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holmesticeTitle: Frogs and Lobsters
Recipient:graycardinal
Author:colebaltblue
Verse: Enter the Lion
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, the First and Second Lords Hornblower
Rating: All Audiences
Warnings: none
Summary: "Interspersed among the regimental colours and drums were pictorial representations, executed with exacting detail, of fighting ships from those of the galleons of Frobisher and Ralegh, fighting ships which included Drake’s The Golden Hind and the more recent four-deckers of Nelson and Hornblower." — Enter the Lion: A Posthumous Memoir of Mycroft Holmes
What is fanfic if not taking one throwaway line in one pastiche and writing a whole little story around it?
Mycroft Holmes no longer remembered the reason he was at the large house in Smallbridge. He was a boy, but he didn't remember other young boys being there. Perhaps it was a connection of his father's, although that seemed unlikely, or a tutor, which was more likely, or even no real reason at all.
The house was light and airy, he remembered that. He also remembered wandering, although he was old enough to know better, and finding his way into what could only have been a study. There were books and papers strewn about, a beautiful model of a small ship displayed proudly on the desk, and a much finer model of a much finer ship sitting on a bookshelf covered in dust.
The large window that overlooked the garden was raised high enough for someone to have stepped out of it and there was a cup of tea cooling at the desk. At the time, the importance of those items had not registered with Mycroft, so he had found himself surprised at the scrape of a boot and then a soft thunk as an old man stepped through the open window with much more strength and vigor than it appeared he was capable of possessing. Mycroft froze. So did the man.
"Well hello," the man said. "Are we lost?"
Mycroft opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it, swallowed, and then tried again. "Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to."
The man smiled, gently. Then nodded. He didn't ask Mycroft to leave or ring for a servant or anything.
Mycroft glanced around, desperately assessing how much trouble he was in.
The man ignored him standing there and went back to his desk and sat down, shuffling some papers.
"They don't have much for me to do, these days," he said, conversationally, "but I find myself still here every day, more out of habit than anything else."
Mycroft stared.
"Would you like a biscuit?" the man continued in the same easy tone, as if he found strange boys in his study all the time. "I have two, here, but I only need one."
Mycroft approached the desk slowly. A biscuit did sound lovely. He stopped in front of it and the man reached forward, holding the biscuit between two fingers. Mycroft took it and mumbled, "Thank you, sir."
He eyed eyed the ship on the desk. It was yellow and black. Small, only a few gun ports. The varnish was meticulously applied, the ropes woven perfectly and strung not too tight and not too loose. It looked sturdy and whole. Like a real ship, just shrunk down into something he could hold with two hands. He'd bet it would actually sail if you could find men small enough to sail it.
"Hotspur," the man said.
Mycroft startled. He had almost forgotten he was there. "Just a little sloop and lost before the end of the war, but a good little ship."
The man paused with a faint but fond smile on his face.
"You know," he continued, and Mycroft knew that although he was going to tell him a story, that somehow this story would be important. "I was her captain and our duty was to simply go up and down the French coast watching. We'd count the batteries on shore, the ships leaving the harbor, and watch the semaphore whirling and spinning its messages back to Paris. All critical information, young man, do not doubt that, but do you want to know where the best information about what Napoleon was up to came from?"
Mycroft's eyes widened. Napoleon. He had learned about him and the wars and Nelson from his tutor. Perhaps this man had known Nelson. Mycroft nodded slowly, he did want to know.
"French fishermen." The man said gravely and with much importance. Mycroft cocked his head. Fishermen. Fishermen were, well, they were fishermen. They'd know about fish. And perhaps the kinds of boats you sailed to catch the fish. And how to catch the fish. And about nets and currents and the likes. But what would fishermen know of armies and navies and emperors.
The man's eyes twinkled as if he knew exactly what Mycroft was thinking.
"Oh yes, I'd buy a lobster with French coin given to me by our very own Admiralty, and I'd ask them about what they saw and heard. No one expects fishermen to understand about anything other than being fishermen. But I learned a great many things from those fishermen that had nothing to do with fish and everything to do with frogs."
Mycroft startled at the joke. He didn't know old men could joke with young boys like him. If that was even allowed. He let a small smile creep across his lips. Then man grinned at him in response.
"You'd best be getting back to wherever it is you're supposed to be before someone decides you're bothering me and causes a scene." The old man winked and smiled again, to show that he was only teasing. Mycroft took one last look at the Hotspur and nodded. A little unassuming ship and a smart captain who knew to ask fishermen. He'd remember that because he knew that someday, knowing that story would be important. He looked back at the old man, but the man was looking at the model ship and not at Mycroft, a soft faraway look in his eyes. Mycroft turned and left the study. He's not sure where he went back to, but everything must have been fine in the end because he didn't remember anything else from the house.
Years later, he thought of the story as he stepped into a small and unassuming office in White Hall to make his report. Lord Richard Hornblower was the son of an admiral and the godson of the Duke of Wellington and was one of the most intelligent men Mycroft had ever met. Although he could've been a general or an admiral with no effort at all, instead, he had used his skill, connections, and mind to build himself one of the finest webs of spies and information that Mycroft had ever seen.
He settled his bulk into the chair at the man's invitation and looked around the office. He was startled to see a new addition to the desk, a small model ship, yellow and black with perfect rigging. There was a painting of Admiral Lord Hornblower's flagship, the same one that had been a dusty and ignored model on the bookshelf in the study at Smallbridge. But this little model here held a place of honor in Lord Richard Hornblower's office at Whitehall, much like it had in the light and air study in the large house in Kent.
Lord Hornblower followed his eyes.
"My father had it on his desk when I was a boy," he said by way of explanation.
Mycroft smiled. "Hotspur," he said, in response.
Lord Hornblower startled and looked at Mycroft with narrow eyes.
"I would not expect you to know the name of a small and unimportant sloop, Mycroft."
"She may have been small, but according to your father, she was hardly unimportant."
Lord Hornblower set his pen down carefully and sat back, considering Mycroft.
"You knew my father." Lord Hornblower said carefully in a way that informed Mycroft he was in dangerous waters. Lord Richard Hornblower knew that Mycroft did not know the Admiral Lord Hornblower, but he was a smart enough man to hear the whole story first — he wouldn't have the position in government he had if he didn't. Mycroft was a smart enough man to know now was the time to tell it.
"I didn't, no sir. But I did speak to him one afternoon after wandering into his study at Smallbridge. He was very kind to a small boy who knew better than to be where he was not supposed to be."
"My father was a kind man, although not many people had the pleasure of knowing that."
"But I accepted a biscuit from him and he told me that he once was on a mission to watch French navy movements. He said to me, and I remember this even to this day, that the most important information was what he gathered from the French fishermen who sold him lobster."
"Indeed. And why is that, Mycroft Holmes." Lord Hornblower's voice was low and dangerous.
"Because no one expects fishermen to understand about anything other than being fishermen."
"No, they don't."
Lord Hornblower stared at Mycroft for just a beat longer, then leaned forward and shuffled the papers on his desk. He pulled a sheet out from under a pile that he had not touched yet. He read it over, then handed it to Mycroft.
"I have a small problem I need handled," Lord Hornblower said, nodding down at the paper.
Mycroft looked over it.
"You may rely on me, sir," he said, without hesitation.
Recipient:
graycardinalAuthor:
colebaltblueVerse: Enter the Lion
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, the First and Second Lords Hornblower
Rating: All Audiences
Warnings: none
Summary: "Interspersed among the regimental colours and drums were pictorial representations, executed with exacting detail, of fighting ships from those of the galleons of Frobisher and Ralegh, fighting ships which included Drake’s The Golden Hind and the more recent four-deckers of Nelson and Hornblower." — Enter the Lion: A Posthumous Memoir of Mycroft Holmes
What is fanfic if not taking one throwaway line in one pastiche and writing a whole little story around it?
Mycroft Holmes no longer remembered the reason he was at the large house in Smallbridge. He was a boy, but he didn't remember other young boys being there. Perhaps it was a connection of his father's, although that seemed unlikely, or a tutor, which was more likely, or even no real reason at all.
The house was light and airy, he remembered that. He also remembered wandering, although he was old enough to know better, and finding his way into what could only have been a study. There were books and papers strewn about, a beautiful model of a small ship displayed proudly on the desk, and a much finer model of a much finer ship sitting on a bookshelf covered in dust.
The large window that overlooked the garden was raised high enough for someone to have stepped out of it and there was a cup of tea cooling at the desk. At the time, the importance of those items had not registered with Mycroft, so he had found himself surprised at the scrape of a boot and then a soft thunk as an old man stepped through the open window with much more strength and vigor than it appeared he was capable of possessing. Mycroft froze. So did the man.
"Well hello," the man said. "Are we lost?"
Mycroft opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it, swallowed, and then tried again. "Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to."
The man smiled, gently. Then nodded. He didn't ask Mycroft to leave or ring for a servant or anything.
Mycroft glanced around, desperately assessing how much trouble he was in.
The man ignored him standing there and went back to his desk and sat down, shuffling some papers.
"They don't have much for me to do, these days," he said, conversationally, "but I find myself still here every day, more out of habit than anything else."
Mycroft stared.
"Would you like a biscuit?" the man continued in the same easy tone, as if he found strange boys in his study all the time. "I have two, here, but I only need one."
Mycroft approached the desk slowly. A biscuit did sound lovely. He stopped in front of it and the man reached forward, holding the biscuit between two fingers. Mycroft took it and mumbled, "Thank you, sir."
He eyed eyed the ship on the desk. It was yellow and black. Small, only a few gun ports. The varnish was meticulously applied, the ropes woven perfectly and strung not too tight and not too loose. It looked sturdy and whole. Like a real ship, just shrunk down into something he could hold with two hands. He'd bet it would actually sail if you could find men small enough to sail it.
"Hotspur," the man said.
Mycroft startled. He had almost forgotten he was there. "Just a little sloop and lost before the end of the war, but a good little ship."
The man paused with a faint but fond smile on his face.
"You know," he continued, and Mycroft knew that although he was going to tell him a story, that somehow this story would be important. "I was her captain and our duty was to simply go up and down the French coast watching. We'd count the batteries on shore, the ships leaving the harbor, and watch the semaphore whirling and spinning its messages back to Paris. All critical information, young man, do not doubt that, but do you want to know where the best information about what Napoleon was up to came from?"
Mycroft's eyes widened. Napoleon. He had learned about him and the wars and Nelson from his tutor. Perhaps this man had known Nelson. Mycroft nodded slowly, he did want to know.
"French fishermen." The man said gravely and with much importance. Mycroft cocked his head. Fishermen. Fishermen were, well, they were fishermen. They'd know about fish. And perhaps the kinds of boats you sailed to catch the fish. And how to catch the fish. And about nets and currents and the likes. But what would fishermen know of armies and navies and emperors.
The man's eyes twinkled as if he knew exactly what Mycroft was thinking.
"Oh yes, I'd buy a lobster with French coin given to me by our very own Admiralty, and I'd ask them about what they saw and heard. No one expects fishermen to understand about anything other than being fishermen. But I learned a great many things from those fishermen that had nothing to do with fish and everything to do with frogs."
Mycroft startled at the joke. He didn't know old men could joke with young boys like him. If that was even allowed. He let a small smile creep across his lips. Then man grinned at him in response.
"You'd best be getting back to wherever it is you're supposed to be before someone decides you're bothering me and causes a scene." The old man winked and smiled again, to show that he was only teasing. Mycroft took one last look at the Hotspur and nodded. A little unassuming ship and a smart captain who knew to ask fishermen. He'd remember that because he knew that someday, knowing that story would be important. He looked back at the old man, but the man was looking at the model ship and not at Mycroft, a soft faraway look in his eyes. Mycroft turned and left the study. He's not sure where he went back to, but everything must have been fine in the end because he didn't remember anything else from the house.
Years later, he thought of the story as he stepped into a small and unassuming office in White Hall to make his report. Lord Richard Hornblower was the son of an admiral and the godson of the Duke of Wellington and was one of the most intelligent men Mycroft had ever met. Although he could've been a general or an admiral with no effort at all, instead, he had used his skill, connections, and mind to build himself one of the finest webs of spies and information that Mycroft had ever seen.
He settled his bulk into the chair at the man's invitation and looked around the office. He was startled to see a new addition to the desk, a small model ship, yellow and black with perfect rigging. There was a painting of Admiral Lord Hornblower's flagship, the same one that had been a dusty and ignored model on the bookshelf in the study at Smallbridge. But this little model here held a place of honor in Lord Richard Hornblower's office at Whitehall, much like it had in the light and air study in the large house in Kent.
Lord Hornblower followed his eyes.
"My father had it on his desk when I was a boy," he said by way of explanation.
Mycroft smiled. "Hotspur," he said, in response.
Lord Hornblower startled and looked at Mycroft with narrow eyes.
"I would not expect you to know the name of a small and unimportant sloop, Mycroft."
"She may have been small, but according to your father, she was hardly unimportant."
Lord Hornblower set his pen down carefully and sat back, considering Mycroft.
"You knew my father." Lord Hornblower said carefully in a way that informed Mycroft he was in dangerous waters. Lord Richard Hornblower knew that Mycroft did not know the Admiral Lord Hornblower, but he was a smart enough man to hear the whole story first — he wouldn't have the position in government he had if he didn't. Mycroft was a smart enough man to know now was the time to tell it.
"I didn't, no sir. But I did speak to him one afternoon after wandering into his study at Smallbridge. He was very kind to a small boy who knew better than to be where he was not supposed to be."
"My father was a kind man, although not many people had the pleasure of knowing that."
"But I accepted a biscuit from him and he told me that he once was on a mission to watch French navy movements. He said to me, and I remember this even to this day, that the most important information was what he gathered from the French fishermen who sold him lobster."
"Indeed. And why is that, Mycroft Holmes." Lord Hornblower's voice was low and dangerous.
"Because no one expects fishermen to understand about anything other than being fishermen."
"No, they don't."
Lord Hornblower stared at Mycroft for just a beat longer, then leaned forward and shuffled the papers on his desk. He pulled a sheet out from under a pile that he had not touched yet. He read it over, then handed it to Mycroft.
"I have a small problem I need handled," Lord Hornblower said, nodding down at the paper.
Mycroft looked over it.
"You may rely on me, sir," he said, without hesitation.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-16 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-31 07:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-16 04:16 pm (UTC)It doesn't take much guessing to discern the source of this lovely little vignette (now where do you suppose we might find a Hornblower fan among our little band of Holmesians, hmm?). But it's nice to know that between bouts of amusingly accusatory speculation in the guessing post,
[Note to self: signup for next round may take more editing than usual, due to people actually writing stories for several of the longer-standing obscure sub-canons!]
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Date: 2019-06-23 06:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-24 04:54 am (UTC)[This includes the stipulation that you are a superior hornswoggler.]
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Date: 2019-07-31 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-17 03:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-31 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-17 01:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-31 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-18 10:39 pm (UTC)Lord Hornblower stared at Mycroft for just a beat longer, then leaned forward and shuffled the papers on his desk. He pulled a sheet out from under a pile that he had not touched yet. He read it over, then handed it to Mycroft.
"I have a small problem I need handled," Lord Hornblower said, nodding down at the paper.
Mycroft looked over it.
"You may rely on me, sir," he said, without hesitation.
LOVE that bit. Perfectly Mycroftian!
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Date: 2019-07-31 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-20 11:57 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2019-06-22 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-07-31 08:03 pm (UTC)