And it is said that the Princess returned to her father’s kingdom. That she reigned there with justice and a kind heart for many centuries. That she was loved by her people. And that she left behind small traces of her time on Earth, visible only to those who know where to look.
This one is cute and smutty.
As You Wish – The results of showing Mycroft ‘The Princess Bride’ are unexpected, but perhaps they shouldn’t be.
teaser below the cut
Some time in their second year of dating Greg discovered that Mycroft apparently had been avoiding the cinema for the last thirty years. “You’ve never seen Die Hard?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. They were settling in at Greg’s flat to watch a movie. “Is it important?”
Greg muttered something about ‘idiot Holmes’ and grabbed a few more DVDs. “What about these?”
“No.”
That started a tradition. Once a month or so Greg would make popcorn and they’d settle on his couch and they’d watch a movie. Some Mycroft would just roll his eyes at, but Greg could always tell when the reticent man was secretly enjoying himself. No matter what else was going on, Mycroft always managed to find time for their movies.
One rainy autumn afternoon, Greg put on The Princess Bride. Mycroft started with arms crossed, but by the end of it he was leaning forward, an elegant hand on Greg’s knee and completely neglecting his popcorn. Two nights later Greg found a copy of the book on his nightstand. Autographed.
Your thought of how different the Sherlock characters are from the ACD. Holmes and Watson were cuddly, openly loved (friendly) each other, and most of all, WEREN’T ASHAMED. I want the show to bring some of this w/o it being another fucking gay joke.
I know, right?
I mean, it’s not like there isn’t pages and pages and pages of material to work with that they can tweak to modernize their relationship. And so much of it can translate smoothly into our time. They just choose not to.
Holmes wasn’t a broken, tortured character that suffered from taunts from other people. He was an impish, flamboyant, sassy, flirtatious little shit that read cheap paperback novels, and recited Shakespeare. He twinkled, and danced about, and walked around with his arm tucked into Watson’s elbow.
Watson wasn’t some defensive, deeply closeted man that would roll countless women through his bed in an effort to distract himself from Holmes, never quite realisinng that the women were becoming more and more like the brilliant detective as time went on. He had his faults, many of them. He drank, gambled, was a grouch when he was hungry. But he admired handsome men, attended bath houses, and spends an unrealistic amount of time describing Holmes’ face, and whipcord lean body. And long, sensitive fingers. The way the cords of muscles stood out on his neck. How his lips looked pursed into a tight line of concentration. The flush that would mantle his cheeks. The mischievous look he would get in his eyes when they were alone in a private train car, resting his hands on Watson’s knees, asking to be shown his heavy, serviceable weapon.
They were fucking.