Posts Tagged 'sherlock'

What was The Scene for Least of all Possible Mistakes? It is one of my favorite fics and I reread it pretty often.

I still love this scene the best of the entire story. 

Mycroft is the definition of self-possessed, unmoved, endlessly calculating and hypothesizing and considering. George will never win an argument with him if she gets tricked into discussing the relative merits of their mutual points of view; all she can do is draw the boundaries beforehand so he’ll know how close he can tread. She’s always been clear about this, about never needlessly demanding his full attention, but when George asks for it, she expects it, and she waits for his eyes to meet hers.

“What happened?” she asks, because Mycroft looks like he’s been through the wars, face sagging with exhaustion and ashen. “Is Sherlock really all right?”

He takes a fortifying drink. “We argued.”

“You always argue,” George points out, because they do, and she thinks that most of the time, they enjoy it on some sick level.

“We do,” Mycroft admits, and his smile is bitter as he says it. “He was…off balance. Surprised by his own reaction, I think.”

George frowns a little, plucks the tumbler out of Mycroft’s hands and sets it aside. “By — what? His reaction to Irene Adler’s death?”

“He was upset, more than he wanted to give away,” Mycroft says, and without the glass he cards his right hand into her hair, thumb pressed on the soft skin behind her ear, watching her mouth. “I told him caring wasn’t an advantage.”

George says, “Okay,” because there’s not much else to say to that.

Mycroft likes to imagine himself more emotionally adept than his brother, so maybe this is just another chapter in his managing nature: convince Sherlock his feelings are irrelevant to protect him from the ache of them. But that doesn’t change the way there’s a voice in her head that protests,but, and how something in her throat drops all the way to the well of her stomach, her eyes feeling suddenly hot and hurt.

She’s still anchored to him, by his hand in her hair and their lives intertwined, how six hours ago they were opening presents with his mother, and George has to swallow around the fight she wants to start. She’s on her knees in front of him in a house she thinks of as home, now, and her heart’s been fragile in her chest for hours worried for his brother. What does he mean? Why’s he told her this?

“He asked,” Mycroft goes on, and he’s searching George’s face now, his own expression deepening into pain, “what would I do, if it were you on that mortuary slab — would I appreciate him feeding me platitudes.”

Her hurt transmutes into worry. “Mycroft.”

“What would I do,” he says, low and with a razor edge. “What could my brother know of it. He deduced her once, and she surprised him. He’s infatuated with the idea of her.”

George smiles for him, wavering.

“It’s Sherlock,” she points out gently. The maybe one deduction was enough is implied.

“I deduced you, the first time we met, when I was looking at your furious back as I was walking toward you,” Mycroft retorts, the rumble in his voice unsoftened by the lassitude of alcohol on his tongue. “I knew the whole of you in a glance.”

“What makes you so different, then?” George asks, and she doesn’t even know whose side she’s arguing anymore, whether they’re talking about Sherlock and Adler or Mycroft and George, if they’re having a conversation at cross-purposes. She feels heavy and dense with everything unsaid, sore, fearful suddenly. “What makes us different?”

Mycroft laughs, his fingers in her hair turn into a fist.

“If it was you in the morgue, Georgiana, I wouldn’t have been standing in the corridor smoking a cigarette,” he tells her in a hush, his voice a rasp of considered horrors. “I would have burned down the hospital.”

“Poor hospital,” George murmurs, and Mycroft’s face goes unsettlingly dark, still. George takes his other hand, his free hand, and puts it over the faint, rabbit-hearted patter underneath her breast, through the thin weave of her sweater. “But I’m here, I’m fine — see?”

Sherlock is all explosive declarations, dashing around with his coat flying, fiery and ferociously present; Mycroft’s bursts of kinetic energy are all internal, locked behind deadbolt and key and iron-clad self control in his head, beyond the muscle and bone. George sees it sometimes, the interiors of him, through the pinhole camera of Mycroft’s pupils, blown wide open and close, when they’re in their bed and telegraphing all sorts of secrets. He’s not cold: he’s a barely contained wildfire, the kind of dangerous that’s too cool to flare up and misstep.

“Her face was a mess,” Mycroft says, those same dangerously soft vowels rushing out of him — ripped open and confessing — fingertips hot on her skin. “He identified her by her measurements. What would I have done?”

“Hopefully sent everyone out of the room before you pulled off the rest of the sheet,” George tells him, trying for light and falling terribly short, because she can imagine it, too: the belly of Bart’s, the church next door, Smithfield restaurants rollicking a street over, and Mycroft Holmes dragging the white sheet down her neck and clavicle, over her breasts and the curve of her belly — a nauseating parody of their living hours.

“Could I have walked away from you the way Sherlock did,” Mycroft says, not really a question, and too deep into his own thoughts to hear her now. “Or would I have sat with you and searched for your heartbeat — like I am now.”

George swallows, dry throat clicking. “It’s not going to happen to me.”

“You run with Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft contradicts, back in abrupt focus. “And you sleep with me — your entire life is like the first chapter of a disaster story.”

The glare is reflexive, and so is the way it makes her dig in her heels, the way George shoves at Mycroft’s knee to press in her point as she says, “Ilive with you. I intend to keep on doing it.”

His eyes are very black as he says, “I should tell you to leave me.”

“I wouldn’t go,” George shoots back, because she recognizes this now, the recursive back and forth, the way he just needs to underline and dot his Is, review all the things he already knows for sure. “My birth control pills are here and I like making you do my mother’s tax. You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

That surprises a laugh out of him, something startled and genuine, and those hands on her pull her up, drag her nearer, so that when he says it, it’s kissed into her mouth:

“Georgiana, you are the most impossibly difficult thing I have ever known.

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duchesscloverly:

clarice82:

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May I introduce  – Georgiana and William Holmes ^__^ Also called – Little G and his highness lil  Prince William – Mycroft’s and Greg’s lovely children ❤

I simply love the thought of My and Greg being parents *-*. Especially cause Rupert is a so sweet Dad and to see Mark with a Baby/Kids let my heart melt …*sweet sigh*

But I’m sorry I’m not very good with children…don’t know why, but at least you can recognise their parents in them, can’t you?^^°

Apart from that…

Enjoy and good night <333 😀

OMG!!

I still don’t know how to reply with a note to a post on tumblr so sending mine as a new question: I’m for any and all Mycroft/Lestrade scenes but if I had to pick my favourites… *goesreadingficfortheenthtime* When she hands him that cup of tea while Sherlock’s at the hospital – I always wondered how far back his interest started. Maybe an instance where he is thinking of destroying her ex- maybe when they meet after Ott.. Gift scene. Ball. When he sneaks dates before and when she realises.

Both the Holmes boys are profoundly skilled in the art of self-deception. I think probably Mycroft admired and dismissed her in the first CCTV stills he saw of his brother’s latest acquaintance, but that in the moment she handed him that cup of tea in the hospital hallway, he felt something in his chest turn over. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t lust. It was interest, and for Holmeses, such a thing may mean more than either. 

Does Reichenback affect George’s long term career? I really want her love and dedication to the city to be recognized (and the passage you wrote about her feelings for London is amazing), whether she becomes head of the Met or not. I hope she’s not pushed to the side or kept on because the Commissioner lives in terror of Mycroft.

I think for better or worse, her career is deeply affected by the Fall. George, given preference, would work in quiet obscurity, but even before Sherlock became famous that was rapidly being taken away from her. She was a striking, relatively powerful woman working in a headline-grabbing area then. After Reichenbach, she’s a striking, enormously powerful woman who lives in a palatial house, is married to Sherlock Holmes’ brother, and who was martyred in the press and was unbeaten through it. What a fucking narrative. There’s no way her life would stay the same afterward, no matter what amount of effort Mycroft leveraged to try and help her retain her privacy. 

George’s eventual promotion and her subsequent career at the Met sees her supervising more teams than working cases on the ground. It’s not a great fit, at first, while she’s still cycling through teams compiled by her predecessors, but over the course of years, she gets to hire and promote more to her tastes. The day Sally takes over a team of her own George gets profoundly drunk on Mycroft’s horrifyingly expensive sherry and weeps overjoyed, achey tears. 

Hi :) first off I’d like to say thanks for all the wonderful /reports and fics. I don’t know if you take recs, but I was listening to the Tropes episode today and the “name appearing on skin” trope was mentioned. I’ll admit that it isn’t my favorite plotline, but I did find one fic in the Sherlock section of AO3 that I found more interesting a little more original than the rest. It’s called “Put a Smile in Your Name” and I think it’s worth a read if you ever feel like it.

Heads up for everybody who wanted another “name appearing on skin” story! 

In the Least of All Possible Mistakes-verse, what happens when George or Mycroft eventually retire? Will George balk at living in the grandeur of Epperley? Does Anthea come along with them to the country?

George is a London girl, at heart, so I can’t imagine her ever going quietly into those green rolling hills once they finally pry her from her office at NSY. But I do believe she loves Epperley, the way you love the idea of a thing, and that they probably summer there, or winter there, or some season there, so she can go into the stables and pat down the sweet noses of the ponies and tromp around in wellies through the muddy green slopes and find Mycroft in the solarium, later, and press clover-smelling kisses to his temple. I think Epperley is a grand house, but it doesn’t FEEL like a grand house the way she and Mycroft would live in it: clustered around the aga in the kitchen, curled into one another in the study, huddled close in Mycroft’s bed.

As for Anthea, I always imagined her as being Mycroft’s successor in whatever shady fucking stuff Mycroft does – this entire assistant lark being the longest and most intimate apprenticeship of all time. So she would probably be too busy to be around too much, but in my head, George and Anthea are best friends, and she is always welcome in any house of George’s.

duchesscloverly:

Some things never change. 


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East Coast Gazette has a terrible editorial focus and tends to use a lot of ALL CAPS but TOTALLY NOT BECAUSE OF HARRY POTTER. Stories in progress as well as snapshots will be listed in the "box full of snapshots" below, website archive for stories and assorted tomfoolery is glitterati.

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