application for amatomnes and character bio
PLAYER
» Journal: hobbit_feets
» Birthdate/Age: 28 August, 1989- 21
» Characters Played: None at Amat
CHARACTER
» Name: Mycroft Holmes
» Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
» Reference: Info on the character in general: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mycroft_Holmes And the particular version of the Holmes universe he inhabits: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherlock_(TV_series)
» Canon Point: Post ‘The Great Game’
» Gender: Male
» Age: 40
» Orientation: Unknown. His role in the TV series thus far has not touched on his sexual or romantic proclivities at all. Some of his exchanges with John could certainly be read as suggestive, and it has been proposed that the character originally was based in part off Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle’s friend Oscar Wilde, who was, of course, famously gay, but there’s nothing more concrete to go from.
» Personality: Sherlock Holmes is, famously, a genius. He can look at someone and tell them their life history, their relationship to their family and friends, how long they’ve been married and whether they’re happy in it or not, where they’ve been that day and what they ate for breakfast. His name has become synonymous with deductive skill and eerily detailed observation; his intellect is unrivalled by any.
Any except his brother.
Sherlock Holmes’s brain does extraordinary things, but Mycroft’s can do even more. Everything Sherlock sees, so also does he; if Sherlock’s missed it, it’s likely Mycroft hasn’t. The fundamental difference between the brothers, though, is that Mycroft is lazy. He’s indolent, and quite content in the knowledge of his own intelligence without having to show off his abilities to all and sundry. It’s his intelligence that’s made him that way; someone as smart as he never had to work to accomplish things-indeed, to have things handed to him gift-wrapped and on a silver platter.
And intelligence gets you places. In Mycroft’s case, it gets him ‘a minor position in the British government’-which is to say, it’s made him what one might prosaically call the power behind the throne. Mycroft has fingers in more pies than a leper on a cookery course, to borrow a line from Gene Hunt; he’s attached, in one way or another, to most of the major political goings-on in the world today, and events are put in motion-- or prevented from doing so-- at a nod from him. Sherlock sniped at him in episode one not to start a war before he got home, and naturally, Mycroft’s far too responsible to do something as petty as that, but he could, really, if he wanted to. He’s the kind of man who, given sufficient reason, could make somebody disappear-- eliminate all records of their existence, take care of every detail down to the last whisper.
When he’s not busy making sure the world keeps running, Mycroft keeps constant tabs on his brother. It’s not difficult, when you have access to every CCTV camera in the country, and the files of anybody he might come into contact with. His reasons for this are threefold. 1) Sherlock is an idiot, no-matter how intelligent he might be, 2) Sherlock's lifestyle is one which routinely places him in the path of poison and gunfire and explosives, and 3) no-matter how it may appear, Mycroft really does genuinely care about his younger brother. Their relationship is hardly a smooth one, however; Sherlock styles him as his ‘arch-enemy’ (and it must be said, superficially at least, Mycroft does seem to fit the role), and generally refuses to have any kind of civil interaction with him whatever. Hence the necessity of espionage in order to keep an eye on him. Neither of the Holmes brothers are really what one would call normal.
Sherlock is, in fact, one of the few people Mycroft does genuinely care about. Generally, his attitude to people is as pawns; they’re useful, or perhaps not-- good for amusement, for accomplishing an end, but it’s rare that he should form an enduring emotional attachment to anyone. Unlike Sherlock, however, he is incredibly good with people. He understands them, not merely factually, and understands the social mores that they play by. While Sherlock disdains the system that the rest of society functions according to, Mycroft uses it; he sees more use in bending the rules to one’s own purpose than defying them entirely. That kind of rebellion is so voguish and pedestrian. He’s not entirely anti-social, however. One must be a people person to be in government, after all, and he’s as well-connected socially as he is politically.
Mycroft is also a man who enjoys his indulgences. He as a weakness for good food and good drink, and he keeps two residences-- one a large house in the country, and one a London flat to stay in when business calls him to the city for extended periods of time. The flat is rather spartan, but his house is furnished lavishly; he may or may not have a few wing-backed armchairs sitting around in front of fireplaces. Sherlock isn’t the only one with a weakness for the dramatic.
His general bearing speaks for something of a weakness for the dramatic, in truth. He’s silver-tongued and smooth, with a penchant for occasionally whisking people off in low, black cars with tinted windows, and a laugh that makes him sound a tiny bit like a panto villain. But he likes to think he’s earned his position, so there’s no harm in enjoying the benefits.
A note: I would not label Mycroft as a sociopath, but I do think that he displays certain traits which have traditionally been linked to antisocial personality disorders. Generally, he tends to be cold-blooded and not terribly empathetic, and he has few scruples in regards to lying or twisting of facts. He’s arrogant, not unreasonably so, given that he is one of the most intelligent people in the world, and one of the most powerful, to boot. Additionally, he likes his life to be meticulously organised down to the minutiae, to the point where he gets thrown off should his schedule be upset in any way.
» Appearance: If Mycroft Holmes is anything, it’s well-groomed. He’s a tall man in early middle age, with dark, neatly combed hair, clad almost invariably in a series of the most perfectly tailored three piece suits money can buy. He is perhaps not quite conventionally handsome, with a funny nose and a rather weak chin, but he holds himself like he is, and when you’re Mycroft Holmes, that’s enough. According to Sherlock, he has issues with his weight, but just at the moment, he’s looking perfectly svelte.
»Suitability: N/A
SAMPLES
» "amatomnes" Entry:
Voice post:
[Silence, and then there’s the sound of a man clearing his throat. When he speaks, his voice is a smooth, well-modulated baritone, very upper class English. He sounds vaguely bored, but civil enough.]
It really is terribly discourteous of you to keep me waiting like this, you know. Acting on the assumption that there’s something you want from me, there’s very little chance of you getting it without addressing the subject to me first. I assure you, I am quite willing to cooperate.
[A pause, and a dry chuckle.]
I should say, If this is to do with the recent events in Korea, you’ve picked me up a week too late. There’s nothing to be done about that now.
» "amatomneslogs" Entry:
Though he enjoys it just as much as the next man, Mycroft doesn’t generally have sex on a regular basis. It’s simply something that doesn’t really fit into his schedule; dating requires time and energy, and an interest he often doesn’t have, and anonymous one-offs seem so tawdry. The feeling as he wakes, though, is unmistakeable; the pleasurable soreness, the lingering sensation of rare exertion in his muscles, the slightly stale scent of sweat and semen-- his own and someone else’s. Physically, it feels good, satisfies a need he hasn’t indulged in some time, but he wakens to a sense of mild alarm nevertheless. He has no recollection beyond the fuzzy memories peculiar to dreams of any sexual encounter the night previous, and yet all the evidence is there. With a memory like his, that should be impossible, and yet there the facts are, laid out in uncomfortable opposition.
He processes all this in a matter of seconds, before he’s even woken up enough to open his eyes, after which, his attention turns to the feeling of sheets on his bare skin. Generally, he sleeps in pyjamas, but he knows the sensation of his own bed linens, and these are not them. Nor indeed is the air the air of his London flat-- or London at all. It’s warm, gently humid, with the scent of stone and flora carried on the faint draft, and under that, the salt whiff that betrays proximity to the sea. The pitch and frequency of the waves he can hear makes his location undoubtedly an island, and a small one. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, he thinks, as he sits up.
The room around him is tasteful, white stone and loose curtains and is, indeed, vaguely Grecian in design. Mycroft doesn’t allow himself the luxury of surprise as he takes it in. He’s naked, but the clothes he was wearing the day before have been folded neatly and placed in a pile at the end of the bed, and Mycroft goes to them at once, wiping himself clean with the silk sheet he’d been tangled in before methodically pulling on pants, shirt, trousers, waistcoat, dressing himself with a deliberate calmness until he’s clad in one of his impeccable three-piece suits and feeling much more himself. The faintest creases mark where it had been folded, and Mycroft smoothes them down with mild chagrin. He does hate to wear the same clothes two days in a row.
Finally, he addresses the issue of the chain he’d felt around his neck. It’s short enough that, even tucking his chin down to peer after it, he can’t see it, but there’s a mirror on the wall, and it shows, a glint of gold under his crisp collar. There’s no clasp on it, nor indeed any sign of the fine links having been soldered together, and he sniffs as he adjusts his collar, pulling it a little higher. He’ll have someone get it removed later; for the moment, there are other matters to attend to.
Kidnapping is clearly the only answer to the situation he finds himself in. The location, and the conspicuous absence in his memory as to how he got here leave room for no other interpretation. Unexpected perhaps, in the short term, but ultimately unsurprising. Mycroft is an important man, and important men invariably make themselves enemies. He’s even a little bit impressed, to tell the truth. His captors, whomever they are, must have got him while he slept, and drugged him heavily.
He ought to be feeling the aftereffects of the chemicals in his system, but the only sensation he has is the persistent, unsettling insistence of his body that he’s just had a fantastic shag. Some drugs can mimic the effects of the natural chemicals in the brain stimulated by sex-- oxytocin, dopamine, vasopressin-- that seems the most likely answer. Mycroft closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and pressing fingertips to the lines in his forehead, smoothing them out and down.
Kidnapping means one of a few things; 1) someone is displeased with a decision he’s responsible for and means to threaten him into retracting it, 2) someone is displeased with the British government at large, and means to hold him for ransom, or, 3) someone is displeased with Sherlock, and means to use him as leverage against him. They’re all equally tiresome possibilities, but all easily dealt with. His iPhone is still in the pocket of his trousers, but there’s no reception; Mycroft switches it off to conserve the batteries. There is, interestingly enough, a PDA sitting on a bedside table, and Mycroft idly snatches it up to examine it. His captors fancy a chat, then, do they?
There’s nothing to do now but wait. Kidnapping is all about power, and who holds it; whomever has orchestrated this will make themselves known eventually.