Prompt: Sherlock/Discworld.
...
That is all.
...'title it the first thing you can think of' strikes again!
Narrative Causality
[In which Stamford plays an unappreciated part and Mycroft presumes the laws of gravity are laws for everybody else.]
The bar was the sort of place Sherlock preferred to visit under an alias. It was the sort of place that looked like it was using an alias. Probably for a good reason.
He walked in anyway, because he'd discovered that if you walked into a place like you belonged there, people would treat you as if you did.
He was right. To be fair, he was seldom wrong, but it was always nice to have a theory strengthened.
Stamford, sitting in a corner and watching a little blue figure at the front of the bar gulp something that should be kept away from an open flame, thought, as he always did when he saw Sherlock Holmes, how does he do that?
"Sherlock," he greeted, knowing Sherlock's grasp of social niceties only went so far and 'hello' was regarded as an annoying and unnecessary word that he wasn't sure was absolutely essential to the language. "How's Mycroft doing these days?"
Stamford always asked after Mycroft because it made Sherlock pull a face like he'd eaten something extremely sour. It was petty, sure, but with Sherlock Holmes, you took what you could get, and the Look of Disgust went a long way to making you feel better about dealing with someone who insulted you every five seconds.
"The same as ever," Sherlock said irritably. "Sits in the Library alternating between doing nothing and whacking the laws of reality with an umbrella."
"Don't you mean a staff?" Stamford enquired with a look of absolute non-innocence.
Sherlock gave him a look that said 'I know what you're doing and am going to make life very difficult for you. But I'll play along anyway because I will not be bested by your primitive little brain and its attempts to annoy me.' Amazing, the amount of words that could be put into a mere narrowing of the eyes. "Mycroft prefers an umbrella."
As everyone did when told this, Stamford dutifully asked, "But how can you be a wizard without a staff?"
(In fact, it was the eighth time he'd asked the dutiful question. It had yet to grow old. Or Sherlock's varying responses, for that matter.)
"A great deal more stylishly, as far as Mycroft is concerned. Besides which – he's a wizard. He spends most of his time actively trying to avoid doing anything remotely resembling magic."
It was probably not in his best interests, Stamford thought, to mention that he was convinced he'd once seen the elder Holmes brother leap gleefully off the University roof and use his umbrella to float down, transitioning smoothly from a glide through the air to a smugly amused strut on the ground.
The Holmes brothers, not to put too fine a point on it, were a little Odd.
"So," Sherlock said abruptly, apparently having filled his perceived quota of conversational niceties, "why exactly did you ask me to meet you here."
That was the thing about Sherlock Holmes, Stamford reflected. Even when something should have sounded like a query, there was a notable absence of a question mark. It was like he was trying to allow you the illusion that he didn't know exactly what you were thinking, but was thwarted by errant punctuation. He just couldn't make it sound like he didn't know what you were thinking.
"Well," Stamford said. "You remember you've got your eye on that Baker Street place, but need someone else to make the rent?" He didn't note the extreme unlikelihood of this as being the true reason - Sherlock's clothing was the sort that coughed and murmured 'money' in an extremely discreet and refined manner that made sure it was noticed. "I've an old friend that's looking for a place as well."
He glanced back over at the little blue figure, knowing Sherlock would reach the necessary conclusions.
"A Nac Mac Feegle." Sherlock said blankly. For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked taken aback. Stamford hugged the feeling of smugness that came to him jealously. Okay, so it was his only by proxy, really, but he'd still made Sherlock Holmes blink like he'd seen a troll tapdance.
"He's a bit different," Stamford said, knowing that was all he needed to seal the deal. "You remember that Klatchian business? Wee John there joined the army and–" Stamford lowered his voice. "–lost his accent. Don't mention it, he doesn't like to be reminded of it."
"Yer tryin' ta say ah'm saft or summat? Yer gettin' chibbed fer that!"
"...I thought you said he lost his accent?" Sherlock said, watching the pictsie wave an empty bottle at a troll.
"Psychosomatic," Stamford shrugged. "A fight comes up he remembers perfectly, but everyday? Poor bugger, he can't even shout waily about it. He's so depressed he can't even look for fights, they have to come for him. It's tragic, I tell you. Go on, talk to him. You'll see."
Sherlock stood and made his way over. Goodbye, evidently, was for other people. Stamford poured himself a drink and congratulated himself on a job well done. He still wasn't sure what Mycroft was planning, but a combination of Nac Mac Feegle and Sherlock Holmes could only work out as hilarious.