Because I figured I should do this before the Moffat-written Tintin movie comes out in December.
Disclaimer: Neither Sherlock nor Tintin are mine. D:
His Man In Seoul
The elections in Korea had gone as well as one might have imagined. Mycroft Holmes sat behind his desk, content save for the toothache that had not gone away despite the amateurish meddlings of the orthodontist that evening. Drinking his tea, he looked over his ledger, and noted that his man in Seoul was coming in a manner of minutes. He would not postpone this meeting, no matter how uncomfortable his jaw was. The good will of this operative was that important to him.
'Anthea' came in soon, with a sheaf of papers and her ever-present BlackBerry.
"Monsieur's ready to see you, sir," she said blandly, and deposited the papers on his desk.
"What's this, then?" Mycroft asked.
"That would be all the notes he took at the elections. He wanted you to have them to do as you like with them. Old habits die hard for former investigative reporters, apparently," 'Anthea' shrugged.
"Thank you. Do show him in. Has he still got that lovely little dog?"
"Sitting patient as a post," 'Anthea' muttered, and left to retrieve the visitor.
Mycroft heard his agent before he saw him. There was the excited yapping of the small dog, and the light step of his master. Finally, Tintin walked in, looking just as baby-faced as Mycroft remembered from years ago.
"Tintin, good to see you so well, lad," Mycroft said with a wide smile that hurt jaw just slightly. "I wanted to congratulate you personally on your success in the Korean elections. Your help was extremely invaluable. We certainly wouldn't have been able to bring so much good will to our party of choice without your work behind the scenes."
"Thanks, Mr Holmes. I'm glad everything was satisfactory," Tintin said, and sat down.
"Can I offer you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? My assistant makes a fine hot chocolate."
"Hot chocolate sounds lovely. I hate to be a stereotypical Belgian, but this is one of the few times I can really get any kind of sweet," Tintin said sheepishly.
Mycroft sent the request through the intercom ['It's not for you, I hope, sir', 'No, dear, just for Tintin], and in the ensuing silence studied Tintin.
It was hard to believe that the diminutive Belgian was capable of making his dog listen to him, much less manipulating an entire country to vote one way. However, behind the ridiculous widow's peak and the trousers tucked into the socks, there was something of a hardened soldier in his demeanour, a clown hiding a sub-machine rifle in his oversized trousers.
Oh, that was rather good. Mycroft would find a way to use that metaphor in his book for sure.
But in all seriousness, Tintin was a scary son of a bitch. Mycroft was just glad that he'd chosen their side after the incident in Myanmar.
"Now, concerning your habit of writing down absolutely everything you do on these extremely classified and confidential missions," he said, with purpose.
"Oh yeah, I was worried about that," Tintin admitted, and accepted the hot chocolate that the assistant walked in with, declining the cookies that she had brought in unprompted.
"If these documents got into the wrong hands, I'm afraid my position in the British government would be rather imperiled. Is there some kind of way to keep you from impulsively writing?"
"Well, my friend the Professor is working on a drug, strictly experimental, of course, but I'd be more than willing to..."
"Thank you. I don't think that will be entirely necessary," Mycroft said casually. He made a mental note to icnrease the surveillance on Professor Calculus. He shouldn't have had any access to pharmaceutical supplies... "Just make sure the papers are extremely well-hidden."
"I can guarantee it for the future," Tintin said, and once again Mycroft detected some of that steely interior in this vow. He smiled tightly, hoping his discomfort didn't show. "Thanks for the hot chocolate, Mr Holmes. It was really delicious."
He got up, gathered his white dog in his arms, and shook Mycroft's hand before departing.
Mycroft wondered where to send this particular operative in the future. Somewhere extremely remote and dangerous, definitely; hopefully it would kill him this time.