|New Fic: "House Call" - Harry, Mycroft, John/Sherlock - PG13
||[Oct. 3rd, 2011|02:41 pm]
(lives between pages)
Title: House Call
Characters/Pairing: Harry, Mycroft, John/Sherlock
Notes: This ficlet follows Eye to Eye and was written in response to the most recent thegameison_sh challenge (Undercover).
Summary: In this case, all Harry had done was show up.
"Where's our boy wonder?" Harry asked, leaning on the door-frame as John peered out at her. He had the same look of displeasure on his face that their mum used to get when one (or both) of them had done something particularly outrageous.
In this case, all Harry had done was show up.
"At Bart's," said John. "Something to do with a corpse and acid burns."
Harry sighed, shouldering her way inside. "You bagged yourself a real charmer."
"Piss off," John said, starting up the stairs with a slight limp.
Wonder what that's about, thought Harry, frowning, and followed him.
"What'll it be?" asked John, once they'd reached the kitchen. "Tea? Hair of the dog?"
"Sober," Harry reminded him, her fingers fidgeting on the keys of the PDA concealed in her pocket. "For seven weeks now." She prided herself on always keeping up to speed on technology, but the device that Mycroft had given her cost at least twice as much as her own current model and had functions she'd never even heard of.
Photographs of all appliances, Mycroft had said. If you can manage that.
Why me? Harry had asked. Why not just send in your team of spooks?
Because Sherlock would know, he'd said, smiling thinly.
Won't he know anyway? Harry had asked. I'm a one-woman herd of elephants.
On the contrary: all he'll know is that you paid John a visit. Is that so unusual?
You're one clever fuck, Harry had told him, grinning in spite of herself.
It's my business to be discreet, Mycroft had said, dripping with false modesty.
Harry glanced in the bin while John was busy rummaging for mugs in the cupboard. There was an empty Twinings box and a handful of tea-bag wrappers. She took out the PDA and pretended to be checking her messages.
"Bully for you," John said, popping on the kettle. "Coffee?"
"I'm in more of a tea mood," she said, clicking keys till the camera blinked on.
"Tough luck," John said, wrestling a coffee filter into place. "We're out."
"Would you mind popping down to grab some?" Harry asked, making a big show of taking a seat. "Clara's been on my back about caffeine. I drink too much coffee."
"You and Sherlock both," John said. "Fine, I'll be back in a tick."
Harry stayed put at the table until she heard the door slam downstairs.
She tackled the microwave first, taking snapshots of the exterior from three different angles, plus the interior, which she instantly regretted. The walls and glass tray were splattered with substances that couldn't possibly be of edible origin, and she didn't bother taking a closer look at the beaker left mouldering near the back.
I'll need precise model specifications, as well as indication of how hazardous the conditions within, Mycroft had told her. Sadly, she was to apply these standards to more than just the microwave. She'd known her brother's flatmate-turned-lover was eccentric, but a public health nuisance? She wasn't sure how she felt about that.
The oven was in surprisingly good nick: bit grotty, but, as far as she could determine, that was because they'd been using it to bake frozen pizzas. She photographed it from hob to grill, frowning when one of the dials came off in her hand.
You're going to replace everything? she'd asked Mycroft, incredulous.
As much of it as I deem necessary, he'd confirmed gravely.
External views of the toaster were easy, but she didn't dare move any of the wooden sticks protruding from the slots or shove down one of the levers to test functionality. Neither electrocution, nor burning down the flat was on her list of priorities for this mission (although Sherlock was well on the way to accomplishing the latter).
Any advice? she'd asked Mycroft on her way out of his office.
Approach the refrigerator with caution, he'd said.
Harry took a deep breath and yanked it open; a blast of cold, stale air hit her face.
She opened her eyes in response to the sharp scent of garlic, perplexed. There was some left-over pasta in a plastic take-away container, plus what looked like a half-eaten square of lasagna in another. She scanned the shelves, almost disappointed in what she saw. Two jars of homemade jam, blackberry and gooseberry, in Molly Hooper's sickeningly perfect handwriting. Half a bottle of semi-skimmed milk. A small egg carton, which actually contained eggs. She caught one of the fruit drawers with her index finger and coaxed it open. Apples. Pears. A loaf of whole-grain bread.
"Hungry?" said John, standing in the doorway, and Harry leapt out of her skin.
"Yeah," she said, shoving the drawer shut. "Peckish. Do you fancy lunch?"
John set his shopping bag on the table. "Tea and sandwiches?"
"Great," Harry said, resuming her seat at the table, heart pounding in sheer relief.
Mycroft was going to be ever so disappointed.