sound like Sherlock.” He grins into his half-glass of Burgundy.
“Bite your tongue.”
Bite it for me, memory supplies, automatically, in the voice of one of his old mates, the voice of Cliff.
--
Right. Making out on the street is a very bad idea, for at least half a dozen reasons. The Underground is off to the left, but neither of them turns that way. It is easier to walk, to keep walking. The quiet between them is the sound of footsteps on wet pavement, and Lestrade blinks away rain, sees Mycroft watching from the corner of his eye.
He’s trying to decide what to say next, what the right choice is, when a car slows beside them, keeps pace.
Mycroft mutters something Lestrade is pretty certain is Latin for balls. He doesn’t remember much useful from primary school Latin, but he does remember the dirty words they weren’t supposed to learn.
The window comes down, and there is Anthea in the passenger seat. “You forgot your umbrella, sir.” She looks Lestrade up and down, and he feels vaguely like he’s just been caught necking on the sofa. After curfew. With the vicar’s son. He’s missed that feeling, pushes down the grin that threatens.
--One Word for It, by (AO3)sheffiesharpe, (Greg/Mycroft)
Sherlock ate chocolate by the pound, lay about for days immersed in a book and the weight melted off of him like warmed butter. Mycroft wondered if it was possible to schedule an appointment with the Almighty to discuss his notion of fairness…
--
“What did you do?”
“I called your defiler and attempted to persuade him to forego your instructions and make himself present immediately, but he refused. Not even the knowledge that you were waffling like a confused terrier over your outfit could force him to accede.”
Mycroft dropped heavily on the bed next to his personal demon and laid his head in his hands.
“Yes, you should be upset. He is a bounder if he will not relieve your distress over your grotesque appearance.”
“I am going to kill you. I am going to evict your soul from your body. Your flesh shall be feasted upon by the hounds of hell and I shall deliver it in silver bowls to their lair personally!”
--
“Why, Sherlock… why would you do this to me?”
“Test the strength of his commitment to you? I would think it would be obvious.”
“You hate me.”
“Quite the contrary. You are very useful to me and if he dissolves your ability to function because of some cruelty or slight, I shall be highly inconvenienced.”
Mycroft cut his eyes over to look at his brother, whose own eyes were fixed firmly to stare straight ahead. Only Sherlock could say that he cared and make it sound dismissive and insulting. And Mycroft was not sure he would ever want that to change.
--
Mycroft? What’s first?”
"[...] Mycroft wondered if was appropriate to hold his soulmate’s hand as they explored his home and decided that it was very appropriate. It would do for the staff to fully understand the nature of their relationship since some of them might be hired away to the employ of the newlywed couple.
“My lab!”
“Sherlock, we are not…”
“Come on, Mycroft. Let’s check out the little man’s playroom.”
“It is not a ‘playroom’ you insipid cretin. It is my laboratory, where I conduct important research.”
“I’m sure the world will thank you.”
“Doubtful. Humanity is an ungrateful beast.”
“Price of genius, I guess.”
“That is the first intelligent thing you’ve ever said.”
“Had to happen sometime.”
--
Lestrade waved the server over and paid the check then leaned back in his chair to wait on His Majesty. Who had left his notebook on the table. Lestrade had never asked about what the boy wrote when he was filling pages with scratches, so he pulled the book over to take a quick, and only slightly guilty, peek. There was a lot of information packed in there, but a couple of snippets especially caught his attention.
The hut is miniscule, but not entirely lacking in interest. The space is fully used and evidence of familial activities is plentiful and diverse. It cannot be called unclean and is not obviously in a state of disrepair, indicating an attachment to the structure and its appointments. There are numerous photographs in prominent positions, chosen for maximum visibility. Many of the photographs are of Lestrade at various stages of development. Lestrade’s personal space reminiscent of his personality – uncomplicated, but only partially predictable. Limited possessions, but choices prudent for level of income. No frivolous expenditures of significance, in keeping with quality of remainder of shack.
Lestrade was surprised to find that his house passed some degree of muster. And that he was actually referred to by name.
Second recreational day with Lestrade can be considered agreeable. Activities were acceptable and Lestrade is not uncompanionable or completely unable of following conversation, provided it is leveled appropriately. Is willing to compromise, though does negotiate well for his degree of naiveté. Based on sum total of interactions, I will not object to further outings.
And wasn’t that the sweetest thing Sherlock could possibly say. Lestrade pushed the notebook back into position and reflected on Sherlock’s notes. He’d not been put off, really, by the ‘hut.’ Actually he’d seemed to focus heavily on the lived-in quality of their place, which made an odd, but sad sort of sense. Sherlock and Mycroft’s home was anything but lived-in. And, now that he thought about it, there weren’t photos anywhere. Portraits, yes… but none of the stupid photos his Mum had all around. It was quiet, too. The few people he saw milling around were quiet as stones as they went about their business, unlike his house which always had people going in and out, staying to eat or watch telly or just sit and chat for an evening. And it was interesting to have some of that data the kid was always going on about for the fact that Sherlock didn’t consider him a total wreck. Good to have a little fuel for his own growing soft spot for the lad.
“I have contracted cholera!”
That soft spot seemed to actually be in his skull, however.
--
“Piss off you little demon.”
“Those who speak the truth are usually derided by those who cannot bear the righteousness of their judgments.”
“That’s it. You’re free to stay on the phone, but I’m now going to recite a love poem dedicated to your brother and…”
And Lestrade could hear Sherlock’s dramatic disgust in the click that ended their conversation. That kid would go far one day, provided someone was on hand 24/7 to keep hold of his leash.
--The Shop Boy, by (AO3)EventHorizon, (Greg/Mycroft, teen AU)
===
It wouldn’t be the strangest thing in the flat, he thinks, peering toward the skull, now sitting beside a stuffed fox squirrel that must be at least seventy years old. He suspects the squirrel is there to keep the skull company, now that John goes most places with Sherlock.
--
[...] Lestrade is glad, not for the first time, that his phone is waterproof to a depth of fuck-it-you’re-going-to-drown-anyway.
--
“You sound like Sherlock.” He grins into his half-glass of Burgundy.
“Bite your tongue.”
Bite it for me, memory supplies, automatically, in the voice of one of his old mates, the voice of Cliff.
--
Right. Making out on the street is a very bad idea, for at least half a dozen reasons. The Underground is off to the left, but neither of them turns that way. It is easier to walk, to keep walking. The quiet between them is the sound of footsteps on wet pavement, and Lestrade blinks away rain, sees Mycroft watching from the corner of his eye.
He’s trying to decide what to say next, what the right choice is, when a car slows beside them, keeps pace.
Mycroft mutters something Lestrade is pretty certain is Latin for balls. He doesn’t remember much useful from primary school Latin, but he does remember the dirty words they weren’t supposed to learn.
The window comes down, and there is Anthea in the passenger seat. “You forgot your umbrella, sir.” She looks Lestrade up and down, and he feels vaguely like he’s just been caught necking on the sofa. After curfew. With the vicar’s son. He’s missed that feeling, pushes down the grin that threatens.
--One Word for It, by (AO3)sheffiesharpe, (Greg/Mycroft)