A/N: yet another kink meme fill from the Sherlock BBC community over at LJ. Woohoo!
Stock Control for the Blind Drunk
Mycroft is a wino. Officially he isn't, but there's a reason he's carrying about a bit of extra weight despite his assistant carefully controlling his diet.
He's sat behind his desk and his fingers won't stop drumming against the heavy wood. An itch of a sort goes up his spine and his fingers still. He categorized the feeling, and with a slight hum, clicked open a new browser on the computer and began a search for a ludicrously expensive bottle of wine. He's feeling generous today.
Quickly, he set up a programme that would stall his assistant for a few minutes, ordered the wine, grabbed his brolly, and snuck out through the secret door that was hidden in his office.
It's only thursday, but he's fed up with work and needs a good holiday. He's not planning to see coherency until next Wednesday.
He knocks for the ninth time, and the door is flung open with a shouted angry "What!"
And the man on the other side of the door takes a second to steady himself, blinks up at him with a dour expression, and then a blindingly brilliant grin plasters itself across his face. "Mike! Mikey-Mike Mika-crow!"
Mycroft feels his own mouth mirror the insanity. "Bernard! Good to see you. I come baring gifts." At this, he lifts the bottle, and feels Bernard's stare turn inquisitive and then smitten.
"I love you," says Bernard, "and I mean that in a totallyplatonic way. Like, I would bear your children for you, eat your enemies and whatnot." He snatched the bottle, licked up the neck and gave the glass a good sniff. "Mmm! Six hundred Pounds? A little bit naughty today, aren't we?"
Mycroft closed the door behind him, and turned to see Bernard handing him a book. "Here! Took a looky-loo and thought you might like."
And oh, Mycroft does like it. Hidden within the hardcover is information that will be veryuseful for British Intelligence.
Bernard winds his way through the bookshop, throwing himself dramatically through to the kitchen and comes out with two glasses. Mycroft has already taken off his jacket and has splayed himself across the sofa.
"Cheers," he says, as he takes a glass.
"Bottoms up!" crows Bernard, as he sniffs, runs a hand through his hair, and teases off the cork with his teeth.
Mycroft can't really remember much of what happens after that.
Someone toes at his shoulder with their boot. He hears a disapproving sigh.
And - oh, God, Mycroft wished he hadn't opened his eyes because the sun is on fire.
"Buhhhh" spews out of his mouth and he groans, tightening his arms and curling up a bit more and tries to hide from the light. He feels like he's at sea and his mind is far too groggy. He clenches his eyes shut against the headache that starts to pound at him with a sledgehammer, and starts to grasp at the sweet oblivion of sleep.
"Oh no you don't," says that voice, and he feels a slight kick to his spine.
It jolts him awake. "Muhh," he says, and squints up, and sees his assistant looming over him.
She's frowning.
"everydamn time I let you out of my sight..." she scowls, and kicks lightly at him again.
"'m up!" He manages to say, and then he starts to process the scene.
He has no idea where he is. Wherever it is, it's quite sunny and warm.
But it's Novemberhis brain tries to protest, sluggish as it is. He feels sand underneath his skin and thinks he hears the sea.
"Beach?" he asks at his assistant.
"In the Caribbean," She grouses, as if he's done something absolutely terrible. "I had a hell of a time trying to find you two."
The number slides into his conciousness and he becomes suddenly aware of something wet pressed against his side. He turns his head and squints, and there's Bernard.
They've got interlocking limbs and Bernard's got platinum blonde hair with blue highlights and what looks like a prison tattoo just behind his ear, almost hidden by his hair. He's wearing nothing but a sarong and diving flipper and a necklace of what looks like human teeth.
Mycroft cranes his head to squint down at himself. He's still got his brolly, thank god, but it's bedecked with patterns of sequins and beads and jewels and phone numbers and a melting lollipop. He's wearing ripped jeans and a coconut bra. He can't see it, but as he tilted his head he felt the pull of something heavy on his ears and thinks he's probably gotten his ears pierced at some point. He wonders why there's names written on his arm in Hebrew.
"What day is it?" He asks.
"Tuesday," says his assistant through gritted teeth. She's getting better at this,thinks Mycroft. He squints against the blue sky and just can't be bothered.
He turns his head and snuggles back into Bernard, who snorts a little, murmuring no, let's hogtie the other one,and then starts to snore.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," scowls his assistant.
Mycroft ignores her. The British Government can wait a few more hours.