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The Perilous Affair of the Batshit Blogger - Chapter One
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legionseagle and caulkhead production.
Manchester, England, England/Across the Atlantic sea.... A mid-forties blogger from LA is looking for Love; Love is looking for an unbreakable alibi and a reliable getaway driver; various assorted thugs including HM Government are looking for a USB stick whose contents could start a war; Sherlock and John are looking for the outer limits of Mycroft's covert ops budget and Tobermory, last survivor of the Doolittle Project, is looking out for Number One, as usual.
Warnings: Pre-wash, do not tumble dry. Risk of mining subsidence. Low flying aircraft. Cave canem. May contain nuts. The organisers of this regatta accept no responsibility for rattlesnake bites and mountain lion attacks. The sealions are wild creatures and may bite. Don't try this at home. Or abroad. Draco dormiens numquam titillandus. Don't forget the Kehrwoche. No resemblance to living people or actual places is intended except where it is.
With thanks to Shezan for guest cat blogging and virtual Margaux.
On his first day in the civil service someone had drawn Tim aside and said, "Watch out for Mycroft Holmes; he's the most dangerous man you will ever meet."
The part of himself which was - and always would be - a geeky fanboy muttered inwardly, "Unless I am brought alive before the seat of the Dark Lord" but the part of him that was really exceptionally competent and only very occasionally allowed himself a private moment took note of the information, and he had carefully avoided Mycroft Holmes and his ill-defined responsibilities and all-pervasive aura of power.
And now it was his job to take bad news to Mycroft Holmes.
The door opened before he could stretch out his hand to tap on it - cheap theatre, but effective - and Holmes did not look up as he entered.
"I'm afraid I've bad news from the FO, sir," Tim said, once it became apparent that, if he chose to wait for an acknowledgement before speaking, he would have solved the question of where to spend Christmas. "The Foreign Secretary's research assistant, sir."
"Ah! As in: 'Tell the PM, not to worry, this one's guaranteed 100% Straighty MacStraight with a side order of special bonus heterosexuality. Less gay than a rugby league team from Wakefield on an 18-30 holiday'? Post-It note, I gather. Attached to his vetting file for the job. But you wouldn't know anything about that, of course."
Tim tried to repress his instinctive, betraying twitch. How the hell had Holmes known that?
"So. Not as straight as we were assured he was?" Holmes still seemed intent on the papers on his desk-top.
Tim licked suddenly parched lips. "More so, if anything. Unfortunately. Sir."
"Ah. Interesting. And how did his - hypertrophied heterosexuality - manifest itself?"
"The South Manchester bye-election. Apparently, someone on the hustings observed him and the Foreign Secretary together and - um - said something uncalled for. And he seems to have taken it rather badly."
Holmes did look up, then; his expression expectedly sharp.
"Do I understand this young man found public speculation on his sexual inclinations intolerable? And he wants to make a career in politics?"
Tim's hand was unexpectedly steady as he pushed the file across the tooled-leather desk. "I think, sir, you'll see from this that the question of his political ambitions is now somewhat moot. Regrettably."
Holmes skimmed it through, once. His eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. He flipped up the lid of the laptop computer on the corner of his desk and typed in a URL. Although the security shielding on the screen prevented Tim from seeing what he was reading, the expression of dawning horror - like a siamese cat that had just been caught beneath an overturned glue pot - spoke volumes.
"Dear God! Do I understand that he walked straight off into the bar of some hotel on Portland Street, intent on demonstrating in spades just how inaccurate the comment had been, allowed himself to be entangled by a designing American blogger and is now featuring on the Internet as 'Whitehall Hottie XXX'?"
Tim gulped. "I suggest you click on the next page, sir. The Tumblr format can be a bit difficult to follow, but I think you'll find that you have - quite literally - not heard the half of it."
Holmes followed his suggestion. His lips pursed. The he began to read out loud, in a tone which suggested it was a physical effort to force the words past his lips.
"Under that tightly buttoned British exterior - God, how do British guys manage to make formal business wear look so darned hot? - Whitehall Hottie XXX turns out to quite the chatterbox in the sack. The cutest thing ever was seeing his little guilty look when he realised how adorably indiscreet he'd been about his boss and all the other Cabinet bigwigs - Mrs Clegg, you're one lucky, lucky lady, that's all I'm saying. Quite a coup for a little girl from LA, to have broken her bed and the Official Secrets Act in her first week in the country! Still, a girl's got to take care of herself in these post-Wikileaks times, and I don't want my Mancunian adventure to be cut short by getting locked in the Tower of London. Just as a precaution, I lifted a USB drive from Whitehall Hottie XXX's pocket as he gave me a farewell snog - that's what they call kisses in these parts - and I've left it somewhere safe with instructions to release it in case anything happens to me. So bring it on, Mr Bond!"
He looked up. "Dear God, I thought the FO had learned their lesson about USB sticks after the Bruce-Partington fiasco. So what's on this one?"
Tim leant across the desk and lowered his voice. Holmes shut his eyes for a moment, and then exhaled. The expression on his face as he opened his eyes again made Tim mentally revoke his earlier reservation. "Even if I am brought alive before the Dark Lord."
"What are you planning to do, sir?"
Holmes smiled. "It seems our amateur Mata Hari has a penchant for tightly-buttoned British men in suits. I propose to send her one. And may God have mercy on what passes for her soul."
"No. Absolutely not. Not when hell freezes over and Michael Gove takes up ice-dancing with Ann Widdecombe. No. Do I make myself adequately clear?"
"Admirably. Nevertheless, you are going to do it. This is a matter of national security, and you are not a man who refuses the necessary. You needn't worry, I'll forbid the banns myself if it comes to it."
"Oh, bloody hell! Can't you get one of your goons to do it? At least they own suits."
"You won't be on your own. Sherlock's going too. You'll need a wingman."
Sherlock's mug of tea shattered on the kitchen floor.
Anthea looked up from her Blackberry. "Your first fitting is in thirty minutes," she said.
I wouldn't want to give the impression that Mycroft Holmes can order me about. Still, when he came down to Gloucestershire, bearing wild smoked salmon and gammon in a pale green shopping bag, it became rapidly obvious that he needed a very special operative to oversee a mission which, against his better judgment (but possibly with the expectation of settling some long-held scores) he had entrusted to his brother Sherlock.
Not that I have anything against Sherlock: in fact, for a human, he is commendably quick of mind and fleet of foot. But Sherlock here was meant to act as the sidekick to his excellent friend Dr Watson - a man of resounding soundness on the subject of smoked herring - and if there's one thing Sherlock doesn't take naturally to, it's a subordinate position. A subordinate position while his best friend attempted to entrap a female who, if anything I'd read of her so far was an indication, could at any moment break into mystical talk of the Southern Californian variety.
After a short negotiation on the subject of Dover Sole (and the occasional sushi), I therefore agreed to the indignity of a cat carrier for the journey, before settling in an enviable designer loft posing - that sushi would be EARNED - as "my neighbour's pretty kitty."
legionseagle and caulkhead production.Manchester, England, England/Across the Atlantic sea.... A mid-forties blogger from LA is looking for Love; Love is looking for an unbreakable alibi and a reliable getaway driver; various assorted thugs including HM Government are looking for a USB stick whose contents could start a war; Sherlock and John are looking for the outer limits of Mycroft's covert ops budget and Tobermory, last survivor of the Doolittle Project, is looking out for Number One, as usual.
Warnings: Pre-wash, do not tumble dry. Risk of mining subsidence. Low flying aircraft. Cave canem. May contain nuts. The organisers of this regatta accept no responsibility for rattlesnake bites and mountain lion attacks. The sealions are wild creatures and may bite. Don't try this at home. Or abroad. Draco dormiens numquam titillandus. Don't forget the Kehrwoche. No resemblance to living people or actual places is intended except where it is.
With thanks to Shezan for guest cat blogging and virtual Margaux.
On his first day in the civil service someone had drawn Tim aside and said, "Watch out for Mycroft Holmes; he's the most dangerous man you will ever meet."
The part of himself which was - and always would be - a geeky fanboy muttered inwardly, "Unless I am brought alive before the seat of the Dark Lord" but the part of him that was really exceptionally competent and only very occasionally allowed himself a private moment took note of the information, and he had carefully avoided Mycroft Holmes and his ill-defined responsibilities and all-pervasive aura of power.
And now it was his job to take bad news to Mycroft Holmes.
The door opened before he could stretch out his hand to tap on it - cheap theatre, but effective - and Holmes did not look up as he entered.
"I'm afraid I've bad news from the FO, sir," Tim said, once it became apparent that, if he chose to wait for an acknowledgement before speaking, he would have solved the question of where to spend Christmas. "The Foreign Secretary's research assistant, sir."
"Ah! As in: 'Tell the PM, not to worry, this one's guaranteed 100% Straighty MacStraight with a side order of special bonus heterosexuality. Less gay than a rugby league team from Wakefield on an 18-30 holiday'? Post-It note, I gather. Attached to his vetting file for the job. But you wouldn't know anything about that, of course."
Tim tried to repress his instinctive, betraying twitch. How the hell had Holmes known that?
"So. Not as straight as we were assured he was?" Holmes still seemed intent on the papers on his desk-top.
Tim licked suddenly parched lips. "More so, if anything. Unfortunately. Sir."
"Ah. Interesting. And how did his - hypertrophied heterosexuality - manifest itself?"
"The South Manchester bye-election. Apparently, someone on the hustings observed him and the Foreign Secretary together and - um - said something uncalled for. And he seems to have taken it rather badly."
Holmes did look up, then; his expression expectedly sharp.
"Do I understand this young man found public speculation on his sexual inclinations intolerable? And he wants to make a career in politics?"
Tim's hand was unexpectedly steady as he pushed the file across the tooled-leather desk. "I think, sir, you'll see from this that the question of his political ambitions is now somewhat moot. Regrettably."
Holmes skimmed it through, once. His eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. He flipped up the lid of the laptop computer on the corner of his desk and typed in a URL. Although the security shielding on the screen prevented Tim from seeing what he was reading, the expression of dawning horror - like a siamese cat that had just been caught beneath an overturned glue pot - spoke volumes.
"Dear God! Do I understand that he walked straight off into the bar of some hotel on Portland Street, intent on demonstrating in spades just how inaccurate the comment had been, allowed himself to be entangled by a designing American blogger and is now featuring on the Internet as 'Whitehall Hottie XXX'?"
Tim gulped. "I suggest you click on the next page, sir. The Tumblr format can be a bit difficult to follow, but I think you'll find that you have - quite literally - not heard the half of it."
Holmes followed his suggestion. His lips pursed. The he began to read out loud, in a tone which suggested it was a physical effort to force the words past his lips.
"Under that tightly buttoned British exterior - God, how do British guys manage to make formal business wear look so darned hot? - Whitehall Hottie XXX turns out to quite the chatterbox in the sack. The cutest thing ever was seeing his little guilty look when he realised how adorably indiscreet he'd been about his boss and all the other Cabinet bigwigs - Mrs Clegg, you're one lucky, lucky lady, that's all I'm saying. Quite a coup for a little girl from LA, to have broken her bed and the Official Secrets Act in her first week in the country! Still, a girl's got to take care of herself in these post-Wikileaks times, and I don't want my Mancunian adventure to be cut short by getting locked in the Tower of London. Just as a precaution, I lifted a USB drive from Whitehall Hottie XXX's pocket as he gave me a farewell snog - that's what they call kisses in these parts - and I've left it somewhere safe with instructions to release it in case anything happens to me. So bring it on, Mr Bond!"
He looked up. "Dear God, I thought the FO had learned their lesson about USB sticks after the Bruce-Partington fiasco. So what's on this one?"
Tim leant across the desk and lowered his voice. Holmes shut his eyes for a moment, and then exhaled. The expression on his face as he opened his eyes again made Tim mentally revoke his earlier reservation. "Even if I am brought alive before the Dark Lord."
"What are you planning to do, sir?"
Holmes smiled. "It seems our amateur Mata Hari has a penchant for tightly-buttoned British men in suits. I propose to send her one. And may God have mercy on what passes for her soul."
"No. Absolutely not. Not when hell freezes over and Michael Gove takes up ice-dancing with Ann Widdecombe. No. Do I make myself adequately clear?"
"Admirably. Nevertheless, you are going to do it. This is a matter of national security, and you are not a man who refuses the necessary. You needn't worry, I'll forbid the banns myself if it comes to it."
"Oh, bloody hell! Can't you get one of your goons to do it? At least they own suits."
"You won't be on your own. Sherlock's going too. You'll need a wingman."
Sherlock's mug of tea shattered on the kitchen floor.
Anthea looked up from her Blackberry. "Your first fitting is in thirty minutes," she said.
I wouldn't want to give the impression that Mycroft Holmes can order me about. Still, when he came down to Gloucestershire, bearing wild smoked salmon and gammon in a pale green shopping bag, it became rapidly obvious that he needed a very special operative to oversee a mission which, against his better judgment (but possibly with the expectation of settling some long-held scores) he had entrusted to his brother Sherlock.
Not that I have anything against Sherlock: in fact, for a human, he is commendably quick of mind and fleet of foot. But Sherlock here was meant to act as the sidekick to his excellent friend Dr Watson - a man of resounding soundness on the subject of smoked herring - and if there's one thing Sherlock doesn't take naturally to, it's a subordinate position. A subordinate position while his best friend attempted to entrap a female who, if anything I'd read of her so far was an indication, could at any moment break into mystical talk of the Southern Californian variety.
After a short negotiation on the subject of Dover Sole (and the occasional sushi), I therefore agreed to the indignity of a cat carrier for the journey, before settling in an enviable designer loft posing - that sushi would be EARNED - as "my neighbour's pretty kitty."
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Brilliant. Lucky for me it's already complete. :-)