Tag Archives: Mycroft Holmes

Holmes Boys #7: Girlfriends — Not Really My Area

Girlfriends. Not Really My Area.

By J. H. Watson
~ 7,000 Words

 

Someone had made a small tactical error. While it was true Sherlock Holmes had been told he wasn’t to attend his brother Mycroft’s tenth birthday party, no one had expressly stated that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to observe the party. Besides it was boring stuck in the nursery alone. And it wasn’t fair that he couldn’t come because he was only almost-three. All the other people at the party were old. Some of them were even older than Mummy and Father!

At the moment, Sherlock was hidden behind a curtain trying to keep absolutely still. He’d had to slip into the room that acted as both library and Father’s study because someone was coming down the hall. He’d barely managed to get behind the curtains before two older boys entered it as well. Before Sherlock could decide whether to show himself and demand what the boys were doing in there, taking the what his older brother called the offensive, the boys moved to the window next to him, flung it open, and began smoking.

Apparently, they only had the one cigarette because Sherlock could hear them pass it back and forth, taking long, deep sucks, then holding their breaths for several seconds before slowly releasing the smoke in the general direction of the open window. One of the boys coughed. Some of the smoke drifted to the small pocket behind the curtain tickling Sherlock’s nose. He thought the cigarette stank and he knew Mummy was not going to be happy about the smell in her curtains. Even Father never smoked in the library.

The boy who coughed shifted his weight. His shoe made a distinctive squeak as he said, “Dude, this is good shit.”

The other boy inhaled deeply, held his breath, and after a moment replied, “Yeah. I nicked it from my sister’s boyfriend.” The second boy had the trace of a Scottish accent and a high pitch to his voice.

“He’s going to be pissed when he finds it gone.” The first boy sounded bigger and older with a deeper pitch, and had a solidly upper-class accent.

“Not as pissed as when he finds his fifty quid is gone, too.”

Then both boys broke out into a fit of giggles. Sherlock was trying to hold his breath to avoid the stinky smoke when the library door opened and he heard his brother say, “You aren’t suppose to be in here and you definitely aren’t suppose to be smoking…” There was a pause as Mycroft sniffed before finishing with “…marijuana in here.”

“Piss off, you fat faggot! And take you’re stupid girlfriend with you,” the bigger boy with the squeaky shoes said.

“Really? A fat joke and a sexual epithet? That’s the best you can do?” Mycroft said calmly in that supercilious tone that drove Sherlock mad. Sherlock heard Mycroft and someone smaller cross the room. Mycroft continued, “As for stupid, smoking pot while the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police sits in the next room with a judge, two members of Parliament and a member of the Cabinet staff hardly reeks of superior intellect. You two, on the other hand, do reek of cannabis. You may want to wash before rejoining the party.”

Here the larger boy with the squeaky shoes said something Sherlock didn’t recognize. Judging from the feminine gasp, Sherlock figured it was something he should not say around Mummy or even Nanny, but might try to shock his brother. The smoking boys stomped off with Squeaky Shoes in the lead. As the door closed as loudly and firmly as any door in Mummy’s house was allowed to close, Lady Beatrice “Bunny” Wigglesworth asked, “Should I go get Daddy or someone?”

“No. It would upset Mummy if her party were ruined by… unpleasantness. Why don’t you run along and get a us good seats before the music starts?”

“I hope there’s dancing.”

There was a brief hesitation before Mycroft said, “I’ll be along in a moment. I just want to air out the room a bit.”

Bunny’s footsteps moved away and the door opened and closed once more. There was a beat and then Mycroft said, “Sherlock, you can come out now.”

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Holmes Boys #6: When People Die

Another in the young Holmes Brothers series of fanfic.

[Author’s Note: A big Thank You Shout-out to Anne Zanoni, professional copy editor extraordinaire, for sending me all of the corrections to my original post. I fear in school I suffered through all of the various changes in editing style from minimalist journalism to Southern  “commas go where you would have a reader pause” technique, so the final result can be rather random. And then there’s my tendency to leave out words or leave in extra words while revising a sentence. *heavy sigh* Thank you, Anne, for your patience and hard work.]

Actor, Writer and co-creator of the BBC series Sherlock, Mark Gatiss as Mycroft Holmes sitting in Buckingham Palace

I told you mess with me and I’d write you the longest, high-speed, deduction monolog in the history of television

When People Die They’re Taken To a Special Room

By J. H. Watson
~4,000 words

 

Sherlock Holmes shifted in his seat and swung his little legs, until his feet in his shiny new shoes kicked the chair in front of him. It made an interesting little “thonk” sound with a slight rasp as the sole slid back down from the wooden back. On the fourth kick, his older brother Mycroft said, “Stop it.”

“No.” Sherlock kicked the chair back again.

“Yes.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock asked as he swung his foot out again.

“Because Mummy is looking this way at you and she’s frowning.”

Sherlock dropped his foot and cast a quick glance towards where his mother and father stood, listening to a rather older man with gray hair. Mummy raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and he sat up straight and slipped back against the seat so that he was effectively hidden by the bulk of his older brother. After a moment, Sherlock sighed, slumped a bit and said, “I’m bored.”

“It’s a funeral, Sherlock. It’s not being held for your entertainment. Now sit still and stop fidgeting.”

“Why didn’t we go to the cemetery and see his grave? Nanny says that some cemeteries are so crowded that sometimes when they dig a new grave they find parts of an old body. I might have found a bone or something. That would have been interesting at least.”

“Grandfather was cremated so there won’t be any grave.”

“What’s cremated?”

“People are taken to a special room and burned after they are dead.”

“Cool! Are we going to watch them burn Grandfather?”

“No.”

Sherlock sighed and slumped further so that he was beginning to resemble a little boy melting off the chair. Mycroft sighed as well before saying, “Sit up straight.”

“There’s nothing to do!” Sherlock whined. He’d managed to draw out the last word in a manner that was usually written as “dooooooooooo” but banged his head against his chair back for emphasis causing him to end with an exclamation that turned it into “dooooooo-ow!”

Mycroft glanced at his two-not-quite-three-year-old baby brother. Mycroft was nine-going-on-forty and was actually rather fond of his brother — most of the time. Except now. When Sherlock was acting his age instead of his I.Q.

Mycroft tugged his brother up onto the chair sharply and said, “Look around you. What do you see?”

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Mycroft, Don’t You Have a Taste Tester?

Mark Gatiss as Mycroft Holmes in BBC Sherlock peering at a glass of whiskey with John Watson in the back

This whiskey taste different. Did that waiter look strangely familiar to you, John?

If I were Mycroft I’d watch my back for awhile. Sherlock does have a tendency to experiment with drugs — and not just on himself.

Meanwhile, if I were a member of the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences, I’d probably check to see whether my waiter or waitress is a fan of Sherlock (or The Big Bang Theory) before eating or drinking anything they handed me…

I ma sincerely embarrassed about the recent Emmy Awards in so many ways.

It Was You, Mycroft

Mark Gatiss as Mycroft Holmes in BBC Sherlock with a sour look upon his face

I think this calls for a dozen chocolate frosted Krispy Kremes.

I really wasn’t planning to write this today. I have no idea where it came from. You can’t exactly call it post-Reichenbach Fall (although I did tag it as such). But it’s definitely Reichenfeels.

I think it was the gray stratus clouds moving in today that got to me. And I’m really sorry I looked up information on the Krispy Kreme site (like Mycroft, I’m on a diet and even when I’m not, Krispy Kremes are deadly for me). Fortunately, the nearest Krispy Kreme is 80 miles away!

Anyway, if you enjoy, please feel free to comment or tweet, or something. Thanks!

It Was You

By J.H. Watson
~ 800 Words

 

Mycroft Holmes sat quietly in a chair designed and built for comfort in a room designed for long periods of comfortable, quiet sitting in the contemplative sanctuary afforded by the Diogenes Club. The club’s entire raison d’être, as the better educated diplomatic members would put it, or its purpose, as the rest of us would say, was to buffer its members from the hurly-burly, hustle and bustle of London’s ordinary residents. Mycroft Holmes knew he was decidedly not an ordinary resident, even for the Diogenes Club.

He glanced once around the room and made a mental note to have someone on his staff send flowers to Sir Smythe-Higgsbosun’s widow. Of course, she wouldn’t be a widow until the end of next week, but it was always better not to leave this things until the last moment. He also made a note to ensure that he had no investments in his portfolio connected with the any of the corporations controlled by the Right Honourable Charles Cœur-Défaillant who was planning to disappear with his latest mistress within the fortnight despite buying tickets to the National Theatre.

Mycroft felt a gentle flutter over his heart. It was a silent signal from his mobile politely requesting his attention. He discreetly removed the dignified and tasteful phone from the pocket of his equally dignified suit jacket. Everything, and everyone, in the Diogenes Club appeared tasteful and dignified at all times. Mycroft peered at the screen.

The text read: u o me

Mycroft stared at it a moment as if expecting something more. He read the message again. Unnecessarily, but it gave him another moment to rapidly consider the mind of his brother, Sherlock, before taking any action.

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Mycroft Says Support the Mark Gatiss Birthday Fundraiser

Mark Gatiss as Mycroft Holmes in BBC Sherlock looking at his umbrella tip

Yes, but blowing out candles would be so ordinary, wouldn’t it?


Took me a bit to find the proper link for donations to the Mark Gatiss Birthday Fundraiser, but here it is on JustGiving.com (and frankly the target amount is ridiculously tiny, so please, let’s just blow that out of the water. Why it’d barely cover the cost of Mycroft’s umbrella budget for the year!). The permalink with all the details can be found here and a big Thank You to TheCutterAlicia over at Tumblr.

Mr. Gatiss’s birthday is 17 October. He will be 46 years old. His birthstone is Opal and the birth flower is the calendula. And while Mycroft would not approve and Sherlock would mock, I’ll include the information that Mr. Gatiss’s astrological sign is Libra. For those of you so inclined, here is a link to his astrological profile. A snippet has this to say:

You have strong opinions and possess much determination. Your insight into human nature makes up part of your appeal to others. Your tendency to bang your head against the wall and to become frustrated easily is something that you outgrow and/or temper over the years. Your strong ideals and emotions, if channeled constructively, can bring you much success in your chosen profession. Communication is important to you, although your own communication style is moody. You are highly intelligent and possess the ability to “hit the nail on the head”. Although you can be blunt at times, you generally come across well to others, simply because they can sense your good intentions.
idealistic – emotional – restless

Isn’t this fun?

Don’t forget to click on the link and donate a little something. And, even if you can’t donate a little something, you can help by spreading the word throughout the internet on all that lovely social media.

 

And since we’re on a Mark Gatiss/Mycroft kick, I’ll offer up another Mycroft – Sherlock brother fan music video to enjoy.

Ooh, Sherlock – Mycroft Holmes Brother Angst, Yummy

As some of you know I prefer my angst in small doses, but this was such a beautiful discovery I had to share. It’s got me itching to get back to being able to write so I can do my post-Reichenbach Falls Mycroft story.

Meanwhile, enjoy!

 

Holmes Boys #5: It’s My Brother’s

Holmes Boys #5: It’s My Brother’s

By J. H. Watson
~ 3,400 Words

 

Mycroft Holmes was trying very hard to pretend that he didn’t feel like a complete boob in his riding clothes sitting atop a stocky pony who looked equally uncomfortable.  It had not helped that his little brother, Sherlock, giggled uncontrollably whenever he saw Mycroft in the riding habit.

Mummy, of course, looked like perfection in her riding attire. She was slim, lithe, poised, and there was something about the way she held the riding crop, the small gestures she made with it, the way she occasionally twisted the leather in her gloved hands, that caught not only Mycroft’s attention, but the attention of some of the other boys, particularly the older ones. Certainly the other men in attendance followed her with their eyes.

Most of the other women were also slender and poised, but lacked the quiet confidence, the je nais se quoi as Mycroft’s French tutor put it, that Mummy possessed. Mycroft had heard his father say that Mummy had “an aura of power.” Mycroft had decided that it was good thing to have so he was secretly practicing cultivating it. The cultivation might have gone a bit better without his weedy little brother asking him why he looked like he was constipated.

At the moment, Mycroft felt strongly that the only aura he had, or would ever have where sport was concerned, was the funk of boredom — and sweat. A rivulet crept down his cheek from under his helmet. He fought an urge to wipe it away with his coat sleeve.

The other boys and girls wore their inherently silly riding outfits on their slender, taunt frames with a certain nonchalance. They appeared fit, trim, sporty, secure and relaxed. They were veritable poster children for affluence and influence.

Mycroft suspected he looked more like Lady Beatrice “Bunny” Wigglesworth, the plump, pallid younger daughter of the Earl of Hamilton. Bunny never looked liked she was wearing her riding clothes so much as they were wearing her — and she didn’t fit.

Bunny was the only member of a polo mad family who was actually afraid of all things equine, including her squat, little pony. She always looked as miserable as Mycroft felt. The two were invariably paired at the end of the line up and usually ignored by the others.

Mycroft wasn’t afraid of horses, but he didn’t like them much. He didn’t wish them any particular ill. He was perfectly willing to live and let live provided their lives did not connect with his. And he saw no reason why he should torture one for an hour or more twice a week when he could be spending the time on something valuable like reading the Financial Times or John LeCarré. But Mummy was very pleased that he was Bunny’s partner and encouraged Mycroft to be “helpful” and kind.

He didn’t actually need the encouragement. He rather liked Bunny and she was quite possibly the only friend Mycroft had — or might ever have.

Which would have surprised everyone else if they had known, because Bunny was what the adults euphemistically called “intellectually challenged” and the other students simply called dumb. Mycroft, on the other hand was called “intellectually gifted” by the adults and a “know-it-all” by the other children. “Know-it-all” was the kindest and politest term used, usually because there were adults present.

What no one else seemed to understand was that Bunny was always trying her best. She worked at understanding things. And she really appreciated someone taking the time to explain things to her. The other people Mycroft met didn’t seem to even try to use their brains. It drove him mad. Mummy said his brains were his secret weapon and he could use them to get whatever he wanted.

So far his brains hadn’t gotten Mycroft out of the riding lessons.

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It’s Just John Watson’s Special Bedside Manner

Mark Gatiss as Mycroft Holmes in BBC Sherlock talking with Martin Freeman as John Watson

Freeman: I’ve got no problems with 10 pages of John beating the crap out of Sherlock when he comes back, but I’m not so sure about John rubbing ointment and bandaging up a naked Sherlock afterwards, especially the ‘kissing the boo-boos to make them all better’ bit.
Gatiss: Trust me. The fans will love it.

 

Oh, come on. You know you’d love to see that in the outtakes. Speaking of which, when do we get a super-duper blooper reel?

 

Because This Wholock is Brilliant, Sherlock

Seriously. This is better than 99% of the explosion-heavy movies I’ve had to endure for the past few years. I’d *pay* to see this (even if it doesn’t make sense, but then again Dr. Who never has…that’s half the fun). I mean, Sherlock, Watson, 2 Doctors, Moriarty, The Master, Mycroft, River Song, companions, Weeping Angels and more. Oh, my.