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crack_van2012-05-20 06:53 pm
cloudtrader.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2012-05-20 06:53 pm
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At Least There's The Football Series by sheffiesharpe (PG-13ish)
Fandom: SHERLOCK
Pairing: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes (with peripheral Sherlock Holmes/John Watson and mentions of Lestrade/OC)
Length: 178,992 words (at 14 stories in the series)
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sheffiesharpe
Author Website: on AO3, on DW, on LJ
Why this must be read:
This is a series of stories I find myself reading over and over again. Some authors are really good at writing the details that just draw you into a story. Sheffiesharpe is definitely that type of author. I love the slow progression of Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship (starting at the cliffhanger of Series 1, so no spoilers for Series 2 and positing an explosion). The author really builds their characters, along with Lestrade's family and Mycroft's relationships with Sherlock and Anthea. Gorgeous, gorgeous stuff here!
Seriously, I highly, HIGHLY recommend this story!
“Inspector—” Worry flickers, the expression of what now on his face, but it smoothes away as he takes in Lestrade’s obvious lack of checked button-down and cotton-twill trousers. He squints at the earring. They’ve only ever really gone out for drinks after the Yard.
Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Come on.”
“I thought the hole was a freckle.” John glances over his shoulder like he expects Sherlock to materialize, to say, on what planet does a permanent puncture in soft tissue resemble a significant concentration of melanin? Thankfully, he doesn’t. “So. What brings you in?” He sips at his coffee, never mind the roiling steam. Out in the hall, Sarah holds up both hands. Ten minutes, starting now.
“Nothing much.”
John ignores that, waits.
“How’s Sherlock?”
“Like a caged tiger but healing properly, somewhat against his will.” He glances over his cup. “Did you know he can screech on the violin with his bloody feet?” He still smiles a little when he says it.
“I did not know that.” He wonders if Mycroft knows that. Likely. And about Mycroft—he tugs at his earring, and John looks from his hand to his face to his hair and back again. “Sherlock’s brother—”
John stands straighter. “The one Sherlock calls the most dangerous man I’ve ever met?” Sherlock’s dramatics considered and Moriarty excepted, of course. He glances at the hallway where Sarah is guiding one of her own patients back to her office. “What’s he done?”
Taken me out for a two-month-old birthday? Looked fantastic? Lestrade shakes his head. “Nothing. Well. I’m guessing he’s done a lot of things.” He wonders how he managed six hot beverages and didn’t get one for himself. “Just. What’s he like?”
Now John’s head jerks like he’s burned his tongue. But he swallows his coffee, appears to make a conscious effort to answer well. “I can’t say I know any more than anyone else. What you see is what you get—smug, clever, frighteningly well-connected, at times rather funny, and he and Sherlock don’t get on. But he is actually, clearly, quite invested in trying to look after his brother, which is a bloody thankless task.” John shrugs. “I think he’s occasionally terrifying.” Not in the usual way. Not the grievous-bodily-harm that scares most people but not John Watson. The…Holmesian quality. On that count, Lestrade might agree, but he isn’t put off.
“Yeah,” he says, “but what else?” He’s got the time to cook—he could try a dinner invitation. “Any food allergies? Anything you’ve seen in Sherlock that might be genetic?” Wheat allergies could be like that.
“Christ,” John says, “I think it’s all bloody genetic with them.” He rubs his eyes hard, then he stops, stares at Lestrade. “You aren’t—”
He shrugs. “Thought about asking him to dinner. Don’t want to have him end up here.” That’d happened once. He’d accidentally discovered a man’s stone fruit allergy with an apricot tarte tatin. Nothing like anaphylactic shock on a second date.
John takes a deep breath. And he answers the question, no matter how much his brain appears to be cramping behind his skull, and that’s exactly why Lestrade likes John.
At Least There's The Football Series by sheffiesharpe
Pairing: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes (with peripheral Sherlock Holmes/John Watson and mentions of Lestrade/OC)
Length: 178,992 words (at 14 stories in the series)
Author on LJ:
sheffiesharpeAuthor Website: on AO3, on DW, on LJ
Why this must be read:
This is a series of stories I find myself reading over and over again. Some authors are really good at writing the details that just draw you into a story. Sheffiesharpe is definitely that type of author. I love the slow progression of Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship (starting at the cliffhanger of Series 1, so no spoilers for Series 2 and positing an explosion). The author really builds their characters, along with Lestrade's family and Mycroft's relationships with Sherlock and Anthea. Gorgeous, gorgeous stuff here!
Seriously, I highly, HIGHLY recommend this story!
“Inspector—” Worry flickers, the expression of what now on his face, but it smoothes away as he takes in Lestrade’s obvious lack of checked button-down and cotton-twill trousers. He squints at the earring. They’ve only ever really gone out for drinks after the Yard.
Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Come on.”
“I thought the hole was a freckle.” John glances over his shoulder like he expects Sherlock to materialize, to say, on what planet does a permanent puncture in soft tissue resemble a significant concentration of melanin? Thankfully, he doesn’t. “So. What brings you in?” He sips at his coffee, never mind the roiling steam. Out in the hall, Sarah holds up both hands. Ten minutes, starting now.
“Nothing much.”
John ignores that, waits.
“How’s Sherlock?”
“Like a caged tiger but healing properly, somewhat against his will.” He glances over his cup. “Did you know he can screech on the violin with his bloody feet?” He still smiles a little when he says it.
“I did not know that.” He wonders if Mycroft knows that. Likely. And about Mycroft—he tugs at his earring, and John looks from his hand to his face to his hair and back again. “Sherlock’s brother—”
John stands straighter. “The one Sherlock calls the most dangerous man I’ve ever met?” Sherlock’s dramatics considered and Moriarty excepted, of course. He glances at the hallway where Sarah is guiding one of her own patients back to her office. “What’s he done?”
Taken me out for a two-month-old birthday? Looked fantastic? Lestrade shakes his head. “Nothing. Well. I’m guessing he’s done a lot of things.” He wonders how he managed six hot beverages and didn’t get one for himself. “Just. What’s he like?”
Now John’s head jerks like he’s burned his tongue. But he swallows his coffee, appears to make a conscious effort to answer well. “I can’t say I know any more than anyone else. What you see is what you get—smug, clever, frighteningly well-connected, at times rather funny, and he and Sherlock don’t get on. But he is actually, clearly, quite invested in trying to look after his brother, which is a bloody thankless task.” John shrugs. “I think he’s occasionally terrifying.” Not in the usual way. Not the grievous-bodily-harm that scares most people but not John Watson. The…Holmesian quality. On that count, Lestrade might agree, but he isn’t put off.
“Yeah,” he says, “but what else?” He’s got the time to cook—he could try a dinner invitation. “Any food allergies? Anything you’ve seen in Sherlock that might be genetic?” Wheat allergies could be like that.
“Christ,” John says, “I think it’s all bloody genetic with them.” He rubs his eyes hard, then he stops, stares at Lestrade. “You aren’t—”
He shrugs. “Thought about asking him to dinner. Don’t want to have him end up here.” That’d happened once. He’d accidentally discovered a man’s stone fruit allergy with an apricot tarte tatin. Nothing like anaphylactic shock on a second date.
John takes a deep breath. And he answers the question, no matter how much his brain appears to be cramping behind his skull, and that’s exactly why Lestrade likes John.
At Least There's The Football Series by sheffiesharpe
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