Tag Archives: Mycroft Holmes

Holmes Boys: Christmas — Originally He Wanted To Be a Pirate

 

By J. H. Watson

(~16,000 words)

[Author’s Note: Sorry about the delay. Sherlock & Mycroft wouldn’t let me publish it until I got the ending right…]

Holmes-Boys-Christmas Fanfic in PDF [for those who would like to download and read offline]

Savouring the last pain au chocolat with his Breakfast Blend tea and reading all of the available English papers, ten-year old Mycroft Holmes was seated in his favourite chair in the house (Mummy’s really beautiful and comfortable one that, while technically designated as a “lady’s club chair,” had the advantages of being slightly lower to the ground and not as long in the seat as Father’s chairs). He read the papers every day. It was an experiment he’d begun during the long summer vacation from school to see if he could accurately determine the outcome of various events and predict others from reports in the press. He’d even devised his own database and a method of scoring his results. Mycroft was quite pleased to note that changes in his process of observation had resulted in a 347% improvement in his score. He frowned as the thought came that the Labour Party would be doing quite well in the upcoming elections. Mummy and Father did not approve of the Labour Party.

Mycroft made a note on his shirt cuff about a change to his stock portfolio regarding Austin Rover (while technically the account was in Father’s name, it was one that neither Father nor Mummy knew about as Mycroft had long since shifted the start-up funds back to Father’s actual account). There was little chance that he would be caught like those stupid American kids who ran afoul of the SEC by overtly manipulating stock sales through newsletters and the burgeoning electronic bulletin boards. Mycroft’s broker did occasionally question the difference in shares and results between Father’s two portfolios, but Mycroft had deftly handled that by implying the first portfolio was constrained by Father’s government work. The second portfolio was strictly confidential. This had resolved both the questions and any potential indiscretions of his broker.

Mycroft was really quite pleased with the way things were going.

Nanny dashed in wringing her hands with an expression on her face that Mycroft had learned to associate with a crisis regarding his little brother, Sherlock. “What has he done now?” Mycroft asked as he folded the paper in his hand and stood.

Continue reading

Mycroft Holds a Minor Position In the Government

Mark Gatiss as BBC Sherlock Mycroft Holmes with a look of questioning warning and the lyrics to Santa Clause Is Coming to Town

So be good for goodness sake, Sherlock!

Oh, come on, you know Mycroft Holmes keeps a list of who’s naughty and nice. And where does he get all those beautiful, graceful people for his staff if they aren’t elves? And then there’s the way he can mysterious cover amazing distances to turn up where he’s needed exactly when he’s needed (true, he could have a TARDIS, but what’s a sleigh with flying reindeer but a TARDIS with the chameleon circuit stuck on something other than a police box?). And he used to be fat! (Alright, I have a bit of trouble with the “jolly” (and other things ending in “olly”), but he does enjoy laughing, chuckling, and smiling in an intimidating fashion, so I suppose he could, from a distance, in the dark, be mistaken for jolly… ) And we all know it’s mother who buys us presents.

So I Believe In Mycroft Holmes — and Santa!

NaNoWriMo is almost over (and I’ve almost finished the first draft of my fanfic novel) so I can get to work on a few holiday treats for my site visitors. (FYI, Mycroft has been the only one so far who has utterly refused the antlers — but I’m still working on it.)

I hope everyone in the U.S. had a lovely Thanksgiving and everyone has been enjoying Black Friday through Cyber Monday. I’ve got the remaining Sherlock Quotes Version 1 T-shirts and tote bags back up in the shop and by tomorrow I’ll have my MX Publishing store up (along with the start of the antler-mania).

There seems to be all sorts of things that Benedict Cumberbatch is up to in the way of work (His parents did a fantastic job, didn’t they? He has beauty, brains, talent, manners, compassion, and an amazing work ethic. Actually, Team Sherlock in general has some amazingly Good, in the old-fashioned sense as well as the quality-sense of the word, People.

Well, I’ve got to get about 5k words written, if I hope to make my NaNoWriMo deadline, so laterz!

 

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.”

Continue reading

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?”

Continue reading