Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit, and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Part one of two, and already published in a slightly different form on tumblr. Enjoy!
PART ONE: ROLL AND TUMBLE
Managing Director's Office,
London Hippodrome,
1958
"May I remind you, Mr. Holmes, that my client is the topliner here?" An unimpressed Pfft puffs past her lips. "You and your client are not in any position to make demands."
And Miss Mary Morstan crosses her arms smugly over her- admittedly impressive- bosom. Glowers at Mycroft with the sort of deeply-held conviction which normally precedes a murder or a marriage (Mycroft isn't entirely sure which, nor does he wish to find out).
To his right the Hippodrome proprietress, one Martha Hudson, gives a snort of laughter, of the sort which would normally earn a dressing down from him. (Of course, given that he is in her theatre, Mycroft is in no position to do such a thing and he knows it.
Nevertheless he cocks an eyebrow at old Hudders, wondering whether that sight- normally so effective with underlings- will quell the owner of the older woman.
As he suspected might be the case, the effect is nil.)
Rather Hudson holds a hand up in acquiescence, asking for Morstan's quiet before turning her attention to Mycroft. It was, after all, his demands for his own client, infamous crooner and superstar Will Scott, which had kicked off this little tete-a-tete in the first place. Hudson, as a veteran of dealing with oversized egos and undersized schedules, is excellent at diffusing situations like this, and it is to her credit that she does so now.
And if she has a twinkle in her eye, why so much the better.
Doubtless she and Mummy will have a grand time chatting about this over brandy some day next week.
"Well, what do you say to that, Mikey?" she asks, using the family nickname by which she has always referred to Mycroft.
Behind him Mycroft hears Morstan's right-hand woman, Sally, give a snort of laughter and he wills his ears not to turn pink.
He is painfully aware that he does not succeed.
"She's right, you know," Hudson adds, when he doesn't speak. "Miss Molly and her Bartholomew Beat Babes are the headliners tonight; Three top five hits in the last six months and a sell-out tour of the country will do that. Will's second listing, that's what you agreed to when you signed on, so why should the headliners agree to change the running order just to suit you?"
And she smiles cheekily, knowing well that my Mycroft would rather have teeth pulled than admit this. He's a little, well, testy, about his brother's reputation. But-
"Because we are running behind schedule," Mycroft says sulkily. He doesn't find such a thing easy to say, but there it is. "My brother-" he grimaces at the words- "That is to say, Sherlock has found himself delayed in Liverpool. There was some sort of trouble at the Cavern Club, and he offered to help a few of the chaps involved out..."
Mycroft neglects to mention that the fellows Sherlock had helped out only needed help because his darling baby brother had managed to sneak that doxy Irene Adler onto his tour bus again, an eventuality which had led to her absconding with half The Dreamboys' gear, the takings from The Cavern Club's safe, said tour bus and the wife of The Blackbird's bass player.
(In fairness, the latter was a long time coming given her husband's behaviour with groupies, but that, Mycroft knows, is hardly the point.)
In the ensuing cross-country chase Sherlock had managed to make his way halfway to Yorkshire, and was only now travelling back to London by train, something which would would not necessarily deposit him in the capital in time for tonight's show. That being the case, Mycroft had requested that, rather than Sherlock opening the show as scheduled, Miss Molly and her group of rockabilly reprobates go on first, allowing more time for the younger Holmes to arrive, and allowing Mycroft to squelch any rumours that his wayward charge was up to mischief again-
Of course, opening a show was a different thing to headlining it, and as a manager he knows that what he is asking was no small thing.
The look on Mary Morstan's face proves it.
On the other hand, while he knows that he's asking a lot, surely Hooper's people are aware of who his brother is, and how many people in the audience are there to see him and not the countrified stylings of Miss Hooper's rock and roll alley cats? Sherlock's smooth, elegant croonings were what was bringing the crowds in, no matter what Hudson (and Morstan, the everyone else) might think. And that being the case Hooper's team should really just get out of the way and let him get on with it-
Alas, however, judging by the stubborn look on Morstan's face, that's not what's going to happen here.
(He also suspects that referring to her clients as "rockabilly reprobates," to her face may not have been a wise choice. Were he feeling more generous then Mycroft might allow that Morstan's only doing her job, but he's not feeling generous and he's more than a little put out, so generosity can take a running jump out of a very high window. Therefore-)
"You're not going to do it, are you?" he says wearily, to which Morstan nods.
She looks utterly serene about her decision.
"You're not giving me any reason to," the blond woman says sensibly. "And given the way you've behaved towards my client, both tonight and all week, I see no reason to give you the main event slot just because your brother can't, apparently, read a train timetable or a calendar.
Me and my rock and roll reprobates deserve better than that."
She gives an elegant shrug.
"Molly's been here all day, and she's gotten through her tech and get-in in record time," she says, turning to Hudson. "No matter what you might think of the music she makes, Mr. Holmes, she's been a pro- Rather unlike you and your idiot brother.
So no, you can't have her main spot."
And with that she gathers her things, nods again to Hudson. "If there's nothing else, Martha?" she says. The older woman shakes her head. "Then my girls have to get ready: the BBC cameras will need time to wire up as well, tonight, won't they?" Again Hudson nods. "Then I'll go and keep an eye on them. Sally?"
And she gestures to the young woman who snickers and trails after her, throwing a mocking look at Mycroft as she follows her boss out.
Once the door closes Mycroft turns to Hudson, about to try persuading her, but to his surprise she holds up an admonishing finger and shakes her head.
For all the amusement in her eyes earlier, this time her expression is serious.
"Morstan's right," she says. "About Molly Hooper- And about your brother. If Sherlock wants to beat his reputation then he can't keep behaving like this and you know it, Mike." She shrugs. "Actions have consequences: best he get his head around that idea."
With a sigh Mycroft nods. Sits down and rakes a hand through his hair, loosening his tie.
Irritatingly, Hudders does, of course, as always, have a point.
Apparently taking pity on him, Hudson reaches into her desk and pulls out two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. Pours a finger into each one and then hands the furthest to Mycroft with a smile. "He'll get here, Mikey," she says softly. "And if he doesn't… Well, that might be the best thing for him."
At Mycroft's affronted look she shrugs again. Takes a thoughtful sip of her whiskey.
"You've always taken care of him, Mikey," she says. "But he's a grown man now, and a rich one at that. Maybe it's time he learned to take care of himself."
She takes another sip of whiskey and smiles at him. "Just a thought."
And with that she goes back to perusing her technical specs. Given that this is the first time the BBC has broadcast her Saturday night extravaganza, she has more than enough to be getting on with, Mycroft knows. But though he downs his whiskey and nods, Mycroft can't help but think that Hudson is making a massive mistake-
After all, if given the choice between a star like his brother and an up-and-comer like Hooper, what would anyone do?
That his brother has made this situation in the first place, and that he should therefore be the one to clean it up, is not the sort of thought on which he wishes to dwell…