Richard Book is Innocent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oxfordtweed) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tweedandtinsel2011-01-08 04:04 am
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2011-01-08 04:04 am
Home
Fandom: Sherlock
Character/s: Mycroft, OC
Word Count: 600
Rating: G
Summary: Mycroft just wants to come home and relax.
Notes/Warnings: Prompt for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sherlock100; home. No warnings; well, not beyond the usual brand of subtle layers of oddness that accompanies Mycroft on a constant basis.
Mycroft liked routine, since between his brother getting himself arrested again and the insanity of the health care crisis in the former colonies, it was rarely afforded him in his daily life. Upon arriving home shortly after midnight, he shrugged out of his overcoat and deposited his umbrella next to its three cousins in the stand by the door before making his way to his study on the first floor. There, he removed his coat and the small .380 pistol he kept in a shoulder holster, which he cleared and put in a drawer of his desk. After making sure that the drawer was well and truly locked, he poured himself a measure of scotch and took his place in a large wingback by the already-roaring fire. Letting his eyes drift shut, Mycroft leaned his head against the back of the chair and simply took in the heat from the fire, listening as it crackled and popped loudly.
There was another sound, hidden amidst the green wood that had been used in the fire, but Mycroft still heard it.
“Azalea,” he said, acknowledging the seven-year-old’s presence by the door.
She carefully walked across the room and climbed into Mycroft’s lap, and even through his trousers, he could feel that her feet were ice cold. Rather like her uncle, she seemed to have a strong dislike of shoes or any sort. Unlike her uncle, she hadn’t quite figured out that sometimes, shoes were necessary.
“You’re up late,” Mycroft said simply, having barely moved at all.
Azalea shrugged lightly. “Quentin knocked over my ants,” she said.
Mycroft allowed himself a light chuckle. “See? Aren’t you glad now that we agreed against the red harvester ants?”
The child nodded and snuggled against Mycroft’s chest. Finally, Mycroft shifted to a more comfortable position to avoid bony little knees and elbows digging into sensitive areas. After taking a quick sip of his scotch, he set it aside.
“And what did Jackson do today?” he asked curiously.
Azalea squirmed slightly while she thought about her oldest brother’s doings. “He had some eggs, but wouldn’t say what they were for.”
“Eggs?” asked Mycroft, feigning mild concern.
“Uh-huh. From the kitchen,” said Azalea. “He took them back to the cellar, and wouldn’t let anybody in. Not even Mrs Kathy.”
Mycroft stroked his daughter’s hair lightly. “What do you suspect he was doing with the eggs?” he asked curiously.
More squirming as she thought. It was, Mycroft couldn’t help but think, a rather uncomfortable habit.
“He also took some vin—vinney—”
“Vinegar,” Mycroft filled in. “I’ll be sure to tell him to show you what he’s up to. You might enjoy it. What else did Quentin do, besides knock over your ants?”
More fidgeting, and Mycroft was glad that he’d set his scotch down. “He got yelled at by Mrs Kathy for using spray paint in his bedroom again.”
Mycroft frowned. “On the walls, I’d imagine.”
Azalea nodded. “She made him sit in the broom closet for some time after that.”
This alarmed Mycroft, and he stiffened slightly. For a brief moment, he considered asking how long ‘some time’ actually was, but decided that it was irrelevant.
“She’ll simply have to go, I’m afraid.”
“Good,” said Azalea. “I don’t like her anyway. She made me hoover my ants.”
“Oh, then it’s no question,” said Mycroft simply. “She might as well be gone already.”
“Good,” the small girl in his lap repeated.
Several minutes later, she was asleep, and Mycroft was headed that way himself.
Character/s: Mycroft, OC
Word Count: 600
Rating: G
Summary: Mycroft just wants to come home and relax.
Notes/Warnings: Prompt for
sherlock100; home. No warnings; well, not beyond the usual brand of subtle layers of oddness that accompanies Mycroft on a constant basis.Mycroft liked routine, since between his brother getting himself arrested again and the insanity of the health care crisis in the former colonies, it was rarely afforded him in his daily life. Upon arriving home shortly after midnight, he shrugged out of his overcoat and deposited his umbrella next to its three cousins in the stand by the door before making his way to his study on the first floor. There, he removed his coat and the small .380 pistol he kept in a shoulder holster, which he cleared and put in a drawer of his desk. After making sure that the drawer was well and truly locked, he poured himself a measure of scotch and took his place in a large wingback by the already-roaring fire. Letting his eyes drift shut, Mycroft leaned his head against the back of the chair and simply took in the heat from the fire, listening as it crackled and popped loudly.
There was another sound, hidden amidst the green wood that had been used in the fire, but Mycroft still heard it.
“Azalea,” he said, acknowledging the seven-year-old’s presence by the door.
She carefully walked across the room and climbed into Mycroft’s lap, and even through his trousers, he could feel that her feet were ice cold. Rather like her uncle, she seemed to have a strong dislike of shoes or any sort. Unlike her uncle, she hadn’t quite figured out that sometimes, shoes were necessary.
“You’re up late,” Mycroft said simply, having barely moved at all.
Azalea shrugged lightly. “Quentin knocked over my ants,” she said.
Mycroft allowed himself a light chuckle. “See? Aren’t you glad now that we agreed against the red harvester ants?”
The child nodded and snuggled against Mycroft’s chest. Finally, Mycroft shifted to a more comfortable position to avoid bony little knees and elbows digging into sensitive areas. After taking a quick sip of his scotch, he set it aside.
“And what did Jackson do today?” he asked curiously.
Azalea squirmed slightly while she thought about her oldest brother’s doings. “He had some eggs, but wouldn’t say what they were for.”
“Eggs?” asked Mycroft, feigning mild concern.
“Uh-huh. From the kitchen,” said Azalea. “He took them back to the cellar, and wouldn’t let anybody in. Not even Mrs Kathy.”
Mycroft stroked his daughter’s hair lightly. “What do you suspect he was doing with the eggs?” he asked curiously.
More squirming as she thought. It was, Mycroft couldn’t help but think, a rather uncomfortable habit.
“He also took some vin—vinney—”
“Vinegar,” Mycroft filled in. “I’ll be sure to tell him to show you what he’s up to. You might enjoy it. What else did Quentin do, besides knock over your ants?”
More fidgeting, and Mycroft was glad that he’d set his scotch down. “He got yelled at by Mrs Kathy for using spray paint in his bedroom again.”
Mycroft frowned. “On the walls, I’d imagine.”
Azalea nodded. “She made him sit in the broom closet for some time after that.”
This alarmed Mycroft, and he stiffened slightly. For a brief moment, he considered asking how long ‘some time’ actually was, but decided that it was irrelevant.
“She’ll simply have to go, I’m afraid.”
“Good,” said Azalea. “I don’t like her anyway. She made me hoover my ants.”
“Oh, then it’s no question,” said Mycroft simply. “She might as well be gone already.”
“Good,” the small girl in his lap repeated.
Several minutes later, she was asleep, and Mycroft was headed that way himself.
no subject