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veronicasleepsTitle: Once upon a time... A story about one umbrella, two men and a bunch of ninjas.
Prompt: This one on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sherlockbbc_fic.
Author:veronicasleeps
Rating: R (for dead people.)
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, but nothing hardcore.
Word count: 1900+
Contains: ninjas, dead people, guns
Summary: The only reason why Mycroft hadn’t made his move as of yet was that every time he tried to state his intentions something came up.
Notes: See at the end. They are long(ish)
+
If this were a fairy-tale, which it isn’t of course, because fairy-tales are unrealistic and really quite childish, this story would start with ‘Once upon a time there were two men, sitting in a restaurant.’
As it is, there still were two men in a restaurant. One of them was Mycroft Holmes. He was dressed impeccably, suit and tie and polished shoes, but not a single person in the entire room would suspect from his attire that he was the man that ran the government -not only Britain’s, but every single government there was. The whole world was subject to his every whim, but only a few people actually knew that fact.
The man sitting across him definitely didn’t suspect a thing. Lestrade was an ordinary policeman. Well, not quite ordinary of course, because a man like Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t readily associate with ‘ordinary’ people, but he didn’t have the clearance to know his friend’s real position in the government, he didn’t even come close.
And besides, Mycroft figured his chances at getting Lestrade into his bed were far better if their dates continued under the assumption that Mycroft only held a small position in the government. And if he sometimes felt bad about lying, he knew there was nothing to be done.
Lestrade was the first man in a long time whose company he enjoyed, and who stood any chance at surviving an encounter with his family. He really didn’t want to lose that.
Another thing they shared was the appreciation of good food and wine, and that was a plus indeed, in Mycroft's mind. This was their twenty-first dinner since they had met each other properly, and by now they had gone to high-end restaurants and up-scale pubs and almost unknown cafes, and while they hadn’t actually given their relationship a name yet, had yet to define it at all, neither of them would have denied that there was some attraction between them.
The only reason why Mycroft hadn’t made his move as of yet was that every time he tried to state his intentions something came up.
For example, on their seventh date, when he’d finally made his mind up to ask Lestrade to accompany him to his home, the other’s phone had beeped and Mycroft hadn’t even needed Lestrade to confirm that this was a new murder case. In fact, because only a minute earlier his ‘Sherlock-alarm’ had vibrated, he knew that his brother was somehow involved.
The next five tries it was the world that almost ended and that simply kept him too busy in the evenings, so all he had time to do to continue his courtship of Lestrade had been to bring him coffee and chat a little in his office.
Sadly, though, the interruptions hadn’t stopped there. It seemed as if the entirety of London was out to stop him from taking a lover, and Lestrade kept being called in to weird murder scenes. There had been one case where a man had been trampled to death by an elephant, and unbelievable as it sounded, that had not been an accident, but in fact a murder.
But this time, this twenty-second date of theirs, Mycroft had made sure that neither the police (he’d hired someone to discretely get rid of Lestrade’s mobile) nor the government could distract them, be it revolution, flood or atomic bombing (Anthea had been quite glad to finally spend some time alone with her mobile, what exactly it was she did while on there, he didn’t actually want to know.)
So that was the situation. They had gone from soup to fish to the main course and now they only had to finish their dessert -a lovely creme caramel, not to sweet but practically melting on Mycroft’s tongue- and afterwards Mycroft was planning to invite Lestrade in for coffee. Yes, he knew it was slightly cliched, but in his mind that applied to all traditions and Mycroft was nothing if not a traditional man.
Conversation was stimulating, they weren’t talking about food nor weather nor work, but in fact about music, something that Mycroft hadn’t been so fond of discussing since his childhood when he still thought he was going to grow up a pianist, and they were smiling and relaxing and having a wonderful evening all around.
Then -of course, just as they were finishing up their food- a window crashed.
Through the large empty frame five black clad men entered the restaurant. Ninjas, Mycroft thought disgustedly, how predictable.
Of course his bodyguards should have been right behind them, but as the time went on -thirty seconds, fifty, a minute- and not a single one of them stepped into sight, Mycroft’s hand reached for the Umbrella he’d refused to give up at the cloakroom and pressed the emergency button embedded in the wood. He felt his heart sink on the prospect of completing the last step of their relationship that night.
He was utterly unprepared to see Lestrade step forward, in front of him, almost as if he wanted to shield Mycroft from harm (even though that couldn’t be! Gregory didn’t know that the Ninja had been sent after him by the Japanese Emperor because of a disagreement they’d had over the import/export figures of his country.) and pulled out his gun.
From where? Mycroft didn’t know.
“Gregory!” Mycroft whispered. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Be quiet, Mycroft, and keep behind me.” Lestrade didn’t even turn around to speak to him, he just kept his eye on the Ninja and clicked the safety off. “You!” He called out. “What do you want!”
The ninja closest to him cocked his head and narrowed his eyes on the gun trained on him. “Do you really believe this piece of metal will keep us from taking him?”
Lestrade frowned. Mycroft felt tempted to close his eyes in exasperation. “Taking who?”
“Him!” The ninja nodded and gestured behind him. “The Umbrella Man,” he waved his friends to come closer. “The man you are hiding. You will give him to us so we can return our country’s honor! There will be blood shed tonight, and it will be British!”
Mycroft pursed his lips at the man’s words. He had done no such thing. It wasn’t his fault after all that Hirohito was so close minded on the subject of tea. Mycroft may have been a bit hurried and short in his wish to put the matter behind him before he went on his date that night, but surely a few brash words weren’t the reason for this spectacle? He shook his head and sighed. Really, he thought, sometimes this job just wasn’t worth the hours he put in for it.
Lestrade obviously still wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but at the very least he’d gotten the gist of it. “You won’t get him! Now go and run off before I have to arrest you, I’ve got no mind to bother with you tonight!”
He sounded bemused and unbelieving, and not short of anger. Mycroft liked the thought that he was angry because they had interrupted their evening, not because of how bothersome a few ninjas in a restaurant really were to a Detective Inspector.
Sadly, the man didn’t listen to him. Mycroft sighed when he saw them advancing with a shrill shout that may or may not have been Japanese. It was so distorted and painful in his ears, he really wasn’t sure what it was supposed to have been.
While everyone still in the room moved to cover their ears and eyes, and not a small number of people scampered off close to the ground to hide behind table cloths and the bar and -a plant? People really did that?- Mycroft kept his eyes on Lestrade who, quite extraordinarily, stood still, adjusted his gone, and pulled the trigger, hitting the first Ninja square between the eyes.
The blood spray was quite fascinating, to Mycroft at least, and he thought that this was almost something that could keep his brother entertained for a while.
The other ninjas wasted no time and ran over to them, swords drawn and eyes squinting at them dangerously and all of them screaming the same words. ‘Revenge’, if Mycroft’s Japanese wasn’t completely failing him, and maybe ‘brother’. Lestrade wasn’t intimidated more by four attacking ninjas than he was by one, it seemed.
In short order he pulled the trigger and killed all of them but one. That last one he hit -mid-flight- in the shoulder and then, when he fell to the floor with a loud ‘thunk’, he pointed again, once, twice, and left bloody holes where the man’s knee caps had once been.
Overtaken by adrenaline and anger, Mycroft bit his lips, tightened his hands around the grip of his umbrella, and swung it in a high arc, catching the ninja that had so very inconsiderately ruined his date in the side of his head and knocked him out cold. “You picked the wrong day for this, mate,” he whispered, and only remembered his audience when he heard Lestrade chuckle behind him. He turned around swiftly, let go of his umbrella and crossed his arms. “What?”
Lestrade smiled. “Just admiring your handiwork. You must be very good at golf. Did you train that move with the umbrella?”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow, a smirk playing around his lips now that he realized that Lestrade wasn’t making fun of him after all. “Why?” he asked, “you want to find out what else I learned to do with my umbrella?”
Lestrade laughed at that and tugged him closer, wrapped an arm around his upper back and pulled him in for a deep kiss. “Yeah,” he whispered roughly. “Why not. It’s time don’t you think? Your place or mine?”
Together they left the restaurant, leaving behind a stunned audience, four dead ninjas, one that was alive but would be cursing the day that he was born when he woke up again, and a black umbrella with two broken metal ribs and an emergency button that was still transmitting a distress signal to every single secret military base in the country.
They wouldn’t actually arrive until the next morning though, because right at that moment they were kept busy by the adventures of one Sherlock Holmes who had somehow been able to convince the American President that there was poison in his tea and that it just had to be a Japanese Conspiracy, led by a Dolphin and a Whale.
Strange, how things can evolve, when one tries to set their brother up with an ordinary police man. Might be worth thinking about, next time.
Not that there’s going to be one, because, even if this is decidedly not a fairy-tale (while blood and gore and dead people are a definite ‘yes’ on the fairy-tale front, the story is just too recent to be one) it still has a happy end. And maybe even a ‘Happily ever after.’ Or at the very least a very, very hot night, full of sex and laughter and all kinds of things that shouldn’t actually be known about two men well above their thirties.
+
THE END.
Prompt: This one on
sherlockbbc_fic.Author:
veronicasleepsRating: R (for dead people.)
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Lestrade, but nothing hardcore.
Word count: 1900+
Contains: ninjas, dead people, guns
Summary: The only reason why Mycroft hadn’t made his move as of yet was that every time he tried to state his intentions something came up.
Notes: See at the end. They are long(ish)
+
If this were a fairy-tale, which it isn’t of course, because fairy-tales are unrealistic and really quite childish, this story would start with ‘Once upon a time there were two men, sitting in a restaurant.’
As it is, there still were two men in a restaurant. One of them was Mycroft Holmes. He was dressed impeccably, suit and tie and polished shoes, but not a single person in the entire room would suspect from his attire that he was the man that ran the government -not only Britain’s, but every single government there was. The whole world was subject to his every whim, but only a few people actually knew that fact.
The man sitting across him definitely didn’t suspect a thing. Lestrade was an ordinary policeman. Well, not quite ordinary of course, because a man like Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t readily associate with ‘ordinary’ people, but he didn’t have the clearance to know his friend’s real position in the government, he didn’t even come close.
And besides, Mycroft figured his chances at getting Lestrade into his bed were far better if their dates continued under the assumption that Mycroft only held a small position in the government. And if he sometimes felt bad about lying, he knew there was nothing to be done.
Lestrade was the first man in a long time whose company he enjoyed, and who stood any chance at surviving an encounter with his family. He really didn’t want to lose that.
Another thing they shared was the appreciation of good food and wine, and that was a plus indeed, in Mycroft's mind. This was their twenty-first dinner since they had met each other properly, and by now they had gone to high-end restaurants and up-scale pubs and almost unknown cafes, and while they hadn’t actually given their relationship a name yet, had yet to define it at all, neither of them would have denied that there was some attraction between them.
The only reason why Mycroft hadn’t made his move as of yet was that every time he tried to state his intentions something came up.
For example, on their seventh date, when he’d finally made his mind up to ask Lestrade to accompany him to his home, the other’s phone had beeped and Mycroft hadn’t even needed Lestrade to confirm that this was a new murder case. In fact, because only a minute earlier his ‘Sherlock-alarm’ had vibrated, he knew that his brother was somehow involved.
The next five tries it was the world that almost ended and that simply kept him too busy in the evenings, so all he had time to do to continue his courtship of Lestrade had been to bring him coffee and chat a little in his office.
Sadly, though, the interruptions hadn’t stopped there. It seemed as if the entirety of London was out to stop him from taking a lover, and Lestrade kept being called in to weird murder scenes. There had been one case where a man had been trampled to death by an elephant, and unbelievable as it sounded, that had not been an accident, but in fact a murder.
But this time, this twenty-second date of theirs, Mycroft had made sure that neither the police (he’d hired someone to discretely get rid of Lestrade’s mobile) nor the government could distract them, be it revolution, flood or atomic bombing (Anthea had been quite glad to finally spend some time alone with her mobile, what exactly it was she did while on there, he didn’t actually want to know.)
So that was the situation. They had gone from soup to fish to the main course and now they only had to finish their dessert -a lovely creme caramel, not to sweet but practically melting on Mycroft’s tongue- and afterwards Mycroft was planning to invite Lestrade in for coffee. Yes, he knew it was slightly cliched, but in his mind that applied to all traditions and Mycroft was nothing if not a traditional man.
Conversation was stimulating, they weren’t talking about food nor weather nor work, but in fact about music, something that Mycroft hadn’t been so fond of discussing since his childhood when he still thought he was going to grow up a pianist, and they were smiling and relaxing and having a wonderful evening all around.
Then -of course, just as they were finishing up their food- a window crashed.
Through the large empty frame five black clad men entered the restaurant. Ninjas, Mycroft thought disgustedly, how predictable.
Of course his bodyguards should have been right behind them, but as the time went on -thirty seconds, fifty, a minute- and not a single one of them stepped into sight, Mycroft’s hand reached for the Umbrella he’d refused to give up at the cloakroom and pressed the emergency button embedded in the wood. He felt his heart sink on the prospect of completing the last step of their relationship that night.
He was utterly unprepared to see Lestrade step forward, in front of him, almost as if he wanted to shield Mycroft from harm (even though that couldn’t be! Gregory didn’t know that the Ninja had been sent after him by the Japanese Emperor because of a disagreement they’d had over the import/export figures of his country.) and pulled out his gun.
From where? Mycroft didn’t know.
“Gregory!” Mycroft whispered. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Be quiet, Mycroft, and keep behind me.” Lestrade didn’t even turn around to speak to him, he just kept his eye on the Ninja and clicked the safety off. “You!” He called out. “What do you want!”
The ninja closest to him cocked his head and narrowed his eyes on the gun trained on him. “Do you really believe this piece of metal will keep us from taking him?”
Lestrade frowned. Mycroft felt tempted to close his eyes in exasperation. “Taking who?”
“Him!” The ninja nodded and gestured behind him. “The Umbrella Man,” he waved his friends to come closer. “The man you are hiding. You will give him to us so we can return our country’s honor! There will be blood shed tonight, and it will be British!”
Mycroft pursed his lips at the man’s words. He had done no such thing. It wasn’t his fault after all that Hirohito was so close minded on the subject of tea. Mycroft may have been a bit hurried and short in his wish to put the matter behind him before he went on his date that night, but surely a few brash words weren’t the reason for this spectacle? He shook his head and sighed. Really, he thought, sometimes this job just wasn’t worth the hours he put in for it.
Lestrade obviously still wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but at the very least he’d gotten the gist of it. “You won’t get him! Now go and run off before I have to arrest you, I’ve got no mind to bother with you tonight!”
He sounded bemused and unbelieving, and not short of anger. Mycroft liked the thought that he was angry because they had interrupted their evening, not because of how bothersome a few ninjas in a restaurant really were to a Detective Inspector.
Sadly, the man didn’t listen to him. Mycroft sighed when he saw them advancing with a shrill shout that may or may not have been Japanese. It was so distorted and painful in his ears, he really wasn’t sure what it was supposed to have been.
While everyone still in the room moved to cover their ears and eyes, and not a small number of people scampered off close to the ground to hide behind table cloths and the bar and -a plant? People really did that?- Mycroft kept his eyes on Lestrade who, quite extraordinarily, stood still, adjusted his gone, and pulled the trigger, hitting the first Ninja square between the eyes.
The blood spray was quite fascinating, to Mycroft at least, and he thought that this was almost something that could keep his brother entertained for a while.
The other ninjas wasted no time and ran over to them, swords drawn and eyes squinting at them dangerously and all of them screaming the same words. ‘Revenge’, if Mycroft’s Japanese wasn’t completely failing him, and maybe ‘brother’. Lestrade wasn’t intimidated more by four attacking ninjas than he was by one, it seemed.
In short order he pulled the trigger and killed all of them but one. That last one he hit -mid-flight- in the shoulder and then, when he fell to the floor with a loud ‘thunk’, he pointed again, once, twice, and left bloody holes where the man’s knee caps had once been.
Overtaken by adrenaline and anger, Mycroft bit his lips, tightened his hands around the grip of his umbrella, and swung it in a high arc, catching the ninja that had so very inconsiderately ruined his date in the side of his head and knocked him out cold. “You picked the wrong day for this, mate,” he whispered, and only remembered his audience when he heard Lestrade chuckle behind him. He turned around swiftly, let go of his umbrella and crossed his arms. “What?”
Lestrade smiled. “Just admiring your handiwork. You must be very good at golf. Did you train that move with the umbrella?”
Mycroft raised his eyebrow, a smirk playing around his lips now that he realized that Lestrade wasn’t making fun of him after all. “Why?” he asked, “you want to find out what else I learned to do with my umbrella?”
Lestrade laughed at that and tugged him closer, wrapped an arm around his upper back and pulled him in for a deep kiss. “Yeah,” he whispered roughly. “Why not. It’s time don’t you think? Your place or mine?”
Together they left the restaurant, leaving behind a stunned audience, four dead ninjas, one that was alive but would be cursing the day that he was born when he woke up again, and a black umbrella with two broken metal ribs and an emergency button that was still transmitting a distress signal to every single secret military base in the country.
They wouldn’t actually arrive until the next morning though, because right at that moment they were kept busy by the adventures of one Sherlock Holmes who had somehow been able to convince the American President that there was poison in his tea and that it just had to be a Japanese Conspiracy, led by a Dolphin and a Whale.
Strange, how things can evolve, when one tries to set their brother up with an ordinary police man. Might be worth thinking about, next time.
Not that there’s going to be one, because, even if this is decidedly not a fairy-tale (while blood and gore and dead people are a definite ‘yes’ on the fairy-tale front, the story is just too recent to be one) it still has a happy end. And maybe even a ‘Happily ever after.’ Or at the very least a very, very hot night, full of sex and laughter and all kinds of things that shouldn’t actually be known about two men well above their thirties.
+
THE END.
