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darnedchild) wrote2016-06-17 10:30 am
darnedchild) wrote2016-06-17 10:30 am
Brotherly Love
Summary: What's wrong with a bit of blackmail between two brothers?
Two short "deleted" scenes from my Sherlolly story "A Vicious Motivator".
Rating: G
A/N - Originally written for the Sherlolly Remix Challenge 2016
Brotherly Love
Sherlock stomped down the hall of his brother’s favoured home away from home, irrationally enraged at the way the expensive carpeting muted his footsteps. He wanted Mycroft to hear him coming.
Chances were that Wilder had already sent a silent notice ahead that Sherlock Holmes was in the building, but there was something about the mental imagery of Mycroft subtly cringing with each approaching ominous footfall that appealed to Sherlock.
His brother deserved to experience a bit of unease and foreboding after what he’d unnecessarily put Molly through for two long years. Sherlock had given very clear instructions that Molly Hooper was to be kept in the loop (as much as was possible considering the nature of Sherlock’s activities) while he was gone, that she was to be periodically informed that he was alive and accounted for. He owed her that much for everything she’d done for him over the years and especially for the risks she’d taken to help fake his death.
The woman had pledged her help without regard for her job, her reputation, or her own safety. She’d blindly offered him anything he’d needed simply because she . . .
Well, Sherlock had owed her that small bit of solace, some small proof that her efforts had not been in vain.
Mycroft owed her, since the mission had been at his behest.
And the selfish prick hadn’t followed through.
Probably hadn’t seen a strategic advantage to keeping Molly informed, no “logical” reason for it.
Sherlock was going to make him pay for that.
Literally.
The malicious twist to his lips only grew more pronounced when a large, surly looking gentleman in a dark suit stepped into the hall between Sherlock and his destination. The man positioned himself to partially block the door to the room where Mycroft was undoubtedly in the midst of averting (or perhaps plotting) another small war.
“Let me through.” Sherlock didn’t even try to keep his voice down.
The big man shook his head.
“I’d advise you to step out of the way, I have business with my brother.” Sherlock let a hint of menace colour his tone.
Another one of Mycroft’s goons—this one blond and slightly smaller than the first—stepped into the hall and stood shoulder to shoulder with the other man. He spoke very softly, “Mr Holmes does not wish to be disturbed for any reason this afternoon.”
“I’m afraid he’s destined for disappointment then.” Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his breast pocket and quickly tapped out a two-word text before hitting send with a flourish.
La Traviata
The door opened less than a minute later, and Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his smug grin as he pushed past Mycroft’s lackeys.
The two brothers silently eyed each other for a long moment before Mycroft gestured toward the pair of chairs grouped together in front of the cold fireplace. Sherlock dropped into one and tapped his fingers against the arm as he waited for Mycroft to break and speak first.
Eventually Mycroft huffed in annoyance. “What bee is in your bonnet this time?"
“Molly Hooper.”
Mycroft frowned and inquisitively tilted his head to the side. “What about her?”
“The two years I was out there—correcting your mistakes I might add—why wasn’t she kept informed?”
The elder Holmes son rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like the word ‘sentiment’ under his breath. He met Sherlock’s gaze with a stern expression of his own. “It wasn’t necessary.”
“I thought it was,” Sherlock countered.
“And I didn’t.” Mycroft took a deep breath and tried a different tactic. “I couldn’t be certain she’d be able to keep your secret, Sherlock.”
“For God’s sake, she helped fake my death and didn’t tell another living soul. Not even that idiot she was engaged to.” The consulting detective grimaced at the mention of Molly’s former fiancé. “I trusted her with my life.”
“That didn’t mean I could!” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sounded as if he were trying to explain something to a child. “The mission wasn’t just about you. There were others involved, others whose lives hung in the balance both directly and indirectly. When it came down to it, Miss Hooper simply didn’t have the clearance.”
“Then give it to her.” It wouldn’t make up for the past, but it would ensure something similar wouldn’t happen in the future. Sherlock was quite pleased with himself for thinking of it.
“I can’t just hand out security clearances on a whim because you ask, brother mine.”
Sherlock leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee, giving Mycroft an indulgent grin. “Before Saturday.”
“Saturday?” Mycroft scoffed in disbelief. “Even if I were so inclined, which I am not, these things take time.”
That’s when Sherlock knew he had him. Mycroft would have never bothered to mention the time involved if he wasn’t prepared to consider the idea. Now it was simply a matter of negotiations.
The consulting detective brushed his hand against the brocade chair upholstery, tracing the tasteful pattern the pad of his index finger. “I’m taking her to the Barrett party.”
“What happened to the other one? The Hawkins woman?”
“Prior plans. Molly has agreed to run interference while I look into your little problem.” He looked his brother in the eye. “As a matter of fact, you might even say she’s doing you a favour by agreeing to accompany me.”
Mycroft stiffened and became unnaturally still. “Does she know?”
“Why I’m subjecting myself to what will most likely be a tediously dull evening out in the country? Not yet; but I can’t imagine she won’t figure out that I’m on a case before the night is through. All the more reason to speed up that clearance, don’t you think?”
Neither one of them spoke for a long moment. A silent battle of wills between far too stubborn Holmes boys.
Eventually Mycroft grimaced and reached into his jacket for his mobile. He huffed at whatever appeared on the screen, then put the phone face down on the arm of his chair.
Sherlock pressed his advantage. “She’ll need a dress. Something pretty. Feminine. But subtle. Classic. There isn’t time to have a gown custom made for her so you’ll have to arrange for one to be altered to fit her measurements.”
“I will?” Mycroft looked as if he’d smelled something especially rotten.
“Oh yes. As part of your long overdue apology for your grievous oversight whilst I was gone. Come to think of it, she’ll need shoes, too. Heels suitable for dancing. Size four.”
Mycroft clenched his jaw as if he were grinding his teeth together. He took a deep breath and started to speak, “I hardly think-“
“Have you spoken to Mummy and Father lately?” Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply. “Last time they dropped in for a visit Mummy went on and on about the opera and how they were so disappointed that you were unable to join them. I’m sure they’d be overjoyed to have you take them to see another one. Perhaps I should call Mummy up and suggest it. I could also mention what you were really doing when you told them you had to leave the country on ‘official’ government business instead of taking them to La Traviata as you’d promised.”
Sherlock grinned as his brother took on a sickly pallor.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I believe we both know I would.” He dropped his foot back to the floor and leaned in for the kill. “I’m thinking something special for her hair. Molly so rarely gets a chance to wear her hair down, perhaps . . . “ He stared at an ornate vase on a small table just past Mycroft’s right shoulder as his mind conjured up a picture of Molly Hooper as she’d looked the night of the infamous Christmas party at Baker Street. Her hair down in soft waves, the tight black dress, the red lipstick. Sherlock blinked and shook his head. “On second thought, it should be up. Restrained. Have someone take care of that for her.”
“Any other requests?” Mycroft bit off with a deceptively helpful expression on his face.
“I’ll be in contact if I think of something. Have a good day, brother dear.” His own afternoon was certainly looking up.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Two hours later Mycroft sat watching his . . . right hand, for want of a better description, settle into the chair in front of his desk. Once she was seated, the mobile that was nearly her constant companion while she was working momentarily abandoned in her lap, Mycroft began.
“Miss Hooper, my brother’s pathologist.” He pulled a moleskin notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped through to an empty page.
“What about her, sir?”
“I need Humphries to expedite a thorough background check on her. Priority three.”
The woman code named Anthea nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll also need to meet with Crawford to have a very special, very precise contract drawn up regarding Miss Hooper’s new security clearance. I believe I have thirty minutes free in the morning?”
She already had her mobile in hand and quickly confirmed he had a block of time available.
“If you’ll make the arrangements?”
“Of course, sir.” She finished making a note, and Mycroft had every confidence that she’d have the meeting scheduled before she left his office.
He scribbled a sentence in his notebook, preferring to write his thoughts out the old fashioned way to inputting everything into a mobile or tablet like the newer generation of politicians and diplomats. Harder to hack from afar, if nothing else.
Hooper’s family – anyone likely to worry if she follows Sherlock on one of his exploits?
“Pardon me for asking, but don’t you want to wait for Humphries’ report?”
Mycroft waved his hand rather dismissively. “Strictly a formality. Short of her questionable association with my brother and the unfortunate incident with James Moriarty, Miss Hooper is as squeaky clean as they come. Tediously so.”
He dropped his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles under the desk. “She was going to marry a man who could have passed for a close family relation to Sherlock. Have Humphries look into him as well.”
Anthea nodded and continued to work her magic with her mobile.
“He was a dreadfully boring man, from what I’ve been told. They went to the same pub every Tuesday, met up with the same dull friends. If circumstances hadn’t changed, she would have been married off with a little walk-up flat, two children, and a dog in a matter of three years; and my brother . . .”
Mycroft pictured Sherlock’s face earlier that day, going on about Miss Hooper being kept in the dark for two years. Sherlock’s tone. His emotional overreacting.
“My brother would have lost something precious to him.”
“Sir?”
He studied her for a long moment. Her hair was impeccably styled, as usual. Her clothes were tailored and stylish, yet well suited for her job. His gaze momentarily dropped to her legs below the knee-length hemline of her skirt, automatically noting the delicate curvature of her ankles, before jerking back to the open notebook on his desk.
She was the obvious answer to his current dilemma.
“I have a favour to ask of you, Andrea.”
If she was surprised by his use of her given name, she hid it well. “Anything, sir.”
“I’m afraid it’s not the usual sort of request. Miss Hooper will be accompanying my brother to the Barrett estate on Saturday, and I have been given to understand that she will need something appropriate to wear. Would you mind taking her out on a shopping excursion, help her find a suitable gown?”
At that, Anthea blinked several times then carefully schooled her expression into one closer to what he was used to seen from her. “It will be no trouble at all.”
“Wonderful.” Mycroft nodded, pleased to have that business sorted out. “She’ll most likely need everything. Top to bottom. Hair, shoes, all of that.” He leaned forward to make another note in his book. “Make sure she has everything she’ll need, and have it all charged to my personal accounts.”
She arched a brow but refrained from commenting.
“One last thing, my brother has a certain . . . fondness for Miss Hooper’s hair, perhaps see if you can find something to accentuate that particular feature?”
Two short "deleted" scenes from my Sherlolly story "A Vicious Motivator".
Rating: G
A/N - Originally written for the Sherlolly Remix Challenge 2016
Brotherly Love
Sherlock stomped down the hall of his brother’s favoured home away from home, irrationally enraged at the way the expensive carpeting muted his footsteps. He wanted Mycroft to hear him coming.
Chances were that Wilder had already sent a silent notice ahead that Sherlock Holmes was in the building, but there was something about the mental imagery of Mycroft subtly cringing with each approaching ominous footfall that appealed to Sherlock.
His brother deserved to experience a bit of unease and foreboding after what he’d unnecessarily put Molly through for two long years. Sherlock had given very clear instructions that Molly Hooper was to be kept in the loop (as much as was possible considering the nature of Sherlock’s activities) while he was gone, that she was to be periodically informed that he was alive and accounted for. He owed her that much for everything she’d done for him over the years and especially for the risks she’d taken to help fake his death.
The woman had pledged her help without regard for her job, her reputation, or her own safety. She’d blindly offered him anything he’d needed simply because she . . .
Well, Sherlock had owed her that small bit of solace, some small proof that her efforts had not been in vain.
Mycroft owed her, since the mission had been at his behest.
And the selfish prick hadn’t followed through.
Probably hadn’t seen a strategic advantage to keeping Molly informed, no “logical” reason for it.
Sherlock was going to make him pay for that.
Literally.
The malicious twist to his lips only grew more pronounced when a large, surly looking gentleman in a dark suit stepped into the hall between Sherlock and his destination. The man positioned himself to partially block the door to the room where Mycroft was undoubtedly in the midst of averting (or perhaps plotting) another small war.
“Let me through.” Sherlock didn’t even try to keep his voice down.
The big man shook his head.
“I’d advise you to step out of the way, I have business with my brother.” Sherlock let a hint of menace colour his tone.
Another one of Mycroft’s goons—this one blond and slightly smaller than the first—stepped into the hall and stood shoulder to shoulder with the other man. He spoke very softly, “Mr Holmes does not wish to be disturbed for any reason this afternoon.”
“I’m afraid he’s destined for disappointment then.” Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his breast pocket and quickly tapped out a two-word text before hitting send with a flourish.
La Traviata
The door opened less than a minute later, and Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his smug grin as he pushed past Mycroft’s lackeys.
The two brothers silently eyed each other for a long moment before Mycroft gestured toward the pair of chairs grouped together in front of the cold fireplace. Sherlock dropped into one and tapped his fingers against the arm as he waited for Mycroft to break and speak first.
Eventually Mycroft huffed in annoyance. “What bee is in your bonnet this time?"
“Molly Hooper.”
Mycroft frowned and inquisitively tilted his head to the side. “What about her?”
“The two years I was out there—correcting your mistakes I might add—why wasn’t she kept informed?”
The elder Holmes son rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like the word ‘sentiment’ under his breath. He met Sherlock’s gaze with a stern expression of his own. “It wasn’t necessary.”
“I thought it was,” Sherlock countered.
“And I didn’t.” Mycroft took a deep breath and tried a different tactic. “I couldn’t be certain she’d be able to keep your secret, Sherlock.”
“For God’s sake, she helped fake my death and didn’t tell another living soul. Not even that idiot she was engaged to.” The consulting detective grimaced at the mention of Molly’s former fiancé. “I trusted her with my life.”
“That didn’t mean I could!” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sounded as if he were trying to explain something to a child. “The mission wasn’t just about you. There were others involved, others whose lives hung in the balance both directly and indirectly. When it came down to it, Miss Hooper simply didn’t have the clearance.”
“Then give it to her.” It wouldn’t make up for the past, but it would ensure something similar wouldn’t happen in the future. Sherlock was quite pleased with himself for thinking of it.
“I can’t just hand out security clearances on a whim because you ask, brother mine.”
Sherlock leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee, giving Mycroft an indulgent grin. “Before Saturday.”
“Saturday?” Mycroft scoffed in disbelief. “Even if I were so inclined, which I am not, these things take time.”
That’s when Sherlock knew he had him. Mycroft would have never bothered to mention the time involved if he wasn’t prepared to consider the idea. Now it was simply a matter of negotiations.
The consulting detective brushed his hand against the brocade chair upholstery, tracing the tasteful pattern the pad of his index finger. “I’m taking her to the Barrett party.”
“What happened to the other one? The Hawkins woman?”
“Prior plans. Molly has agreed to run interference while I look into your little problem.” He looked his brother in the eye. “As a matter of fact, you might even say she’s doing you a favour by agreeing to accompany me.”
Mycroft stiffened and became unnaturally still. “Does she know?”
“Why I’m subjecting myself to what will most likely be a tediously dull evening out in the country? Not yet; but I can’t imagine she won’t figure out that I’m on a case before the night is through. All the more reason to speed up that clearance, don’t you think?”
Neither one of them spoke for a long moment. A silent battle of wills between far too stubborn Holmes boys.
Eventually Mycroft grimaced and reached into his jacket for his mobile. He huffed at whatever appeared on the screen, then put the phone face down on the arm of his chair.
Sherlock pressed his advantage. “She’ll need a dress. Something pretty. Feminine. But subtle. Classic. There isn’t time to have a gown custom made for her so you’ll have to arrange for one to be altered to fit her measurements.”
“I will?” Mycroft looked as if he’d smelled something especially rotten.
“Oh yes. As part of your long overdue apology for your grievous oversight whilst I was gone. Come to think of it, she’ll need shoes, too. Heels suitable for dancing. Size four.”
Mycroft clenched his jaw as if he were grinding his teeth together. He took a deep breath and started to speak, “I hardly think-“
“Have you spoken to Mummy and Father lately?” Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply. “Last time they dropped in for a visit Mummy went on and on about the opera and how they were so disappointed that you were unable to join them. I’m sure they’d be overjoyed to have you take them to see another one. Perhaps I should call Mummy up and suggest it. I could also mention what you were really doing when you told them you had to leave the country on ‘official’ government business instead of taking them to La Traviata as you’d promised.”
Sherlock grinned as his brother took on a sickly pallor.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I believe we both know I would.” He dropped his foot back to the floor and leaned in for the kill. “I’m thinking something special for her hair. Molly so rarely gets a chance to wear her hair down, perhaps . . . “ He stared at an ornate vase on a small table just past Mycroft’s right shoulder as his mind conjured up a picture of Molly Hooper as she’d looked the night of the infamous Christmas party at Baker Street. Her hair down in soft waves, the tight black dress, the red lipstick. Sherlock blinked and shook his head. “On second thought, it should be up. Restrained. Have someone take care of that for her.”
“Any other requests?” Mycroft bit off with a deceptively helpful expression on his face.
“I’ll be in contact if I think of something. Have a good day, brother dear.” His own afternoon was certainly looking up.
Two hours later Mycroft sat watching his . . . right hand, for want of a better description, settle into the chair in front of his desk. Once she was seated, the mobile that was nearly her constant companion while she was working momentarily abandoned in her lap, Mycroft began.
“Miss Hooper, my brother’s pathologist.” He pulled a moleskin notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped through to an empty page.
“What about her, sir?”
“I need Humphries to expedite a thorough background check on her. Priority three.”
The woman code named Anthea nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll also need to meet with Crawford to have a very special, very precise contract drawn up regarding Miss Hooper’s new security clearance. I believe I have thirty minutes free in the morning?”
She already had her mobile in hand and quickly confirmed he had a block of time available.
“If you’ll make the arrangements?”
“Of course, sir.” She finished making a note, and Mycroft had every confidence that she’d have the meeting scheduled before she left his office.
He scribbled a sentence in his notebook, preferring to write his thoughts out the old fashioned way to inputting everything into a mobile or tablet like the newer generation of politicians and diplomats. Harder to hack from afar, if nothing else.
Hooper’s family – anyone likely to worry if she follows Sherlock on one of his exploits?
“Pardon me for asking, but don’t you want to wait for Humphries’ report?”
Mycroft waved his hand rather dismissively. “Strictly a formality. Short of her questionable association with my brother and the unfortunate incident with James Moriarty, Miss Hooper is as squeaky clean as they come. Tediously so.”
He dropped his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles under the desk. “She was going to marry a man who could have passed for a close family relation to Sherlock. Have Humphries look into him as well.”
Anthea nodded and continued to work her magic with her mobile.
“He was a dreadfully boring man, from what I’ve been told. They went to the same pub every Tuesday, met up with the same dull friends. If circumstances hadn’t changed, she would have been married off with a little walk-up flat, two children, and a dog in a matter of three years; and my brother . . .”
Mycroft pictured Sherlock’s face earlier that day, going on about Miss Hooper being kept in the dark for two years. Sherlock’s tone. His emotional overreacting.
“My brother would have lost something precious to him.”
“Sir?”
He studied her for a long moment. Her hair was impeccably styled, as usual. Her clothes were tailored and stylish, yet well suited for her job. His gaze momentarily dropped to her legs below the knee-length hemline of her skirt, automatically noting the delicate curvature of her ankles, before jerking back to the open notebook on his desk.
She was the obvious answer to his current dilemma.
“I have a favour to ask of you, Andrea.”
If she was surprised by his use of her given name, she hid it well. “Anything, sir.”
“I’m afraid it’s not the usual sort of request. Miss Hooper will be accompanying my brother to the Barrett estate on Saturday, and I have been given to understand that she will need something appropriate to wear. Would you mind taking her out on a shopping excursion, help her find a suitable gown?”
At that, Anthea blinked several times then carefully schooled her expression into one closer to what he was used to seen from her. “It will be no trouble at all.”
“Wonderful.” Mycroft nodded, pleased to have that business sorted out. “She’ll most likely need everything. Top to bottom. Hair, shoes, all of that.” He leaned forward to make another note in his book. “Make sure she has everything she’ll need, and have it all charged to my personal accounts.”
She arched a brow but refrained from commenting.
“One last thing, my brother has a certain . . . fondness for Miss Hooper’s hair, perhaps see if you can find something to accentuate that particular feature?”