More Ginger ficbits
Aug. 18th, 2012 06:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wiseheartStill no story, not even a vague plot idea looming on the horizon (thank God). This is the first meeting between the Doctor and Mycroft, with android!Anthea putting in a brief appearance.
I expect a few such scenes to surface in the near future; then the bunny would - hopefully - go to hibernate until I can finish some of the more pressing stuff. *sighs*
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He was not the least surprised that his arrival had already been noticed. After all, Mycroft had the best possible surveillance system on the planet – and well beyond it: the salvaged control panel of a dead TARDIS, trapped on Earth without the heart of the ship that would enable him to leave. It would have noticed the falling of a leaf in the extensive park surrounding the manor house; spotting another TARDIS slamming into the earth behind the building was no real challenge for it.
As expected, it was Anthea who came to look for him: the pretty, doe-eyed brunette with the smooth, ageless face. Mycroft’s highly efficient PA as far as most people were concerned. His bed warmer if one believed the gossip columns. The Doctor was probably the only one save for Mycroft himself to know who – what – Anthea really was.
She was wearing a little black dress as she’d done every time they met, few as those times had been, her huge, dark eyes practically fused to her Blackberry device, her well-manicured fingers moving across the surface with superhuman speed. As always, the Doctor felt a pang of jealousy at the speed she was constantly receiving and correlating astonishing amounts of data; not even he could keep up with that, and he was several magnitudes faster than other people.
There were cases where organic beings were at definite disadvantage.
“Anthea,” she said with a stiff nod, by way of greeting.
A.N.T.H.E.A, as the true identification code of the being facing him would have been spelled, finally looked up from her Blackberry. Her luminous eyes turned opaque for a moment as she performed at least a dozen different scans on him within 4.5 seconds.
“You’ve regenerated,” she stated the obvious.
“No kidding,” he replied dryly.
She blinked again, her fingers moving over the surface of the Blackberry in a blur, without the need to look at what she was doing.
“Come,” she said abruptly. “Himself is waiting.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The inside of the Holmes residence had barely changed since his last visit, despite the decades gone by. It was still the same spacious Victorian house with its expensive old furniture, vintage wallpapers and hand-painted stained glass lamps as it had been half a century earlier when the stranded Time Lord stepped into the role of the eldest son of the old and respected family. A son who’d conveniently fallen victim to a guerrilla attack during the Aden Emergency.
Mycroft Holmes had barely changed himself; a fact that he liked to explain away with the amazing progress of plastic surgery in recent years… if indeed anyone happened to comment on it. Which rarely happened, as he preferred to interact with other people – especially with those who had known the original Mycroft – as little as possible. With the hush-hush job he was doing for the British government it was surprisingly easy to lead a solitary life.
He was waiting for the Doctor in the middle of his study – a surprisingly elegant, old-fashioned room with it French windows open to the park that could have doubled as a gorgeous film set. He was wearing a tailored three piece suit in sombre black, defined by the distinctive rounded cut of the waistcoat that made him look even taller than he already was, with a pale blue shirt and a navy tie. The silver chain of his ancient pocket watch – the one in which a great deal of his true being was stored – was threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat and, as always, his sleek back umbrella was leaned against his des, within reach.
Just where one would expect a powerful, well-concealed weapon to be kept.
A sinfully expensive fountain pen – black, with a gold nib, his equivalent of a sonic screwdriver – peeked out from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The Doctor knew from personal experience that one could actually write with the bloody thing, aside from its more important functions. And while he preferred his sonic screwdriver the way it was, he couldn’t deny that Mycroft’s solution was the more elegant one.
“My dear Doctor!” Mycroft exclaimed with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What a surprise to see you again! I thought you’d turned your back on this planet for good!”
“You hoped, you mean,” the Doctor returned with a scowl.
“Nonsense,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I never had any objections to your presence on Earth; if I had, I’d have found a way to remove you. The planet is big enough for two of us – even if you’ll have to stay a little longer this time.”
“What do you mean?” the Doctor tried to hedge around the truth a little; not that he’d be able to fool Mycroft and he knew that, but admitting that he, too, was stranded here, at least for the time being, wasn’t easy.
Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“Oh, please! You crash-land in my back yard and expect me not to deduce that your TARDIS wouldn’t go anywhere for the next couple of years? I don’t even need Mummy to calculate the possibilities for that! The poor ship was already a derelict when you stole it from the junkyard and aided you by how many regenerations? Ten? Eleven?”
“Twelve, actually, and you know that,” the Doctor replied coldly. How typical for Mycroft to remind him that this was the last chance given to him!
“Of course I do!” Mycroft replied with an inelegant snort. “Therefore it’s safe to assume that you won’t be making any new trips in the next few years – if ever. You better get used to leading a settled life.”
“Like you?” the Doctor asked, his new, pleasant voice dripping with sarcasm.
“God, no!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I don’t want to have you around me any more than you want to be around me all the time! You know how your behaviour upsets Mummy.”
“I upset her?” the Doctor repeated in disbelief.
Mycroft’s fights with his cropped TARDIS/supercomputer/whatever had always been spectacular, even though Anthea was the only one to regularly witness them. Really, he’d only got to see Mummy once or twice and barely interacted with her!
“Well, she doesn’t like you,” Mycroft replied testily, “and frankly, neither do I. Not too much. So no, having you stay here is not an option. But I’m sure you’ll find enough ex-companions in Britain who’d have to take you in as a boarder with open arms.
I expect a few such scenes to surface in the near future; then the bunny would - hopefully - go to hibernate until I can finish some of the more pressing stuff. *sighs*
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He was not the least surprised that his arrival had already been noticed. After all, Mycroft had the best possible surveillance system on the planet – and well beyond it: the salvaged control panel of a dead TARDIS, trapped on Earth without the heart of the ship that would enable him to leave. It would have noticed the falling of a leaf in the extensive park surrounding the manor house; spotting another TARDIS slamming into the earth behind the building was no real challenge for it.
As expected, it was Anthea who came to look for him: the pretty, doe-eyed brunette with the smooth, ageless face. Mycroft’s highly efficient PA as far as most people were concerned. His bed warmer if one believed the gossip columns. The Doctor was probably the only one save for Mycroft himself to know who – what – Anthea really was.
She was wearing a little black dress as she’d done every time they met, few as those times had been, her huge, dark eyes practically fused to her Blackberry device, her well-manicured fingers moving across the surface with superhuman speed. As always, the Doctor felt a pang of jealousy at the speed she was constantly receiving and correlating astonishing amounts of data; not even he could keep up with that, and he was several magnitudes faster than other people.
There were cases where organic beings were at definite disadvantage.
“Anthea,” she said with a stiff nod, by way of greeting.
A.N.T.H.E.A, as the true identification code of the being facing him would have been spelled, finally looked up from her Blackberry. Her luminous eyes turned opaque for a moment as she performed at least a dozen different scans on him within 4.5 seconds.
“You’ve regenerated,” she stated the obvious.
“No kidding,” he replied dryly.
She blinked again, her fingers moving over the surface of the Blackberry in a blur, without the need to look at what she was doing.
“Come,” she said abruptly. “Himself is waiting.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The inside of the Holmes residence had barely changed since his last visit, despite the decades gone by. It was still the same spacious Victorian house with its expensive old furniture, vintage wallpapers and hand-painted stained glass lamps as it had been half a century earlier when the stranded Time Lord stepped into the role of the eldest son of the old and respected family. A son who’d conveniently fallen victim to a guerrilla attack during the Aden Emergency.
Mycroft Holmes had barely changed himself; a fact that he liked to explain away with the amazing progress of plastic surgery in recent years… if indeed anyone happened to comment on it. Which rarely happened, as he preferred to interact with other people – especially with those who had known the original Mycroft – as little as possible. With the hush-hush job he was doing for the British government it was surprisingly easy to lead a solitary life.
He was waiting for the Doctor in the middle of his study – a surprisingly elegant, old-fashioned room with it French windows open to the park that could have doubled as a gorgeous film set. He was wearing a tailored three piece suit in sombre black, defined by the distinctive rounded cut of the waistcoat that made him look even taller than he already was, with a pale blue shirt and a navy tie. The silver chain of his ancient pocket watch – the one in which a great deal of his true being was stored – was threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat and, as always, his sleek back umbrella was leaned against his des, within reach.
Just where one would expect a powerful, well-concealed weapon to be kept.
A sinfully expensive fountain pen – black, with a gold nib, his equivalent of a sonic screwdriver – peeked out from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The Doctor knew from personal experience that one could actually write with the bloody thing, aside from its more important functions. And while he preferred his sonic screwdriver the way it was, he couldn’t deny that Mycroft’s solution was the more elegant one.
“My dear Doctor!” Mycroft exclaimed with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What a surprise to see you again! I thought you’d turned your back on this planet for good!”
“You hoped, you mean,” the Doctor returned with a scowl.
“Nonsense,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I never had any objections to your presence on Earth; if I had, I’d have found a way to remove you. The planet is big enough for two of us – even if you’ll have to stay a little longer this time.”
“What do you mean?” the Doctor tried to hedge around the truth a little; not that he’d be able to fool Mycroft and he knew that, but admitting that he, too, was stranded here, at least for the time being, wasn’t easy.
Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“Oh, please! You crash-land in my back yard and expect me not to deduce that your TARDIS wouldn’t go anywhere for the next couple of years? I don’t even need Mummy to calculate the possibilities for that! The poor ship was already a derelict when you stole it from the junkyard and aided you by how many regenerations? Ten? Eleven?”
“Twelve, actually, and you know that,” the Doctor replied coldly. How typical for Mycroft to remind him that this was the last chance given to him!
“Of course I do!” Mycroft replied with an inelegant snort. “Therefore it’s safe to assume that you won’t be making any new trips in the next few years – if ever. You better get used to leading a settled life.”
“Like you?” the Doctor asked, his new, pleasant voice dripping with sarcasm.
“God, no!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I don’t want to have you around me any more than you want to be around me all the time! You know how your behaviour upsets Mummy.”
“I upset her?” the Doctor repeated in disbelief.
Mycroft’s fights with his cropped TARDIS/supercomputer/whatever had always been spectacular, even though Anthea was the only one to regularly witness them. Really, he’d only got to see Mummy once or twice and barely interacted with her!
“Well, she doesn’t like you,” Mycroft replied testily, “and frankly, neither do I. Not too much. So no, having you stay here is not an option. But I’m sure you’ll find enough ex-companions in Britain who’d have to take you in as a boarder with open arms.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2012-08-18 07:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-08-18 09:13 pm (UTC)What I'm trying to do is to use Sherlock characters exclusively, changing them just enough so that they'd fit into the Whoniverse, but not to bring anyone actually over from there. We'll see if it works.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-08-19 07:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-08-19 08:50 pm (UTC)I wish I knew why must the rabid bunnies always attack when I'm desperately trying to finish something else !!!
By the way, I've just discovered that somebody's already beaten me with the 'Sherlock-the-ginger-Doctor' idea. Complete with John and Mrs Hudson as companions. Drat, and I thought I'd come up with something original for a change!