#slough house books

[lovetgr76]

Posting for the brief mention of updates on BOOK 9!!! 🫶🙌❤️

[cecepe]

I've binged all three seasons and have started listening to the books in the space of 4 days, so I think I have this affliction.

me every day constantly

[the-greenfox]

Who else is sad we didn't get frank throwing river in the thames?? My one big gripe with season 4 and it's that this big wet cat of a man didn't get drenched :(

[set-phasers-to-whump]

(spoilers for spook street) I cannot believe they didn’t fucking throw him in the river!!!! waited all season for one of my favorite moments and for nought 😭😭😭

[shirleydanders]

happy last week without new river/spider content!

[masterpieceofunderstatement]

"You're an ornament to the hub, Diana. I honestly think the Service would grind to a halt without your input. If it weren't so early, I'd suggest we raise a glass to you. As it is, we really have to press on now and deal with the rest of these matters." Diana said, "So there's no chance of relief, then?" Dame Ingrid was one hundred per cent concern. "Relief? My dear, you're not feeling stressed, are you? If you're feeling stressed, then obviously we'll have to do something about it." - Real Tigers, Chapter 5

Signs point to homoerotic tension, folks. 10/10, could be from a fic, and I wouldn’t second-guess it.

[everyonesagurunow]

Even though the adaptation is great and I think 99% of the casting is on point, I really really recommend people who enjoy Slow Horses to read the books. They're funny and depressing and you can't put them down until you're done.

[jedinightsister]

Slow Horses Book 5-6 spoilers that i need to let out. Read at your own risk.

I really really REALLY hope we get the quality Louisa and Emma interactions next season. I do like all the dynamics of the popular ships of the show fandom, but I can't necessarily say I ship them in the same way most people do.

If I would have a ship from it, in terms of the books at least, it was these two!

Are they canon the books? Nope.

Do they have a happy ending? NOPE.

But they're canon to ME and feed my angst loving self and I just wanna be able to share the same feelings and enthusiasm with the rest of the fandom hopefully hehe :")

[snowfallnight]

Ok I've started on book 6 now, Joe Country and whew it's a rough one for the Slow Horses lol (not the writing of course, still beautiful). Things are NOT going well, and the bar was already low. Catherine is breaking my heart as usual, though I'm enjoying finally getting some of her perspective on what happened to Partner (book 4 was my fav, but the one thing I felt was missing was exactly that- Catherine processing what Lamb had told her at the end of book 3). Also loving Lady Di Taverner even more than usual, she just keeps upping her bitch game and you love to see it.

[263adder]

Mick Herron - why do you keep making me fall in love with characters and then kill them off 2 books later 😭 Min was bad enough okay

[cakebatteronabrickwall]

Lech Wicinski, depressed out of his mind, making focaccia. That's all.

[lovetgr76]

[feedergoldfish]

"Okay", Lamb had said, "Let's bring him in." "On whose authority?", Louisa asked. "I wasn't suggesting you stuff him in the back of a van", Lamb said. "Just ask him nicely." "And if he refuses?" "Stuff him in the back of a van", said Lamb. "We haven't got a van", Shirley pointed out. Lamb looked at Marcus. "What? It's not a van."

---------

Spook Street by Mick Herron.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

reflection

prompt: "just a little more"

whumpee: lech wicinski

fandom: slough house

hiii everyone this is a missing scene from joe country ft. my beloved lech. it's basically an exploration of what happens in the bathroom and after, and bc of that it's pretty graphic self-harm adjacent kinda stuff and also includes brief suicidal ideation. please be mindful of that, but otherwise i hope you enjoy :)

Lech stares at his reflection in the pitted and green surface of the mirror. Stares at the letters carved into his cheeks, as though they’ll have changed somehow since he last got a glimpse of them. 

They burn, each letter individually, the painkillers Catherine had given him earlier having all but worn off already. It fucking hurts. 

And there’s nothing for it but to make the pain worse. 

Lamb’s razor in hand, he tries and fails to take a deep, steadying breath. It’s like shaving, he tells himself. 

Except it’s really fucking not. 

The blade is incredibly sharp, cutting into his flesh easily and with no resistance. The pain isn’t immediate, but lags behind the action by a few seconds. Then it begins, burning and hot, as fresh blood trickles down his face. 

He doesn’t want to do it again. It hurts. 

But there is nothing in the way of an alternative. 

He keeps going, cutting over the letters that already stand out against his skin. His face quickly becomes a mask of blood, his hands and the handle of the blade grow slick with it, it stains the sink and drips onto the floor. 

He moves mechanically, not paying attention to the pain. Just a little more, he tells himself, every few seconds, every few cuts. Just a little more, and the word will be obliterated. 

Except it’s still fucking there. He keeps hoping that with the next slice of blade across skin, the word will disappear, buried forever beneath tens of other marks. But he keeps catching sight of those letters. 

It takes an eternity. By the time he’s really sure that all traces of the original lettering on his face have been destroyed, he can barely even see the cuts for the blood. 

He drops the blade into the sink and the noise is deafening. 

Lech braces trembling hands against the porcelain, rests his forehead—the only part of his face not coated in warm blood—against the mirror, and cries. 

The tears burn their way down his face, making the pain, already nearly unbearable now that he has stopped doing anything, unspeakably worse. For a fraction of a second he thinks again about picking up the razor and ending it all, right then and there, but he doesn’t so much as move. 

He’s done this. He won’t let it be for nothing. 

He pushes back from the mirror. The sight of his face is shocking. He barely recognizes this man as himself. Bitterly wonders what Sara would say, if she saw him now. Imagines comfort, an apology, it’s going to be okay. Then thinks of her voice, bitter and vindictive, it’s what you deserve. 

He washes his hands. They’re still shaking. 

Washing his face is harder. He doesn’t entirely trust the towel hanging on the wall, and so he sort of sticks his head under the faucet, cups water into his hands, prays that the plumbing is reasonably looked-after, and carefully washes away the blood. 

Which fucking hurts, just like everything else. The water runs red for ages, and Lech vaguely wonders whether it’s possible to bleed out through one’s face. But finally, the bleeding slows and seems to stop. 

He straightens back up. The face in the mirror is relatively clean, littered with angry red cuts. He can’t decide whether it looks more or less like his own than it had before. 

Lech looks away from his reflection. Rummages in the cabinet beneath the sink and finds a reasonably well-maintained first-aid kit (thanks, once again, he’s sure, to Catherine). He locates a tube of antibiotic ointment and more large plasters, as well as a small packet of painkillers. 

He swallows the pills, then washes his hands once more before applying the ointment. It stings and burns and he blinks away tears, tips his head back to give them nowhere to go. 

He affixes the plasters to either side of his face, then levels his gaze with the mirror. 

The man looking back at him is pale and miserable. His eyes are rimmed with red and filled with a mixture of exhaustion and pain. His skin is the wrong shade, as if he’s ill. There are unidentified bits of rubbish in his hair and on his clothes. But the cuts have disappeared beneath the bandages, and Lech recognizes himself, a bit. 

He rinses off the razor, snaps it shut, and then makes his way to Lamb’s office. 

He drops the razor onto the desk, and Lamb looks up at him and nods, the barest acknowledgement of the damage he must know Lech has inflicted upon himself. 

Lech turns to leave, though there’s really nowhere for him to go, but is stopped by the sound of a door opening behind him. 

“Lech?”

Catherine’s voice is gentle, and he thinks of earlier. Of when she’d sat over him, cleaning blood off his face. Of her insistence that he get the cuts seen to, of her concern for his ability to live like that. Of the silent handing over of painkillers, loose in her hand, the maximum safe dosage. 

He turns around, slightly. 

“Have you thought about going to the hospital any more?”

He shakes his head. He probably could go, now, and no one would know what word had been spelled out across his skin a few hours ago. But the nagging fear remains, that someone, somehow, will be able to tell. Plus, he lacks the energy. He thinks he might lie down right here on the floor of Lamb’s office, if he wasn’t reasonably certain that Lamb would kick him, again. 

Catherine frowns. “Come in here?” she asks, gesturing to her own office. 

Lech follows, for lack of anything better to do. Catherine pulls the door shut behind him, then gestures to a chair. 

He sits, and she sits down behind the desk. He can feel her eyes on him and does his best not to return her gaze. 

“What did you do?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “What I had to.”

He chances a look at her face, and knows she knows what he’s done. 

Her expression is concerned and perhaps a bit pitying, but not disgusted. 

“Do you have anywhere you can go?” she asks. “You must be wanting a shower and some sleep.”

He wants nothing more. But—

He shakes his head. There’s nowhere. 

Catherine nods, as if she’d been expecting this. Businesslike, she stands up, gathers her things. 

“Come on, then,” she offers. “I’ll take you to a hotel.”

Her voice is soft and kind but there’s a note of authority behind this that makes Lech think that he had better not say no. Besides, if he refuses, he’ll be sleeping at Slough House once again. The thought of this is enough to make him want to weep. 

They end up at a mid-range hotel not altogether far from Aldersgate Street. Lech stands behind Catherine, eyes fixed on the floor, while she negotiates with the man behind the desk. He can feel people staring at him. He supposes, like Lamb had told him, that he’s going to have to get used to it. 

A few moments later, he’s in a small room on the third floor, and Catherine is standing in the doorway. 

“I’ll see whether I can’t fetch some of your clothes and things,” she offers. “And I’ll come round after work.”

He’s too exhausted to protest this kindness, to question how she plans on getting his things when she doesn’t even know where he lives. He just nods. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, as she turns to leave. 

She says nothing, just gives him a kind of sad smile, and then shuts the door. 

Alone, Lech strips off his filthy clothes, turns the shower as hot as he can stand it and then a little more, and stays beneath the water until it runs cold. 

After, he has to replace the plasters—Catherine had given him a whole stack. He avoids looking in the mirror as he does so, only meeting his own eyes when the cuts have been once again hidden away. 

Lacking any clean clothes, he wraps himself in the complimentary robe, then staggers towards the desk, where a phone and small menu sit, waiting. 

The hunger has intensified, combined with the alcohol and painkillers, and twisted itself into nausea. He orders room service without letting himself think about how much it costs. While he waits, he forces himself not to so much as sit down, out of fear that he’ll immediately fall asleep. 

When the food comes, he eats it so quickly he barely tastes it at all. It’s not quite enough to fully get rid of the hunger, but it helps. 

After, at long last, Lech collapses into a real bed, and immediately falls asleep.

thanks for reading! i've been wanting to write this for a hot minute and was looking at today's prompts like 'wait a minute i can make this work' lol. i had a good time with it, hope you enjoyed!

[baited-beth]

Latest geography in fiction annoyance.

It is not a half hour walk from Regent’s Park to Barbican. I am a fast walker and I couldn’t do it that fast. Also, if someone is head of MI5 she would be too busy to walk from Fleet Street to Regents Park, even if it was only half an hour’s walk (which it isn’t)