#cleverq

[misterlancelot]

( cleverq )

❛ There is absolutely NOTHING WRONG with brogues. ❜

[cleverq]

      "—And a MERRY NEW YEAR to you."

                  (  but will no one DELIVER HIM  from the                      wretchedness of social conventions-- ?                      what had compelled him into town on a                      blasted holiday he couldn't say,  but he                      was rapidly coming to regret the decision.  )

[cleverq]

Holmes Brothers AU: The EAST WIND ↳ ( feat. Sherrinford/Q, Sherlock & Mycroft. )

wherein the Holmes boys grow up to find themselves a little less inclined to allow the whole of their individual talents to be directed by Queen & Country, and instead go into business ( so to speak ) for themselves. Collectively. 

And oh, no, it's not that obvious, of course -- because they are so very good at finding other things to occupy themselves with, functional covers to while away the time. Mycroft takes a minor position in the British Government ( & what a prime vantage point it is, by sheer coincidence ). Sherlock continues to perfect his art of deduction on the streets for anyone who can afford it ( & for the ones who aren't boring ). And Sherrinford flies the coop as soon as he can manage to set up shop half a world away, where he gets into all sorts of secret, supposedly-secure places he shouldn't be, and does things the authorities should never find out about.

And they don't talk much, except for the occasional short back-and-forth text, or a succinct phone call late in the evening -- but they have plans, you see. They've always had plans.

( & no -- no one talks about the organization called the East Wind, but they whisper about it. Quietly. Privately. You don't find them, people say; they find you. And God help the ones who find themselves caught in it.

Those ones, people say, no one ever sees again.  )

Because the world is a sometimes-vile proof of the indiscrete, unforgiving nature of mankind, led by troublesome political leaders, governed by corrupted officials making ill-use of faulty systems. And such weaknesses might be exploited by weaker men, oh, yes -- but they're the EAST WIND, and they pluck the unworthy from the earth, and they sweep over the void that's left, to put things to order with cool, relentless efficiency. So much of the world's current structure is like an obsolete, faltering machine in need of updating, of streamlining. There are vulnerabilities, like badly healed fractures which cripple their host; which make new, healthy growth impossible.

( But they will tear apart the old to rebuild it anew, better than before & they will find the weakened bones and break them, to set them again and watch them heal up, reforged twice as strong. )

They will strip the malicious ones from the world and put what's left to rights, because someone really must, and they do it together because no one man should have all that power.

And because, if not them -- then who?

( & because -- frankly, they've always been BORED. )

[cleverq]

[x]

      "With copious amounts of Mummy's eggnog         and a saint's measure of patience, like as         not. But man cannot survive the holidays on         liquor and fortitude alone—

                                        —Well, 'least not ours."

[cleverq]

fic: entrust;

"You'll look after him for me, won't you?       "Yes, Mycroft."

     When Quentin is six, Mycroft goes to Uni. Sitting quietly in the corner of the foyer, the innards of a dismantled radio laid out in precise chaos between his spread legs, Quinn watches from behind thick framed glasses as their father clasps Mycroft's hand in a strong, proud grip and hauls him in close for a hug in the sort of gentlemanly, man-to-man display of affection father hasn't yet realized Mycroft detests. Quinn spies Sherlock, eleven and in a sulking temper, leaning over the banister, glaring down on the goodbyes. Mummy calls to him twice, first gently and then less so, but he won't come down. Mycroft only glances up at Sherlock for a long moment, an unexceptional look, but it is enough to make Sherlock shove away from the stair rail all together and stomp down the hall to his room. The slam of the door echoes down to the ground level clearly.

     It's a measure of the family's acclimation to Sherlock's swinging temperament that no one flinches at the sound.

     "Sherrinford, sweetheart—come say goodbye to Myc."

     "Mycroft, mother. Please."

     "Oh, alright, very well—what a proper gentleman of the town you're becoming, Mycroft." Mummy flattens her hands over her eldest's sons shoulders and brushes imaginary dust from both gently. "Sherrin, come on then."

     "He prefers Quentin," Mycroft corrects, and Quinn is aware (in the way that children sometimes are) that the elder is watching him get to his feet, taking his measure as he moves toward the door, careful of not crushing the delicate radio parts beneath his shoes.

     Mummy lays a gentle hand on Quinn's head as he draws close to her side and smooths back his errant curls absently, smiling down at him first and then at Mycroft. "Are all my boys to have some sort of fit over how I call them?"

     "Perhaps it is your comeuppance for such avant-garde naming practices."

     "Now, Mycroft," Father intercedes quietly.

     Quinn shifts uneasily on his feet and Mycroft's attention comes to him; he stills immediately, as if Mycroft had put a hand on his shoulder and stopped the fidgeting himself. And if Quinn notices that Mycroft nearly smiles, (it's a barely perceptible thing, just the smallest possible twitch of his lips) he makes no mention of it; still, to Quinn's young eyes eyes it reads like satisfaction and he lifts his chin a little proudly.

     He may not be Mummy's favorite or Father's, but he is Mycroft's -- even if only because he will obey when Sherlock does not. 

     "I suspect," Mycroft says evenly and just to him, "that our dearest brother will be particularly insufferable in the coming days. He'll need seeing to. You'll look after him for me, won't you?"

     Quentin bobs his head in a nod, careful of solemnity. "Yes, Mycroft."

     "Very well -- then I will entrust the task to you." There is a long look of consideration that Mycroft gives him, but he reaches out almost absently and Quinn quickly steps away from Mummy's side to put himself in the way of that gesture so, when Mycroft's hand comes to rest atop his head lightly, it seems almost organic -- as if such displays of brotherly sentimentality were common to them.

     Behind them, Mummy touches her fingertips to her mouth and stifles a sound like a coo, and their Father clears his throat, not nearly so gruff as he often pretends to be. Quinn tries not to pay them too much attention, peering up at Mycroft through his lenses, still and attentive.

     The hand on his head gives a little pat before slipping away, falling comfortably back to Mycroft's side as if it had never left.

     "Don't let Sherlock run the wilds while I'm gone. And do not consume anything he offers you, food, drink or otherwise." Mycroft issues the warning with a level, firm look down the slope of his nose and a tip of his head.

     "Yes, Mycroft," Quinn answers dutifully, if somewhat drolly. After all, he is young, not stupid; his instinct for self preservation (and no small understanding of the dangers of homemade explosives) has served him well when trailing after Sherlock as he's apt to do.

     "And," Mycroft tacks on, no less firmly, "do not fall behind in your studies. I expect to have a worthy Scrabble opponent when I return for winter hols. Do not disappoint me, Quentin."

     Behind his lenses, Quinn blinks up owlishly at his brother and absolutely does not fidget. He does, however, tug at his lower lip with his teeth -- just for the briefest moment -- in a rare show of fretting.

     Then, slowly, he nods.

     "Yes, Mycroft."

     There it is again, the ghost of a smile, and that same satisfaction. Mycroft does not reach out to pat him a second time, but when he nods -- just once -- Quentin warms with his approval.

     Outside, a two-beat honk of a horn says the taxi is still waiting and no doubt that the driver is becoming impatient. Father jumps to, as if he might do something to get things on their way, but there's nothing to be done; the bags have been loaded and all that remains is to say goodbye.

     Mummy sweeps in to press a kiss to each of Mycroft's cheeks and then his forehead, murmuring something that Quinn does not catch; he sees Mycroft's face well-enough though, stamped with an expression of careful but long-suffering patience. For just a second, watching his wife and his eldest, Father lays a hand on Quinn's shoulder, the weight of it heavy but not unwelcome as Quinn makes note of his brother's technique for inching out of Mummy's arms and closer to escape.

     However, with one foot over the threshold, Mycroft pauses to look back, and Quinn likes to imagine that he is lingered over for a second longer than their parents. Indeed, for a moment, it even seems as if Mycroft might say something more, but -- the two-beat honk of the taxi comes again, somehow more imperious this time, an interruption.

     Mycroft purses his lips and says nothing. With a short, brisk nod, he turns on his heel and heads down the walk to the idling taxi while overhead the sky rumbles with the threat of rain. Father's hand falls off Quinn's shoulder as he moves to stand beside Mummy in the frame of the door, the two of them leaning against each other as they bear witness to Mycroft's exodus.

     Quinn, for his part, doesn't stay to watch. He slips quietly away from his parents, and out of the foyer, leaving the bits of his dismantled radio for the time being to make his way upstairs. He isn't terribly surprised to find Sherlock hiding, just out of sight, on the landing, his hands braced on the edge of the window overlooking the drive.

     Quentin knows he's not imagining the petulance in the set of Sherock's mouth, or the tuck of his brow, but he doesn't say anything about it in particular. Instead, he leans against the wall by Sherlock's hip, too short himself to see out the landing window, and keeps his brother company as best he can.

     It takes a little while, but eventually the rumble of a car crunching down the drive tells him that at last Mycroft's off; a minute or two later, the faint sag of Sherlock's shoulders tells him that the taxi's gone out of sight at the end of the property.

     Still, Sherlock does not look away from the window quite yet.

     "He'll be back," Quentin says quietly, inspecting his shoes, "for hols."

     He doesn't have to be looking at Sherlock to know his brother is sneering valiantly. "Of course he'll be back -- barring some sort of fortuitous tragedy in the meantime, it's obvious." Finally, Sherlock tears his gaze from the window to look down at him. "Don't be obvious. It's boring."

     Quinn nods solemnly but says nothing.

     They stay on the landing for a moment or two longer, not doing much of anything but holding still in the wake of their brother's departure -- until the hushed murmur of voices and the familiar, solid sound of the front door closing tells them Mummy and Father have snapped free of their vigil. Sherlock glances downward over the railing and frowns before turning smartly on his heel and marching back to his room.

     The door slams closed a second time, echoing dully in Quentin's ears.

     Alone, he sits down at the top of the landing and plants his elbows on his knees, chin cupped between his two hands as he stares thoughtfully at the high window and tries to calculate -- to the second -- how long it might be until Mycroft comes home. 

[cleverq]

      "——If you're attempting to tail me discreetly,           you're doing an exceptionally poor job of it."

[cleverq]

Describe your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? Were they spoiled rotten, or ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?

Q is neither parent's favorite child, but that has less to do with him directly and more to do with the timing of his birth. (He's the third child after all; in some schools of thought he is practically superfluous.)

It's no secret between the brothers that Sherlock has always been their mother's boy, bright of eye and indomitable in temperament; Sherlock is the distillation of their mother's fire, the kinetic passion that drove her to the top of her field and then later led her away from it. And Mycroft—calculating, impossibly intelligent and politically savvy—was their father's hope; on his eldest son did Father Holmes lay all his aspirations, rightly judging Mycroft to be ambitious and yet never understanding quite how spectacularly inadequate a descriptor something as simple as ambitious might be in regards to the sort of measured infamy Mycroft cultivated.

Nevertheless, qualifying the variables does not change the sum of them: Mycroft is their father's favorite; Sherlock, their mother's.

But Q is their third living child, their youngest, and despite not being the favorite, he was still undeniably cared for. He wanted for nothing, in material or in support; his mother loved him no more or no less than her other children, and his father struggled with Q's temperament as strongly as he had Sherlock's, though in a different vein. (Still, when Q fled the country, it was his mother to whom he addressed his goodbye letter.) But he loves his parents well enough, and respects them in degrees. 

He exchanges emails with them periodically, more often with his mother than his father; it's his method of keeping in touch, and it does the trick. Q considers his current relationship with his parents healthy, though not overly close; he doesn't come home often, except when he can't find an excuse to avoid it.