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mustfindcreativeusername · 6 months ago

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Granada Homes Season 2 thoughts

(again, straight from the notepad app)

1. COPP (7 aug)

Well i didn't recognise the title at first bc i read the story in Romanian and the translation was. Different than i would've expected. But yeah. I think i said "oh i did read this" three or four times.

The guy was... creepy. And i did not enjoy the telling-funny-stories bit. I'm usually not impressed with "and this is the ending of a very funny story!" *Everybody laughs* bits in tv shows/movies, i can only remember one time** where this sort of thing made me laugh. But... Yeah. Were we supposed to find him funny then? Miss Hunter did. Anyway, it just seemed extra creepy to me.

I think my favourite part was Holmes talking about the dangers of remote rural areas. I mean. He's right.

**The pool story from Doctor Who S4Ep10 Midnight. Here it is, 1:02

2. GREE (8 aug)

Watson being shocked that Holmes has a brother:))

The quiet bit in the club was actually a bit creepy. Unsettling at least.

Also i think Watson was trying to guess which one was Mycroft.

Was that one child tripping unscripted? Seemed so.

I loved the train scenes. Oh and i loved the scene where that guy falls out and Holmes has too phisically hold back both Sophia and Watson. Poor Watson seemed genuinely horrified even tho the guy was a murderer.

Bonus:

Me: Look!! They're holding hands!!

Roommate: Uh. A man just died?

Me: And? :D

3. NORW (9 aug)

Oo i enjoyed this one.

I had no idea what was gonna happen, did not read the original story.

Obviously the premise was pretty cool, i kinda called that he faked his death to blame the boy but still.

I love seeing Holmes in disguise.

Also, the part with Watson coaxing him to eat something?? Bro when i tell you i teared up. He was so gentle with him. *Massive sigh* I love them sm...

Also when Holmes motioned for that housekeeper to go away? He almost killed both of us in one go- i choked on air, my roommate choked on her drink. He's so drmatic, he's a danger to society (affectionate)

Also both me and my roommate wanted to kick Lestrade in the face at some point.

Yeah

4. RESI (10 aug)

"What in the magnus archives is going on?"

Twas a nightmare.

I liked this episode. Fun fact: i am currently midway thru this story in the books. So. Pretty cool. Yea.

Man i was so proud of Watson for deducing stuff about Holmes and then Holmes was like nahh actually you're very wrong

(I did guess he was tapping to a song tho, it was pretty obvious)

...i must say. The... Vocabulary in this episode. ...interesting. 👀

Does Holmes really not know where he keeps his papers?

Poor Mrs Hudson tho :((

I actually saw that *enters the room* *screams* scene a couple years ago, but i didn't know what adaptation it was from.

5. REDH (11 aug)

Mhmmmmmhmhm i dont like thissssssss

I know this story very well and i did not. Expect Moriarty.

I mean it makes sense bc the next one is the final problem (mmmmm😞😞) but i didn't quite put two and two together

[Also i kinda expected them to be lazier and just introduce him at the beginning of FINA]

Umm but yeah about the episode. As i said, i knew the story, one of my favourites since i was a child.

I really loved Watson this episode. He gets to explain Holmes' deductions again. Oh and the part where he was trying not to laugh while the client talked about the letter A.

I guess both him and Holmes lost it at "artificial kneecaps"

Yet another episode where someone doubts Holmes' abilities. (Tho this one was slightly less annoying about it)

"Amateur"

At least Watson jumped to correct him

Oh and i think my brain had an error at the end when Holmes lights Watson's cigarette while speaking french. Like i had subtitles but i have no idea what he said.

Roommate didn't catch it either ("for the best, i choose to believe he was telling Watson he loves him:))" )

Also: Holmes at the concert looked like a cat. A very pleased cat

Also also: If i ever jump over a couch to get someone to stay with me and it's not a life-or-death situation, consider me absolutely smitten.

But.. yk.. that's just me 🤷

6. FINA (11 aug)

Well it certainly got my heart pounding

The first five minutes or so were actually the worst i think

I mean to say, he looked more in control of himself at the end than in those first 5 minutes. Like i legit almost started crying seeing him scramble for his life like that. Horrible

Mrs Hudson wanting to celebrate...... Stop..

Did NOT enjoy looking at Watson through that sniper's lens. (+ I had Bbc Sherlock flashbacks)

Honestly about the whole middle part.. i don't know what i can say that has not been said. Them in the dark, with only a candle, the "will you come with me" part, Watson rushing to the train and looking so worried bc he wasn't seeing Holmes

*Sigh*

And the fuckin letter. The fact that Holmes knew it had to be a trick but he didn't wanna give it away so he just. Waved him off so hurriedly.

Yea yea run along we'll meet up in a bit I'm not even gonna look at you go that's how normal this goodbye is (I'm probably never gonna see you again)

Oh and the way he rushed back when it clicked.

That's probably the first time in ~a week they were apart. And the one time he leaves him on his own...

Yeaaaah

The fight was silly. And kinda. Anticlimactic. I mean at least make Moriarty have a gun.

(He'd allow Holmes to write the letter while holding him at gunpoint. The letter is done. He approaches to execute him. Holmes lunges at him to get the gun. They struggle. The gun falls, so now they're just beating each other up. Aaand then they fall.)

But. Yeah. Poor Watson. It was a very restrained reaction but still. It was so sad to see him cry.

Oh and as if that was not enough, Watson's "this is the last time I'm telling you a story about Holmes" bit was double damage bc.. yeah. This is the last time we see this guy talk about Sherlock. This guy being the actor but still.

(Ngl it reminded me of the Doctor Who regeneration scenes)

#granada holmes #thoughts #copp #gree #norw #resi #redh #fina #the copper beeches #the greek interpreter #the norwood builder #the resident patient #the read headed league #the final problem

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sanguinarysanguinity · 1 year ago

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Tagged by @verecunda, thank you! I've lost track of who has been tagged, so please jump in if you'd like to play!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

176, give or take a few that are in currently anonymous collections.

2. What's your total AO3 wordcount?

737,590

3. What fandoms do you write for?

My current main fandoms are the Hornblower novels and The Flight of the Heron. But I also write one-offs as please me, either for exchange assignments or pinch-hits, or because I got bit by a plot bunny. (Yes, plot-bunnies are carnivorous!) This year, I've written for Hornblower (novels and TV), The Flight of the Heron, Vokosigan Saga, Elementary, ACD Holmes, Leverage, A Rip Through Time, and Wild Things (1998).

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The Sincerity of Dust (Mycroft/Lestrade - Sherlock TV) Etta Candy's Last Stand (Etta Candy/Wonder Woman) Three Continents and Many Nations (Elementary gen; Joan Watson has broken hearts around the world) Baker Street Papas (Holmes/Watson, kidfic) Foundations (Elementary gen; Bell-centric fixit AU)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, because I was taught to write thank you notes. Also, because sometimes I can lure a commenter into a conversation, which is always fun -- and sometimes they even become a friend.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Heh. *rubs hands gleefully* I have a little sideline in fics that made people cry. Let me show you some of my favorites!

The Golden Sand Bush/Hornblower Once again a prisoner of the French, Hornblower awaits his execution.

Cock on the Right background Bush/Hornblower/Maria For as long as he bears them, Bush's tattoos protect him faithfully.

Telling the Bees Elementary gen Sherlock returns from Switzerland, but Watson does not.

Brandy and Soda Holmes & Watson; Mary/Watson (7 Per-Cent Solution) Holmes returns to Baker Street.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oh, fuck if I know. I've been accused more than once of writing only bittersweetly happy endings. But here, have a story in which Horatio Hornblower, that sad wet miserable bastard, is simply happy for a day:

Nothing So Much Worth Doing

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not often. Earlier this year a commenter objected to a pwp being a pwp. Which. Dude. As a later commenter replied (so I didn't have to! blessings on their house!), the story was exactly what it said in the tags and summary, so take some personal responsibility and don't click on what you don't want to read.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes. Slash, femslash, threesomes; vanilla and kinky; realistic and fantastical; first times and well-seasoned olds. I haven't yet written anything that would bring the antis after me, but that's the kind of thing that I'd put under a different pseud anyway.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Absolutely. Probably Elementary x Bee-Man Comics: THE BEST BEE FIC ON MARS.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I had a couple requests this year for permission to translate a story (both granted), but I don't know the current status of either project.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

@phoenixfalls and I have a story we've been co-writing; every once in a while we talk about finishing it. I'd very much like to; I think it's great fun.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Pass.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have a Twin Peaks x Buffy crossover that I quite like, but which I am extremely unlikely to ever finish. Every now and then I think of it wistfully, though.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Well-organized and precise prose, and strong characterizations.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Inelegant prose, and wobbly characterizations.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

An insidious trap, if your characters speak the other language better than you do. (With the exception of William Bush in French, they always do! Why do I write all these classically-educated assholes?)

My usual solution is to paraphrase the dialogue through my pov character, at whatever their level of comprehension is. After all, that's what the reader needs to know: what the pov character understands. Paraphrasing also circumvents the wild card that some of my readers will know the language and some won't -- this way, no reader has an advantage and no reader is left scrambling for a translation.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Ask Dr. Eldritch! a webcomic written by the talented evannichols.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Whichever one someone just left a lovely comment on.

#my writing #query memage

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quill-of-thoth · 1 year ago

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Letters from Watson: The Boscombe Valley Mystery

Part 2: The Fun Bits

Lestrade is a "Lean, ferret-like man." Let us all imagine Fur Noodle! Lestrade.

Holmes deferring his investigation of the case since it's unlikely to rain strikes me as him being potentially tired of traveling. It's presumably a period of fair weather, and there was a kid picking flowers, so likely spring, summer, to early autumn. He would have still had decent light if he'd gone, even if it is nearly four o clock.

The modern train ride from Paddington to Glouchestershire is about an hour and a half. Presuming that victorian trains were slightly slower, AND that lunch at Swindon was an occasion that they got off the train for, and that they had to get a ride in a cart from wherever the main Glouchestershire train station... 11:15 AM to about 4 PM still strikes me as a long time for this trip to take.

"Violet Eyes" I'm assuming that this means dark blue, though I was not able to quickly google when the English speaking world started considering violet and blue separate color categories.

Watson chucks a book again.

Also Watson's medical knowledge comes in clutch in this case. For those concerned, the occipital bone is the portion of the skull stretching from the spinal connection upwards, in the exact back. Parietal regions are around your ears.

The marriage that apparently James McCarthy and the Bristol barmaid have despite the barmaid being previously married isn't totally implausible. In the late 1800's you could literally just move and leave any records of your life - name, marital status, prior convictions - behind. Nobody was going to investigate unless you were already under suspicion of something else. Also, the first husband being in the Bermuda Dockyard suggests to me that he's a sailor, and therefore away a lot of the time. Sailors are not, stereotypically, necessarily faithful to their wives, or reliable about sending money home, so I imagine a nice young country gentleman made a pleasant social and financial change of pace for her.

George Meredith was a poet and novelist of the day. Noted once more for a focus on psychology and social change, like most of Holmes' other favorite authors.

"You do find it very hard to tackle the facts" on this reread I'm leaning more towards banter than rudeness in interpreting this one. Lestrade does not appreciate it though.

Left foot with an inward twist: I don't know if this means Lestrade is pigeon toed (toes point inward when the feet fall naturally) or if he has some other obvious shape discrepancy with his feet. Either way, my sympathies to the inspector, as my left foot is also not a prize specimen

Nous Verrons: french for "we will see."

#Letters from Watson

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vaticancityrecommends · 5 days ago

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#emmykay #Sherlock (TV)

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everythingcanadian · 1 year ago

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Campfire Smoke

Pairing: John Watson/Greg Lestrade/Sherlock Holmes

Rating: G

No Warnings

Summary:

Finally, a vacation for the three. Even though it's short it's still time off and away. Day 9 of promptober: Smoke

AO3 Portal On Tumblr: Part 2 Part 3

Greg could feel the heat off the fire he and John had started in the firepit. The three of them had decided on finally having a vacation. A lovely cottage far enough away from the city that Greg and John could relax. Even though Sherlock loved the city he could appreciate the need to have some- quiet time. John had allowed him to bring a few things to experiment with while they had the weekend off.

The October wind was nippy, biting a little at John's cheeks and nose. However he could seek out one of his partners to press his face into their neck. And as of right now, sitting beside Greg on a bench built for the firepit, seemed like the best idea. The older man looked warm and cozy in his football hooded sweater. His silver hair is a lovely contrast to the black cloth. John smiled as he slowly came around to stand next to the bench.

"Hi Ducky." Greg held out his arm for John to cuddle into him. His hands in thin grey wool gloves. Just enough for a chilly autumn weekend.

"Mm," John sat down and let himself snuggle close to the DI. "Hi Greg."

The low hum from Greg had John smiling and turning to put his cold nose into Greg's warm neck. That was followed with a small and halted yelp. "Christ you're freezing John."

John just chortled and nuzzled closer. Once settled and finally a bit warmer, John pulled back and looked at Greg's profile. "You smell like smoke."

"I did just start up our fire here." Greg's voice was thick with teasing. "We'll both smell like it by the end of the night." He kissed John's nose softly. "How was the drive up?"

"-Was alright. Sherlock kept the radio on some French station. Not even music. Just a talk show." John shrugged. He could see his breath leave him into the cold air. Now that the sun was setting it was getting colder. Sherlock would hopefully come out of the cottage to join them both.

Their backs were to the little house but as they slowly sank into a comfortable silence together. Greg reached up with a gloved hand to run it through John's soft and washed hair. He had showered after Greg had headed out so he didn’t get to see him all warm and wet and soft. And Greg loved how soft the grey blond was when it didn't have anything in it. The floppy strands were muted gold silk and Greg's thin wool gloves raked through them gently.

They both heard the backdoor open and close quietly, as if Sherlock didn't want to disrupt them. They didn't hear the footsteps but they did hear him humming softly as he approached. "This looks sweet." The deep voice felt like liquid warmth down John's spine.

"Would you like to join us?" Greg asked, tilting his head to look up at Sherlock behind them. His big brown eyes were liquid chocolate and Sherlock couldn't exactly resist that. He never really could resist something as addicting as chocolate. And Greg's brand was just what Sherlock loved.

Sherlock tilted his head a little and his eyes soaked up the image his two partners made. "Make room for me then." He rounded the bench and squinted as the smoke blew into his face before he sat next to Greg.

Greg now had both arms extended and around the two. It was nice to be able to breathe them both in and enjoy the peace of a fire crackling and popping, and the soft sounds Sherlock and John produced.

"How’s the experiment?" John whispered.

Sherlock gave a little thoughtful sound. "The sheep's bladder is being preserved in salt as we speak. The human bladder is being dried in the oven."

"Sherlock."

"It's on a low temperature. It won't burn."

"That's not what I meant." John's disgruntled words had Greg smiling into the fire. He wouldn't have this any other way.

#johnlockstrade #bbc sherlock #my fic #johnstrade #johnlock #sherstrade #fic #promptober #promptober 2023

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mostlymystradeshitposts · 5 years ago

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Lestrade is fluent French and if you think that doesn’t turn Mycroft on,,,,,,, you would be wrong

#greg lestrade #lestrade #shitpost #di lestrade #mystrade #mycroft holmes #mycroft x lestrade #french #lestrade speaks french #and so does mycroft ofc #BBC Sherlock

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inevitably-johnlocked · 1 month ago

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I haven't checked in a lot lately (real life is busy as hell), but hi! hello! Do you maybe have some good fics where Sherlock and/or John are multilingual? <33

p.s. this feels sooo nostalgic.

Hi Lovely!

I do have a selection of fics on this post here... it's a bit messy so here are the fics on that post, plus others I know of :)

L'Instinct Suffit by Kate_Lear (E, 2,360 w., 1 Ch. || Sherlock Speaks French) – A shamelessly smutty fill for a prompt on sherlockbbc_fic that just said ‘Sherlock speaks French during sex’.

Coup de Foudre by prettysailorsoldier (T, 6,446 w., 1 Ch. || Teenager/University AU || Alternate First Meeting, Skiing, Winter, Sherlock Speaks French, Christmas Fluff) – When John and his friends decide to blow off some steam after finals with a holiday to the Swiss Alps, he's expecting a week of roaring fires, hot chocolate, and snow as far as the eye can see. He is not expecting to fall head over heels for a fellow guest--a young Frenchman known only as "Blue Scarf"--but John's not one to let a little language barrier get in the way, and, with the help of Google Translate, it might just be a Christmas to remember after all. Part 7 of 25 Days of Johnlock

Pardon my French by archea2 (E, 8,232 w., 3 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff, Language Kink, Voice Kink, John in Afghanistan, Fever, Drunk Sherlock, Paternal Lestrade, Clothed Sex, Drunken Confessions, Humour) – Sherlock's closet Jekyll resurfaces when he's drunk, making him tender, earnest and extremely talkative with John. It's all fine with John - or would be, if Sherlock's Subconscious bloody let him speak English on these occasions.

Not Your Average Roman Holiday by StarlightAndFireflies (M, 11,253 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting || Rome, Vacation, Flirting, Romance, First Kiss / Time, International Crime Solving, Language Barrier) – After his relationship with Mary falls apart, John finds himself on what should have been his honeymoon, alone and directionless. Then, a chance encounter with a handsome, intelligent stranger changes his entire outlook -- but this gorgeous man doesn't seem to speak any English... AU in which John is a tourist and Sherlock is working on an international case, and they meet by chance. Sparks fly.

A Gossamer Dream by CarmillaCarmine (E, 15,985 w., 4 Ch. || Writer/Teacher AU || First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Writer John / Teacher Sherlock, Fluff, London, Holding Hands, Online Friendship / Romance, Phone Sex, Anal Sex, Happy Ending, Alternating POV, Scottish John, Online Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, Hand Holding, Forehead Touching, First Kiss/Time, Texting/Sexting, Rimming, Toplock, Sherlock Speaks French) – Sherlock had never realised one could care so much about someone they'd never met in person. Now he is about to meet the friend with whom he's been chatting online for months and his anticipation is reaching a crescendo. Part 19 of Johnlock Smut (with Feels)

Common Tongues: Unassuming Brilliance by jinglebell (E, 41,174 w., 11 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Anal, Rimming, Snowballing, Language Kink, Blow Jobs, BAMF John, Size Difference, Height Difference, Sapiosexual Sherlock, Barebacking, Size Queen) – John may be predictably average in most things, but there are a handful of areas in which he knows he is uncommonly skilled. He can make a great cup of tea, for one. He's also good at patching folks up, putting bullets precisely where he wants them, and listening.The one skill that John is perhaps most exceptional in, though, is language. John is a polyglot.

A Study in Winning by Jupiter_Ash (E, 106,658 w., 11 Ch. || Tennis AU || John POV, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Sherlock Speaks French, Switchlock, Wimbledon) – John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything? Part 1 of Tennis

====

If anyone has any more, please do add them!!

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #polyglot fics #multilingual character fics #help steph find fics

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writingwithcolor · 4 years ago

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How to Write Non-Fluent ESL English

@interneet asked:

Hey, I’m reading a story at the moment where immigrant characters speak in incredibly broken English. It’s really jarring. Is there a way to respectfully write characters speaking in broken/non-fluent English without it coming across unrealistic and racist or would you advise just leaving that out of your writing altogether?

This is going to turn into a bit of a guide…I’ll try not to get too carried away with linguistics stuff :)

A Note on Terminology

I’d definitely go with “non-fluent” over “broken,” as the term “broken” has quite a negative connotation that also tends to be used in describing stigmatized languages, language varieties, and dialects that are, in fact, used properly according to their own internal rules (AAVE and many Global Englishes, to name a few).

Another term you should know for this guide is ESL and L1/L2. I’ll use L1 to refer to first language, L2 for second language, and so on—you can keep adding numbers. ESL is “English Second Language,” which is pretty self-explanatory, but there is a crucial distinction between that and dominant language. I myself am technically ESL, as I started learning English at around age 3. However, since I live in the US where English is the dominant language, I quickly gained in English proficiency and lost Japanese proficiency. While I still have around middle schooler proficiency in Japanese, English is my dominant language now. An immigrant character may be ESL but completely fluent in English.

Should You Write It?

It depends on whether or not the character’s English proficiency is plot relevant. Keep in mind that with writing non-fluent english, you don’t want to overload speech with mistakes, or make it incomprehensible. The most you should do is use it to establish character (say a character has just moved overseas, and in the story their English improves over time) or to further plot (maybe there is important info that needs to be communicated and there’s a barrier). If it’s not relevant, and it’s just in order to establish that they’re a foreigner, don’t do it. It’s Othering, and there are other ways to establish culture and culture shock. As I said before, not all immigrants have a poor command of their destination country’s dominant language.

The How-To

There are two components that I’ll address:

The types of errors to include, and

Writing accents (or not)

First, grammatical features are better to use than phonetic ones. We’ll get to why when we talk about accents, but for now, note that it’s more respectful to use for ESL errors than pronunciation. Here are some examples of grammatical features:

Word order

Inflections (eg. the attachment of affixes like -s, -ed, etc. to indicate tense, person, number, etc. of a noun or verb)

The presence or absence of certain morphological constructs that appear in some languages but not others (eg. Japanese has topic markers like wa, and English doesn’t; English has definite/indefinite articles like the but Japanese doesn’t)

If you’re writing an ESL character, ask beta readers & mods on this blog who speak the character’s L1 to see if the grammatical features of your character’s ESL speech are consistent with typical English fluency errors. Here’s an ask I answered on Japanese, and Mod Rune gives a good example on Korean here:

A Korean is more likely to try and put someone’s title behind their last name (e.g. Obama President rather than President Obama, Lestrade Inspector instead of Inspector Lestrade)

Second, we want to avoid in-dialogue portrayals of phonetic differences, which is also called “eye dialect.” Here are some examples from a piece of media many of us are probably familiar with, but I don’t think deserves a citation:

“Will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?”

“Eh? No, don' go! I've — I've never met another one before”

“Anuzzer what, precisely?”

“Another half-giant, o' course.”

Both speakers have an accent that is shown within the writing through misspellings of the words they’re speaking (one is French, one is West Country English). This is a stereotypical (and often hard-to-read) portrayal of accents that Others the speaker and unfairly puts either their dialect differences or their perceived proficiency in English at the forefront of their dialogue. And this is with European characters! Imagine how this would look on people from other parts of the globe.

Another major reason why we want to avoid eye dialect is because of the racist history of (pejoratively) writing accents in literature. In early American writing, Black characters were written according to minstrel stereotypes, and with it, a stereotypical way of speaking that was emphasized through eye dialect. Here’s a thesis that explains the history of eye dialect in American literature to supplement that idea, if you want to learn more. In addition, unless you’re a linguist or dialect coach who is trained in the phonetic inventory of the L1 & speaker tendencies, you tend to perpetuate media stereotypes that may not be reflective of actual speech. This can be very harmful.

Here’s a link on how to describe accents instead, and here are some good perspectives on being a 1st generation immigrant and struggling with accents (how that affects them when they’re teased for it, and also strategies they have taken to overcome a knowledge gap).

In Conclusion

Before writing an ESL speaker’s English in a different way from the rest of the cast, consider whether or not this is really needed in your story.

If you do decide to write their speech differently, look at the grammatical features of their L1 and talk to real speakers of that L1 to get a realistic idea.

AVOID EYE DIALECT!

Thanks for stickin’ with me, folks.

~Mod Rina

#ESL #language #speech #immigrant #Othering #accents #description #asks

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mmmbuttery · 2 years ago

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The Test

For Mystrade Monday prompt “Are you testing me” (3/8/21)

It was nearly two months ago that Mycroft first learned of Greg Lestrade, age 25, neighborhood officer with Avon and Somerset. Lestrade had been on the fringes of an investigation of particular interest to Secret Intelligence Service, his file sent along with a dozen other officers who would need to be fully debriefed about what they knew.

The footage taken from close circuit monitors showed a young man in uniform having a brief conversation with a group of people, seeming to settle down a minor altercation, after which he shook his head and walked off. Nothing out of the ordinary. The audio - the audio was something else. Mycroft, who rarely, if ever, rewound anything, needed to listen to it again.

The similarities were too strong.

He had never thought he could run into this so fortuitously.

He needed to interview this man.

Mycroft had sat among the panel of other middle-aged interviewers through the long day. The others, he could tell, were skeptical and would soon begin muttering about the waste of their time - a whole day shot with all the witnesses. There was very little new information that had been uncovered. Mycroft stood fast, unbothered. He knew what he had heard.

The last interviewee arrived; a little nervous, a little unsure of why exactly he was here. Then he straightened his spine and lifted his chin as he sat down in front of the entire panel and Mycroft felt the need to make sure his breathing was not noticeably changed. The video clip had been grainy, had not done justice to the man in front of him. Lestrade, Mycroft noted, was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and including the slightest of malocclusion, utterly <i>beautiful.</i>

Eagerly, hungrily, Mycroft deduced that Lestrade's suit was not particularly expensive or well-fitted and the color did him no favors, possibly borrowed from a male roommate. His hair was a little long, he had missed a few spots while shaving, so he either didn't care much about his personal appearance or he did not have someone to care for him. His watch was old, a Breguet trench wristlet, the leather much less worn than the vintage would indicate. He smelled lightly of herbal soap and shampoo in the antiseptic environment of the interview room.

After introductions, where Lestrade smiled politely, his eyes flicked toward Mycroft multiple times, more than the others in the room, the woman to the left of Mycroft began to read from a sheet. "On the night of the 12th of April, you were called to an incident of a possible fight. Can you tell us more about it?"

"Right," Lestrade said, nodding as if accepting the premise of why he was called in. "Well - "

The interview was conducted with the list of prepared questions, Lestrade answering them adroitly enough, with a minimal amount of stumbles.

Mycroft suddenly asked, "What about your French, Mr. Lestrade?"

His fellow panelists said nothing, but one gave him a little side-long look.

Lestrade blinked. His attempt to bring the question into logical progression with the previous ones failing. He cleared his throat. "I can speak, some. I have some proficiency but I'm not fluent. It's been a while since French class."

"Can we test this?"

Lestrade, taken by surprise, gave a bob of his head.

They began to speak, sliding from English to a standard schoolboy French, and then, egged on by some of Lestrade's unconventional pronunciation and vocabulary, suddenly into a fluid burst of archaic tongue Mycroft himself had only heard a few times in person. It was enough for him to learn the gist of it, but he doubted that would have been enough for most other people

"Was it your graundmaèrr who spoke Gallo?"

Dark eyes widened, mouth momentarily slack in charming, nearly uncomprehending surprise until Mycroft's words arrived at Lestrade’s brain. He replied, "And my graundpaèrr and great graundmaèrr."

"Did you live with them?"

"They lived here, with us, my parents and I." Eyes alight with the pleasure of being able to speak and be recognized as a speaker of the language of his childhood, Lestrade asked, "I don't know anybody else who knows it. How did you know?"

"You told me," Mycroft said.

"What? How?"

"Some of your pronunciation and vocabulary is more inline with Old French than modern, and there are some similarities with isolated French-speaking enclaves in rural Quebec, many of whom came from west Brittany in the 17th century." Mycroft didn't talk about how current estimates leaned toward only a handful of elderly native speakers in remote hills and valleys to the west of Brittany, and a small group of potential terrorists who sought to strike at some of Europe's capitals, their movements carefully covered by the obscurity of their language.

"How did you know about my graundmaèrr?"

"Your watch. It's a wristlet from the Great War, French made, still with all its original parts, with a metal shrapnel guard still on the glass crystal. It looks nearly new, so it's been treasured but not worn."

Lestrade looked at it as if he were looking at it with new eyes. "It belonged to my arriere graundpaèrr, he bought it during the war, when he was in the trenches. My graundmaèrr gave it to me when my father passed away." Dark-lashed eyes looked up at Mycroft in wide-eyed wonder. "This is amazing. You are amazing."

It was as if they had been suspended in a bubble, away from the other interviewers, focused only on the other, on this moment of communication.

Even though he had never been the object of such warm and seemingly genuine astonishment, Mycroft resisted preening. He had a job to do.

"Tell me, Mr. Lestrade," Mycroft said, switching back over to English, "About your ability to speak patois yet only qualifying for an O-level in French."

Lestrade flushed. "Being able to speak something that isn't quite school French ain't exactly what the exams are grading for, begging your pardon, Mr. - "

"Holmes," Mycroft said. He disregarded the rest of the panel to the point where it became apparent who was, in fact, in charge. "That is precisely what we are looking for."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade said. "Mr. Holmes?"

"My department is looking for a few officers to take on a secondment for a couple of months. We're hoping you might be willing to join us, as your knowledge of Gallo would be tremendously helpful."

"It's the Gallo you want?"

"Yes."

Lestrade shook his head, silky brown hair flopping into his eyes. "I've always been told it wasn't proper French and I should give it up - "

"It appears it is time to prove those people wrong. Your ability could very well prove to be the thing we need for this case." Mycroft continued. "If you do agree, it would take you far in advancing your career and provide you with some valuable experience. What do you think?"

"Yes, sir." Lestrade began to smile, as if he couldn't help himself. "If you think I'll suit."

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't think so." Mycroft fought to keep from returning that most charming of smiles. Instead, he extended hand. Lestrade reached for it, his own wide, rough hands grabbing. "Welcome to the Department for Transport, Mr. Lestrade."

As Lestrade walked out, Mycroft tried to bury his other impressions. That Lestrade was simply, profoundly, unforgettable. With his unruly hair and a quick, charming smile that lit up his dark eyes was something Mycroft would simply have to ignore. He had just procured a valuable asset, he could not, would not, bring anything but professional behavior to this mission.

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

#mystrade monday #mystrade monday prompts #always running a little late

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chaoticgoodthief · 2 years ago

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28. Favourite side character

Writer game a la askque (I don't speak French)

Hmm... Andrew Lestrade, a OC who is typically already dead when the story begins. As cruel as I am to him, I do like the depth that he adds to Greg.

For living side characters, I say that Theodeer, a cruel OC that I made for my Zootopia fanfic is one of my favorites. I just love to hate him, and he makes such a perfect punching bag!

However, I am partial to Anthea from Sherlock. She just is really neat. Although I keep her on the sidelines, I feel like she never gets enough credit for managing two Holmes and still having time to look like she's absolutely bored out of her mind.

#answered #my writing #writing #oc character #side character love #my side characters

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aworldofgoldfish · 3 years ago

Text

While I’m deep into a bleak story, an idea of My fair Lady/King Ralph au came to my mind.

What if? Greg’s father was a French aristocrat whose wife had died before he met Greg’s Mom? They got married, they had Greg, who lived in riches for the first two-three years of his life, but his Mom got bad treatment by family members and took her son and returned to England leaving everything behind.

When an accident takes place and Greg’s older simbligs are killed, someone has to inherit the family fortune. Clue in Mycroft who gets infolved to teach Greg how to behave among the rich and well... rich. Also, French.

Bonus, Greg’s mother had taught him all about savoir vivre and French and he just pretends to not know anything to have fun with (at?) Mycroft and in end, regardless of knowing how to eat and dress and speak, he’s DI Greg Lestrade and he prefers it that way.

And Mycroft realised people are more than what they seem.

#ah romantic comedy #amidst the drama and angst I write #writing ideas #and that's not mentioning the finfolk idea... all ideas come together

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ayla-221bee · 5 years ago

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‘In the Most Delightful Way,’ a Mystrade Short fic/ Drabble -The Morning After.

It was a throb in his head and the feeling like death had warmed up that managed to drag Mycroft out of sleep.

Once he managed to open his eyes, Mycroft realised that the ceiling that he was looking was not his. As he tried to avoid looking at the window, the curtains were open and the sun was shining obnoxiously bright, Mycroft focused on the ceiling. There was a damp stain on the ceiling that was by the door and there was an equally large spider web that was on the left side of the room.

The bed was not his own, it was far too uncomfortable for his liking. The duvet and the sheets felt cheap and were not a patch on his own. The pillow that he rested his head on was flat and he could feel the outline of a bedspring digging into his lower back. He did not realise that there was someone in the bed with him until he felt a warm weight lying across his stomach, an arm that was holding him tightly.

Mycroft noticed a familiar wristwatch on the arm that was wrapped around his middle and he let out a groan.

He knew that the fourth glass of scotch was a mistake. The wine that accompanied the wonderful meal that was made for him did not help the situation.

He rarely enjoyed being in the presence of another person and he tended to prefer his own company the majority of the time. Gregory Lestrade was the exception when it came to interacting with another human. He was one of the few people that Mycroft willingly spent time with and he usually found himself keen to engage in conversation with him, it had taken Mycroft by surprise when the realisation hit him. He could even consider Greg to be a close friend if he had to place a label on their relationship with another.

That itself had surprised him greatly as he had little desire for friends. Mycroft did not even know if he was capable of having friends, he had given up on trying to make friends when he was twelve. He did briefly consider making friends again once he was in university but he found other students to be loud and obvious. He had tried his best to be friendly with the other students in his halls but he did not like the mess they left in the kitchen and they never invited him to the pub when they invited everyone, and they spent the next three years tormenting him.

He never did expect to be friends with Greg, their friendship crept upon him slowly. It was something that Mycroft cherished even if he was reluctant to admit it. Their conversations revolved around Sherlock at the start and he was the only matter that was discussed for several years apart from small talk in hospital cafes and as they smoked under the shelter of his umbrella when it rained. They started to meet up for a coffee before work several times a week and it was often the highlight of Mycroft's day (he was reluctant to admit that as well).

It soon progressed to meeting up after work for drinks or going out to eat. Greg even texted him and phoned when he was away on business or when he was bored at work. Mycroft had been surprised when he had first recieved a poorly spelt text message with a smiley face when he was at the office one afternoon. The first thing that he did was scold Greg for his poor grammar and spelling, and how smiley faces were not professional and that he should text properly. A message came back within moments, somehow the spelling was even more appalling and he recieved text messages that just consisted of stupid smiley faces and other hieroglyphs that Mycroft did not understand. He never did like texting and found it unprofessional but he tolerated texts from Greg.

The conversations about Sherlock and small talk about work ended shortly after the texting. He lost the formality and stopped calling him Gregory and somehow agreed to call him Greg. He learned how Greg had three half-sisters and two half brothers, that his parents split up when he was a child and quickly remarried. He learned that Greg liked to bake when he had free time and that he could make a deadly sourdough loaf that made Mycroft gain four pounds even just looking at it. That Greg could speak French fluently and he spent many months on holiday with his grandparents in the French countryside as his parents and thier new families did not have space for him when he bounced between households during the summer.

Greg slept in his spare bedroom in his flat once the divorce happened and he found himself somehow managing to comfort him until he got back on his feet.

Mycroft missed him terribly once he left, he had grown accustomed to the meals that Greg cooked, having conversations and company every day. He even found himself missing the football on the television, he never watched as he found the sport tedious but Mycroft enjoyed the company. He enjoyed listening to Greg talk about the rules of football and the merits of each player on the teams. He had even tried to get Greg to teach him the off-side rule several times as it was a topic that Greg got strangely passionate about.

It was difficult adapting to the silence of the flat once Greg had moved out and found himself a flat. He found himself not wanting Greg to leave but he could never say anything. He had been the idiot who hired a van to assist Greg with the move and he had bought him a potted plant for his new flat. Mycroft had never been one for regrets and he had never been one to dwell on the past. He had always found that any time wasted on regretting any actions was a waste of time, but he found himself regretting the things that he did not do and did not say. Once Greg left his flat with his last box, it had suddenly become more difficult to ignore his feelings for the other man that he had suppressed over the years.

He had wanted to say something so many times but he feared the rejection. He feared to lose the friendship more than anything and he did not want for it to be put through a shredder and ripped to threads. He had found himself becoming less comfortable with the prospect of being alone for the rest of his life and the isolation that would come with it, other people did not like him and he had a similar sentiment towards them.

The four glasses of scotch had been a massive mistake and Mycroft felt his friendship falling out of his hand like grains of sand.

Greg had invited him to his flat the evening before, it had been a long day at work and Greg had decided to make a lasanga for the two of them. Being the gentleman he was, he had asked if he should bring wine. Greg had refused, he mentioned that he had plenty of bottles in the back of the cupboard as gifts from when he moved into his flat. Mycroft decided that scotch would have to suffice and he had brought a nice bottle from his office, a single malt that had been aged for thirty years, a gift from the First Minister of Scotland during the business of the 2014 campaign.

He had wanted to impress Greg and he had made sure that he was dressed to the nines (he was the majority of the time). He liked to make more of an effort when he was out with Greg, he had the childish fantasy that one day, Greg would suddenly declare affections for him and things would progress. The first time that the idea had appeared in his head and lingered for several days, Mycroft stopped watching his classic film collection for several weeks, convinced that his exposure to the films had put the silly ideas in his head.

He knew that Greg would never be interested in him anyway. He knew that Greg liked men, it had come up in conversation one evening when they were watching Blackadder together not long after Greg's divorce. Mycroft stupidly allowed himself to get hopeful but he did not say anything, it was an inappropriate time to say anything, Greg had finally gotten out of his depressive slump and his grief over the end of his marriage and it would surely have ended in rejection anyway. Mycroft knew that he was not a Cary Grant and he had never attempted a relationship before.

He had never enjoyed being in positions where he had little expertise in, his perfectionism never allowed him to be in a situation where he might fail. Failing would mean that he would lose Greg and Mycroft could not allow himself to do that.

The perfectionism also told him that Greg would never be interested in someone like him, he was not thin enough and his nose was too hawk-like. There was always someone who would be so much better suited for Greg than he would even be. Greg had attempted to date several women since the divorce and he found himself disliking them immensely. There was hardly any appropriate words to describe how he felt when Greg was flirting with a very attractive man when they were out for drinks once. He was going to say something to Greg that evening but the words died in his mouth and he wanted nothing more than to go home once he caught Greg slip a napkin with a phone number into his trouser pocket.

He also feared that he would do something that would push Greg away, he had never been the best with people and he often found himself saying the wrong thing. That his heart was actually made of ice and Greg would get sick of him and his struggles with understanding and processing his emotions. Mycroft had made a considerable attempt to defrost himself and meltdown the ice in his chest from after years of torment from his classmates, the rejection from his mother and Sherlock, and the horrors that he had seen from his short career doing fieldwork and behind his desk. It was easier to function when his heart was frozen and he could detach himself emotionally from his work.

He had found himself wanting to change once he and Greg had become friends. It was a project that Greg took to enthusiastically and he had helped him defrost with ease. There was something about Greg that radiated warmth and kindness, he could give love freely and it never seemed to run out. Mycroft was almost positive that he had an endless supply of it in his heart. He found the quality absolutely nauseating in anyone else, but with Greg, it was endearing and it was Mycroft's favourite quality about him.

Greg stirs in his sleep and his arm wraps around Mycroft's waist tighter and his head pressed against his back. As much as he wanted to enjoy the feeling of being in Greg's bed and wrapped up in his arms, Mycroft could not enjoy the feeling. He had imagined it several times over the years and he had enjoyed being cuddled by Greg in the past. They had fallen asleep on the sofa together several times when watching the film together. Mycroft had felt safe and protected, it was honestly the best that he had slept for years after the first time that it happened. They never talked about it, it was a regular thing that happened.

Mycroft knew that the previous evening and the morning would be something that they would never talk about. He almost feels heartbroken at the idea, this would be the perfect way to talk about his feelings and he could confess about how he felt to Greg, but he knows that the words will never come out. There will be a stone that makes his way into his throat and he would not be able to even say the words. His nearly three hundred years of British emotional repression will prevent him from even confessing and encourage him to avoid the elephant in the room. He wouldn't even be able to talk about the wonderful lasange that Greg made, the film and the glasses of scotch followed shortly.

It will be impossible to not trip over the elephant's trunk if he talked about the film he watched with Greg. The memory is still fuzzy but he can remember looking at Greg after the two of them were laughing at a silly joke, the alcohol had reached his brain by then. He could remember clear as day, the two of them shared a certain look and they started kissing. Mycroft is not sure who initiated that first kiss, but he could remember straddling Greg's lap, removing his shirt and kissing him as if his life depended on it. He could remember Greg guiding him to the bedroom and opening up his trousers and his hand-

Mycroft cannot allow himself to remember much more. It will prolong the pain if he allowed himself to dwell in the memories of what happened last night. The conversation that will happen between them and the eventual rejection will cause him pain, Mycroft wished that he would be able to turn his insides into ice.

He did often wonder there were any signs, just a small bit of information that would confirm that Greg had similar feelings for him. Mycroft cannot allow himself to get caught up in the notion and he knew that this evening had been a mistake. A stupid mistake that happened after four glasses of scotch and they would never talk about it.

Greg would never feel the same, Mycroft knew that he had to accept that truth no matter how bitter it was. There would be someone so much better for Greg than he would ever be. It was better to deal with that fact than lose a perfectly wonderful friendship. He could deal with the elephant that suddenly moved into Greg's flat, he would try his best to ignore it and avoid tripping over his trunk.

At the end of the day, it does not matter how he feels. It has never mattered, his feelings come second in his own life. The only important thing is that Greg finds someone suitable and he is happy, that they treat him so much better than his ex-wife ever did. Mycroft was just foolish enough to allow himself to get swept up in the notion that he might be the one to do that for Greg. He decided to get rid of his films and lock them, he could not allow himself to get the silly ideas in his head.

Mycroft tried to slip out of bed unnoticed and he tried to assemble his suit from the pieces of clothing that were pooled around the floor. His tie was knotted to the headboard and there was an interesting mark on his wrist that was not their before. His shirt is painfully creased and is tangled up in the duvet and he cannot find the underwear that he wore the day before. He tried to hide his sigh and made a vow to never drink scotch again.

"What are you doing?" Greg's voice stopped Mycroft in his search for his belt.

It was six in the morning and it was almost ridiculous how beautiful he looked. He was spread out on the bed, the duvet covering him like a white cape, the top of his head was only visible, the hair ruffled beyond repair as if fingers had been running through and tugging it. Greg cracked an eyelid open and Mycroft could catch a glimpse of that charming grin.

As much as he wanted to crawl back into Greg's bed, Mycroft cannot allow himself to do so. "I was called into the office," Mycroft murmured as he picked up a pile of clothes and he tried to find his bed. "I've outstayed my welcome."

Greg sat up in the bed and scrubbed a tired hand over his face. He dared to smile despite the situation, perhaps he had not processed it properly or he had just did not consider it to be a massive deal, that he could not see the elephant at this time in the morning. "I think that you are trying to sneak out on me," he said. "We need to talk about-"

Mycroft cut him off quickly and cleared his throat. "It was a mistake. We had too much scotch and it was...a mistake," Mycroft faltered.

The belt was located by the top of Greg's chest of drawers and Mycroft had little idea how it got there. He was a bit too focused on Greg unzipping his trousers at that point and Greg sinking to his knees to even remember. "I can get out of your hair and allow you to nurse your hangover," Mycroft said with a tone of finality. "I am so sorry for what happened. I know that I'm- this was a mistake for you."

"I don't think that this was a mistake," Greg murmured sitting up in bed, gesturing with his hand. "Do you think that it was a mistake?"

"I'm not what you want," Mycroft said, the words are more for himself than for Greg. "Gregory, I cannot lose you...I value this friendship too much just to lose it over a drunken mistake...I need to go to the office."

Greg frowned and there was a hurt look on his face that Mycroft had only seen right after his divorce. "There is a shirt in the wardrobe that might fit you, God forbid that you go out in a creased shirt," Greg attempted to joke, his voice painfully tight. "There is some boxers and socks in the drawer as well. I'll go and make you some tea."

Greg stood up wrapped himself up in his dressing-gown before he pulled out a shirt from the back of the wardrobe. A pair of grey boxers follow and a pair of socks with goldfish on them make their way into Mycroft's hands. "They were a gift from my niece," Greg grumbled in response to Mycroft's raised eyebrow.

He showed Mycroft how the shower worked before he started to make tea. It was difficult to wash off the night before, the smell lingers as Mycroft massaged shower gel into his skin and scrubbed the shampoo in his hair. It felt almost like torture to have the scent of Greg on him all day and be reminded of the terrible mistake, and to have the knowledge that their friendship must be broken upon repair because he decided to bring that bottle of scotch over to Greg's flat for dinner.

Greg's shirt does not fit him properly. Greg was slightly broader than he was and he never did go to a tailor for his clothes and it is one from M&S, the shirt hung off him slightly and the sleeves were slightly too short for Mycroft's liking. He had can hide the inadequacies of the shirt with his waistcoat and some careful tucking. The goldfish that are on his borrowed socks are easily hidden by his trousers and his shoes. The scent of Greg's shampoo and body wash was almost overpowering and it seemed to channel memories of the evening before as well as a wave of regret.

"Hey," Greg murmured once he had left the bedroom. "I just made you some toast before you go."

Mycroft nodded in greeting and allowed himself to sit at the table. He could see the glasses and the empty scotch bottle on the kitchen counter and he tried to ignore the feeling his chest, a pang of guilt for what happened that evening and for upsetting Greg. There is a sense of longing in there, he did miss the domesticity that Greg brought to his flat and how they would have breakfast together most mornings. Mycroft missed those days horribly when Greg moved out, things were simpler back then.

He did not allow himself to make silly mistakes and he had been able to suppress his feelings with ease. He never thought that scotch would be the thing that ruined their friendship.

The toast was a ploy to keep him in the flat. He would have thought that Greg would have used it to talk about what happened, instead, Greg happily chattered about his day off and his plans with his niece. There was still hurt in his eyes and his smile was tighter than usual, it was impossible to ignore. He wondered if Greg had realised that this was a mistake and that their friendship was more important.

The toast felt incredibly dry and like cardboard when Mycroft started to wonder if Greg valued their friendship as much as he did. He could not allow himself to question it, a strange feeling crashed into him and it caused his chest to ache horribly when he thought about Greg ending the friendship. Mycroft felt his eyes sting slightly, he was not sure if it was from the bright kitchen light upsetting his headache.

"This was not a mistake for me," Greg told him once he had slipped his coat on. "We do need to talk about this...I'll give you some time to think, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded and he felt Greg's lips on his. It was a chaste kiss, it only lasted a second but it was somewhat reassuring and gave him a feeling of hope.

Mycroft scolded himself for being so childish and allowing himself to get swept away by it. "I have little experience in dealing with situations like this," Mycroft said honestly. "I'm sorry if this has ruined everything. It was my mistake."

"I kissed you first last night," Greg's voice was barely a whisper. "I'll phone you tonight, okay? We can talk about this once you've had time to think."

Mycroft nodded and he tried his best to smile. He slipped his gloves on and hesitated by the door, the words wanted to come out of his mouth so badly but they never did. The crumbs of toast clung to the back of his throat and prevented him from speaking. "I hope that we can still remain friends, your friendship...It's something I hold dearly, Gregory." The words eventually managed to come out after several attempts, his voice was tight as if h had swallowed a stone.

"We are always going to be mates, " Greg said with an attempt of a smile. He looked right into his eyes and clapped him on the shoulder, a half-hearted gesture, it was obvious that he was holding back. They usually tended to hug these days, the clap on the shoulder was saved for work colleagues and acquaintances at the pub. It had been over a year since he had received a clap the shoulder. "I shouldn't keep you waiting, there's probably a world crisis you need to deal with, Myc."

Mycroft nodded and eventually forced himself to leave the flat, the task was a lot more difficult than expected. The door of the flat closed with a loud thud, the silence that surrounded Mycroft felt deafening.

#mystrade fanfic #Mystrade #Mycroft Holmes #mycroft and lestrade #mycroft #mycroft and greg #Mycroft x Lestrade #greg lestrade #gregory lestrade #sherlock BBC #sherlock fic #wip #my fic

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