Gigantic AN - I have seen the film once (to date) and came out thinking "I wish Mark Gatiss could do the stuff Colin Firth does in that." Or that Steven Moffat had that budget to do Sherlock.
Then I thought "Oh! He doesn't have to, because Mycroft knows Harry!" Of course he does, Mycroft knows everyone. Especially if they went to public school or an elite UK university.
And he has an umbrella that has been speculated about since it was first glimpsed being used as an evil prop. And it does look suspiciously like a Kingsman umbrella. But even Mycroft in his thinned-down Gatiss form isn't physically up to being a Kingsman, and never has been. (And he would have failed the dog test too.) So where does the umbrella come from? Watch all those 'ships launching, is it not a thing of beauty?
Anyway. This should have been epic, because these fandoms belong together. Unfortunately, I am not up to writing epic. So, instead here is the start of how John became Arthur temporarily while Harry was "dead", handled Eggsy and met Mary from the American branch (and was of course later horribly betrayed) and how Merlin secretly handled Sherlock (while he was "dead") as he took down Moriarty's network, without actually telling that story at all.
This is the story of a man cheating on his tailor.
Merlin's name is Rupert because I think that is the closest character in the original comic and I couldn't find anything telling me his "real" name.
There is some swearing and implied 'ships everywhere, because men in suits are sexy and they know it, but if you squick at that then (seriously?!) what are you doing in either fandom? Also, men in jumpers need to be appreciated more.
Mycroft was tired and his head was splitting with the pounding of the blood in his temples. He would have liked nothing better than to go home and drink himself into a nice, quiet, oblivious stupor. He had felt more or less like this since the almighty cluster fuck that was V-Day, and it had only gotten worse since his little brother had jumped off a building. Some days were better than others. He was hoping this was going to continue being a relatively good day. He had one more stop to make before he could go home and he was almost at the point of praying that he had finally found the solution to several very tricky problems.
You couldn't have told any of that from looking at him though. He looked calm and as put together as ever thanks to the concealer under his eyes, and you would have had to be a professional to notice that his bespoke suit did not sit as it should. But his last stop was with someone who at least pretended to be a tailor, so he was sure that sign of his unhealthy lifestyle was going to be noticed shortly.
His car arrived on Saville Row, but not outside his usual tailor. He was going to have to spend a lot of money soothing that man's professional pride if word got out that he had been seen frequenting a rival, but Mycroft was not here about a suit today. Mycroft's usual tailor just did not have the particular set of skills that Mycroft required, or the set of circumstances that would allow Mycroft to bargain for the help he needed.
His chauffeur opened his door outside Kingsman Tailors. He got out, careful to conceal his weariness, and straightened his suit. He hung his umbrella over his arm and took a firm grip on his briefcase. He took the stairs to the shop at a speed that was not hurried nor hesitant, but allowed his presence to be noted by the staff within so the door could be opened smoothly for him by an assistant.
"Mycroft Holmes." He said to the man behind the counter and presented him with a visiting card. "I am here to see the interim manager."
The tailor took the card and flicked his eyes to his assistant with a nod.
"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes." He said as the assistant scurried into the back. "Can I at least show you some shirts while you wait?"
Mycroft nodded.
"You can show me, as long as you do not expect me to actually purchase them."
"Of course not Sir." The man replied with a sniff. He knew about fidelity.
Mycroft looked at shirts until the assistant returned to lead him into the back. He was taken to a dinning room and left standing at the door, looking up the table at a man he had not seen in a very long time. A man wearing a jumper.
How ironic, he thought.
"'Evening Mycroft, do come in an' hae a seat." The bald man at the head of the table persisted in retaining his Scottish slur, despite having lived many more years South of The Border than North.
"Thank you Rupert." He said, taking a seat in the middle of the table, politely away from the towering heaps of files surrounding the man at the head. He placed his briefcase carefully in front of him. For a long moment, they stared at each other in silence and came to an agreement.
They were both too damned tired to fuck about.
"I ken you hated Gordonstoun as much as I did, so you're nae here to reminisce. An' as awful as that suit looks on you the now Head Boy, your briefcase suggests you hae other things on your mind than our usual services."
"I am here to suggest some solutions to some of our common problems." Mycroft confirmed.
"Which problems in particular?" The man asked, waving his hand at the heaps of files.
"We both have someone pretending to be dead." Said Mycroft. "I am talking about issues relating to this circumstance in particular."
"Hmmm. Not dead? Well, I hae to congratulate you on that one. It was convincing. Ours was just blind luck."
"I have a candidate to suggest for the position of Arthur. I know you hate it and have no one internal who can take over, or you wouldn't even be trying to do it yourself."
"Is this a hostile take over Mycroft?" The scot glared dangerously down the table. "I warn yae, it has been tried before. We are independent. We are staying that way."
Mycroft shook his head, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. Bloody Scottish independence.
"Not a take over. Believe me, my candidate hates me quite furiously at the moment. He wouldn't work with me if I asked him to."
"So who is it?"
"Dr Watson."
The scot leaned back in his chair.
"Oh aye, your brother's..."
"Quite." Mycroft interrupted.
"I'm listening Mycroft. I'll be honest, we are struggling. If yae can sell him to me, I will be inclined to say aye."
"Former military. Excellent marksman. Likes dogs. Doctor. Skilled at handling reckless individuals. Can't help making those around him better people. Natural leadership qualities. Capable administrator. Scottish, at least somewhat."
"I want to take him to bed already." Rupert drawled sarcastically. "What is the downside?"
"He has no sense of style and no idea about tailoring." Mycroft replied. "I mean it Rupert, his jumpers are worse than yours."
Rupert snorted.
"Aye, you look like shite 'n' all." He shook his bald head. "An' he hates you because?"
"I am responsible for Sherlock's 'death'."
"Well yae are good 'n' fucked then."
Mycroft nodded.
"He is grieving. He needs a purpose to stop him ruining himself before Sherlock gets back. I can't be the one to give it to him, despite needing every good man out there. He would reject it from me, hence the need for your independence. I understand your new Galahad is in a similar state over his lost mentor, and a tricky one to handle under normal circumstances. Give him to John to run personally. They are in the same boat, they can help each other stay afloat. He can do the paperwork, he always did for Sherlock, and he can help train prospective candidates, which frees you up on two fronts."
"And for this little miracle yae require what in return, Mephistopheles?"
"I want you to run Sherlock." Mycroft replied, not taking offense at the insinuation.
"And just what is your front page wonder of a fuckwit brother doing that means he needs a handler and requires he be dead?"
"He is dismantling James Moriarty's worldwide crime network. Something that is causing a lot of those brown files you have in front of you."
"Hmmm." Said the scot, tapping his lip thoughtfully. "I take it you mean you want me tae run him personally?"
"Yes. You know he requires special measures. But you will have an advantage."
"Aye? What exactly?"
"John. All you need to do to keep Sherlock in line is feed him intelligence on John. But you must keep John from finding out about Sherlock, it would cost his life, one way or the other."
"God Mycroft!" The man pushed his chair back sharply and began to pace.
"And I want to see Harry." Mycroft said, trying to sound detached.
"Well that just isnae gonna happen this side o' Hell freezing over!" The scot fumed. "What part o' yae thinks that is going to turn out well for anyone?"
"Is he even awake?" Asked Mycroft. "A shot like that... Does he remember anything?"
The question he wanted to ask of course was does he remember me? And Rupert knew it.
"No he's not awake. We can't tell what the damage is yet. That's why we are nae telling Eggsy anything. Nae need to get anyone's hopes up." The scot gave him a pointed look. Mycroft nodded.
"I understand." He said glumly.
"Right." Rupert rubbed his hands over his bald head and let out a deep sigh. "Give me your Moriarty files and hand over your brother. Is he using again? I swear Mycroft, if you are handing me a junkie, I will hand him back wearing tartan."
"Not yet. Just keep him fixed on John. Remind him how disappointed he would be."
Mycroft flipped open his briefcase and removed a thick wedge of brown files.
"Aye, and I will pull John in and hae a look at him. See if he is the God's gift to tired techies yae are making him out to be."
"John Watson is an extraordinary man, I wouldn't be handing him over if I had even a chance of keeping him." Mycroft replied.
"You got anyone else you can spare to send our way? We are looking for candidates to replace two knights."
Mycroft shook his head.
"We are shorthanded too. If I find anyone too... individual, I will send them your way though."
"That'll do for now then." Rupert said. "Come on, it's agreed and we both have other things to deal with. I'll walk you out and get you a new umbrella on the way past. That one is years out of date..."
Neither of them mentioned why as Mycroft pushed himself tiredly to his feet and followed Rupert to fitting room 3.
"It keeps the rain off." He said defensively.
"Aye. I'll get you a new one anyway. Yae can still keep that one, although it belongs in the museum." He opened the secret door and collected an umbrella from the stock.
"It works fine." Mycroft protested.
"It's been out of amo since..."
"As an umbrella." Mycroft interrupted.
"Stop being so bloody stubborn man! I am nae taking it away from you! Just giving you an option." He thrust the replacement at Mycroft. "Harry would want..."
"Who knows what Harry would want?!" Mycroft fumed. "He's in an artificial coma somewhere and may have no idea who I am."
"Or who anyone is." Rupert added gently. "That isnae personal Mycroft."
Mycroft sighed.
"Thank you for the umbrella Merlin." He said politely. A gentleman is always polite, even if his fellow Old Gordonstounian frequently forgot it. "A word of advice, be careful how you approach John Watson. He is deadlier than he looks and has had some very bad experiences of being kidnapped by people he doesn't know."
"I'll treat the doc with more care than I'll warrant he got from you or Sherlock." Rupert replied, raising an eyebrow.
Mycroft nodded.
"Thank you." He said again, letting the tailor's assistant open the shop door for him.
"I'll be hearing from you nae doubt." Rupert replied as Mycroft left and made his way down the steps to his car.
As soon as the car door was closed behind him, and he felt them pulling off in the direction of home, he crumpled. He looked at the two umbrellas he was holding and forced his mind to be blank. He had no time for the past and no time to be sentimental either. He had handed (or left) everything he cared about to a tailor, and it wasn't even his tailor, trusting him to do what needed to be done, because Mycroft had things to do too. Mycroft had to become the Ice Man and pull his traumatized, decimated, directionless country together before the next megalomaniac had a go, because when it came down to it, Mycroft loved his country (even the Scottish bits) and the idiots he shared it with, and there really was no one else left.
AN the second - I love Mycroft, BAMF responsible for everyone in Britain. Poor thing.
Despite hailing from North of The Border, I can't write Scots. Too-posh-to-Scots Fail (face palm).