Fic - The Baker Street Irregulars - 1: The Game's Afoot - The History Boys - PG-13
Title: The Baker Street Irregulars
Chapter Title: The Game’s Afoot
Fandom: The History Boys
Characters/Pairing: Scripps, Dakin, Irwin, implied Scripps/OMC(s), implied Dakin/Irwin
Summary: Historical AU, WWII. This is how the story starts - Scripps is recruited to the Special Operations Executive.
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Blackmail, a bit of language.
Word Count: 2125
Notes: I’ll keep writing this for as long as people are interested! Let me know what you want next? :) A few of the details from the short fic in this verse I posted last week have been altered in order to fit a longer narrative better. I suppose we could call this chapter one? I hope you enjoy it! Verse/chapter title pinched from Arthur Conan Doyle, but 'The Baker Street Irregulars' is what the SOE were occasionally referred to as during the War.
The Game’s Afoot
May, 1941
Oxford was over, and Scripps was packing up. His final two years at university hadn’t been as carefree and enjoyable as they really should have been, with the shadow of the war hanging over the buildings and the quadrangles as it was, whispers about the enemy, about evacuation, refugees, bombs and destruction in the air. The past few months in particular had been hard to enjoy with many of his peers leaving of their own accord to take up training in the RAF, to become officers in the army, and with others being called up against their will. Scripps had been called up too, though his letter from the Government Code and Cypher School, sending him to Bletchley Park, had been more welcome than the letters of his friends, posting them to North Africa and Burma and God only knew where else.
Taking down the pictures and newspaper cuttings from the walls of his room, Scripps startled at the rapping of knuckles on his open door, seeing as everyone else on the corridor had already left.
‘Knock knock,’ a voice said.
Scripps turned to find a man lounging in his doorway with a casual, confident air that Scripps could only hope to ever achieve, his appearance immaculate and really rather dashing. They didn’t look to be all that far apart in age, perhaps no more than a year or two between them, but the other man’s dark eyes carried an awareness, a sense of knowing that Scripps knew he didn’t possess.
‘Good afternoon,’ Scripps said, straightening up. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘If you’re Donald Scripps, then there’s quite a lot you can help me with.’ The man smiled and quirked an eyebrow.
Scripps’s blood ran cold. God, had it got out about him and Twistleton? Was this man coming calling because he’d found out about what they’d got up to in the boat shed, what they did during the vac?
‘I... I am,’ Scripps said warily.
‘Excellent.’ The man straightened up and strode into the room, taking his hat off and offering Scripps his hand. ‘Stuart Dakin, how do you do?’
‘How do you do?’ Scripps replied, shaking Dakin’s hand firmly, taking a deep breath through his nose.
‘We’ve heard rather a lot about you, Scripps,’ Dakin said, extracting a manila file from inside his jacket. Scripps’s stomach twisted with nerves at the sight of his own name printed on the front. Dakin opened it - Scripps caught sight of a photograph of himself in his university gown clipped to the first page - and began to read. ‘A double first-class degree in French and History with honours, ‘...a shrewd and really quite brilliant mind,’ ‘...a determined nature characterised by inner strength and self-belief,’ ‘a highly practical young man as well as mentally adept...’ first in both of your subjects since your first year here, sent down for a term, however, for fist-fighting... Yes. You’re just what we’re looking for.’ Dakin smirked again.
Scripps frowned, deeply suspicious. ‘May I ask what this is in relation to?’
‘You’ve been recruited, Scripps.’
‘I know,’ Scripps said. ‘I’m being posted next week.’
Dakin leant in, dropping the volume of his voice considerably. ‘This is much bigger than Bletchley Park, Don.’
‘How do you know so much about me?’ Scripps demanded, his eyes narrowing. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy about my post, I was told the fist-fighting and the being sent down had been cleared from my record, I--’
‘Sir Frank Nelson wants you recruited to lead a branch of the Special Operations Executive in France,’ Dakin said, suddenly businesslike, closing Scripps’s file. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you for months. You’re exactly what we need.’
Scripps gaped.
‘There’s a train to London from Oxford every hour. Bring only what you deem essential, do not tell anyone where you are going or the business that your trip concerns. If anyone asks, you don’t know who I am.’ Dakin straightened up and put his hat back on, slipping Scripps’s file back into a clearly voluminous pocket in his coat. ‘If you decline our offer, you are never to speak of our meeting or the SOE to anyone, I trust you understand the importance of this?’
Scripps nodded, still frowning.
‘Should you accept, we’ll expect you on Monday.’
Dakin smiled and handed Scripps a small cream calling card before lifting his hat and striding out of the door.
Scripps looked down at the card and read it, the text on it embossed in gold.
64 Baker Street
NW1
Setting Europe Ablaze
~*~
Scripps looked up at the imposing building on Baker Street from the opposite pavement and looked back down at the card Dakin had given him. He must be mad. He had no idea what these people wanted from him, no idea what it was they were going to ask him to do. But, he thought, his stomach twisting with the familiar sensation of nerves he had whenever he thought about his meeting with Dakin, whenever he thought about what might lie in store - it sounded exciting. It certainly sounded better than deciphering codes all day every day, no matter how important that was to the war effort. And Dakin had said they wanted him to lead a branch. Lead? Good God. Looking up at the building again, Scripps caught sight of Dakin watching him from a first floor window. Nodding to the man, Scripps steeled himself and crossed the road, side-stepping a young lad on a bicycle. He took a breath and straightened his back before pressing the bell for number sixty-four.
‘Name?’ A female voice said from the speaker next to the bell, startling him slightly.
‘Uh... Scripps,’ he said, unsure whether the woman could hear him, having never encountered an intercom system before. He leant closer to the speaker. ‘Don Scripps.’
The door in front of him swung open. Tightening his grip on his suitcase, Scripps stepped into a dark hallway and jumped again when someone spoke.
‘Up the stairs, Sir, first door you come to,’ the doorman said with a slight deferential bow.
‘Thank you,’ Scripps said, frowning for a moment before taking the stairs two at a time, glad to find Dakin at the top of them.
‘Scripps,’ Dakin said with a smile, shaking Scripps’s hand vigorously, clapping his upper arm. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.’
Scripps’s original relief gave way to caution. Dakin seemed really too over-familiar for his liking. He raised an eyebrow.
Dakin smirked. ‘Come on in, come on in,’ he said after a moment of holding Scripps’s gaze, pulling the door open that Scripps had been directed to and ushering him through it.
The place was a hive of activity. Men and women, all immaculately dressed, were dashing around the overcrowded room, their arms full of papers and various other objects - a Nazi uniform, what appeared to be a radio transmitter, a bloody rifle. Telephones were ringing, orders were being barked - the whole environment was completely alien to Scripps, who was so used to his village on the outskirts of Sheffield and the peace of Oxford’s libraries and the quiet, romantic (if you thought of that sort of thing) walks round the colleges.
‘The Big Man wants to see you in a moment,’ Dakin said, pushing Scripps down into a chair in the middle of the office, sitting down at the desk it was in front of. ‘However, I’m to brief you beforehand, so you know what to expect.’
‘Right,’ Scripps said, putting his case down next to his feet and taking his hat off. He wondered who The Big Man was, exactly, but didn’t push for any further detail - he was overwhelmed enough as it was.
Dakin kicked his legs up onto his desk.
‘We want to drop you into France and for you to set up a network of agents in Paris for the dual purpose of espionage and sabotage. I’m of the understanding you lived in Paris for a year, yes?’
‘That’s right,’ Scripps said, still slightly unnerved by the amount Dakin, and, presumably, everyone else here knew about him.
‘And you frequently holidayed there until the occupation?’
‘When I could afford it,’ Scripps said, his cheeks reddening. Twistleton usually paid for them both to go and stay in his fancy appartement that overlooked the Seine during their long vacations from Oxford. Christ, he hoped that they didn’t know about that too.
‘I see,’ Dakin said. ‘You will be the organiser of your network of agents, working as a French journalist under an assumed name and identity, of course. While you’re in training, we will establish a false history and portfolio for you, with your help, naturally, so you know what you’re meant to have done. We want you to worm your way into the Vichy press as far as possible. A radio transmitter, a courier and one other will be dispatched to you soon after your arrival, and it is up to you to decide whether you would like to conduct further acts of sabotage, if you catch my drift.’
‘Kill people?’ Scripps said, his face likely betraying him entirely. He didn’t quite know what to think.
‘If you like, yes. Just don’t get yourself killed in the process. We need information. That’s why we want you out there.’
‘Stuart,’ a voice called from the other side of the office. Dakin swung round in his chair and smiled at the man who’d spoken as he walked towards them, leaning heavily on a stick. ‘Is this him?’
‘It is indeed,’ Dakin said, his smile lingering on the other, older man. ‘Scripps, this is Irwin. Irwin, Scripps.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Irwin said, passing his walking stick into his left hand so that he and Scripps could shake.
Scripps smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m nothing special,’ he said, honestly bewildered as to why he was being afforded so much attention.
‘Oh, well,’ Irwin said, leaning in conspiratorially, ‘I think we’d beg to differ here.’ He straightened up and raised both eyebrows at Scripps, and Scripps could have sworn that he’d winked at Dakin before walking off.
‘How long have you been watching me?’ Scripps demanded, turning to look at Dakin, his gaze hard.
Dakin looked unmoved. ‘A year, perhaps?’
‘And why should I do this? Why do you want me so badly? Why not someone else, what’s so bloody special about me?’
‘We think you’d do well,’ Dakin said, taking his legs off his desk and resting his forearms on it instead. ‘We’ve seen your exam results, your articles for the university’s newspaper, your many other... talents.’ Dakin let the words hang in the air and arched one eyebrow. Scripps’s heart seized just as it had the first time he and Dakin had met. ‘We have seen,’ Dakin murmured, leaning forward, the usually ever-present smirk gone from his face as he fixed Scripps with a penetrating stare.
Scripps swallowed and tried desperately to keep his breathing under control, his right hand curling into a fist on his lap. They had seen. Of course they’d fucking well seen, if they’d been watching him for a year. They’d have seen every time Twistleton had dragged him down to the riverbank, they’d have seen every time he scaled Twistleton’s college wall, and Chilton’s, to boot, and Lawson’s, as well.
Dakin sat back in his chair again, at ease once more. ‘You’ll be paid, of course, you’ll be doing your bit, the work will be exciting, you’ll be a hero. You’d be bored at Bletchley Park.’
‘It sounds as though I don’t have a choice,’ Scripps said quietly, his brow furrowed.
‘Oh, good, you picked up on that.’ Dakin grinned, and there was the slightest flicker of something sinister in his eyes. ‘No-one cares here, Scripps. We employ all sorts. But it’s you we want and we’re prepared to go to a great length to get you. I, for one, am not above blackmail.’
Scripps set his jaw and slowly extended his hand across the desk.
Dakin took it, his grin widening. ‘Welcome aboard then, Agent Scripps. Training begins tomorrow.’
Chapter Title: The Game’s Afoot
Fandom: The History Boys
Characters/Pairing: Scripps, Dakin, Irwin, implied Scripps/OMC(s), implied Dakin/Irwin
Summary: Historical AU, WWII. This is how the story starts - Scripps is recruited to the Special Operations Executive.
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Blackmail, a bit of language.
Word Count: 2125
Notes: I’ll keep writing this for as long as people are interested! Let me know what you want next? :) A few of the details from the short fic in this verse I posted last week have been altered in order to fit a longer narrative better. I suppose we could call this chapter one? I hope you enjoy it! Verse/chapter title pinched from Arthur Conan Doyle, but 'The Baker Street Irregulars' is what the SOE were occasionally referred to as during the War.
The Game’s Afoot
May, 1941
Oxford was over, and Scripps was packing up. His final two years at university hadn’t been as carefree and enjoyable as they really should have been, with the shadow of the war hanging over the buildings and the quadrangles as it was, whispers about the enemy, about evacuation, refugees, bombs and destruction in the air. The past few months in particular had been hard to enjoy with many of his peers leaving of their own accord to take up training in the RAF, to become officers in the army, and with others being called up against their will. Scripps had been called up too, though his letter from the Government Code and Cypher School, sending him to Bletchley Park, had been more welcome than the letters of his friends, posting them to North Africa and Burma and God only knew where else.
Taking down the pictures and newspaper cuttings from the walls of his room, Scripps startled at the rapping of knuckles on his open door, seeing as everyone else on the corridor had already left.
‘Knock knock,’ a voice said.
Scripps turned to find a man lounging in his doorway with a casual, confident air that Scripps could only hope to ever achieve, his appearance immaculate and really rather dashing. They didn’t look to be all that far apart in age, perhaps no more than a year or two between them, but the other man’s dark eyes carried an awareness, a sense of knowing that Scripps knew he didn’t possess.
‘Good afternoon,’ Scripps said, straightening up. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘If you’re Donald Scripps, then there’s quite a lot you can help me with.’ The man smiled and quirked an eyebrow.
Scripps’s blood ran cold. God, had it got out about him and Twistleton? Was this man coming calling because he’d found out about what they’d got up to in the boat shed, what they did during the vac?
‘I... I am,’ Scripps said warily.
‘Excellent.’ The man straightened up and strode into the room, taking his hat off and offering Scripps his hand. ‘Stuart Dakin, how do you do?’
‘How do you do?’ Scripps replied, shaking Dakin’s hand firmly, taking a deep breath through his nose.
‘We’ve heard rather a lot about you, Scripps,’ Dakin said, extracting a manila file from inside his jacket. Scripps’s stomach twisted with nerves at the sight of his own name printed on the front. Dakin opened it - Scripps caught sight of a photograph of himself in his university gown clipped to the first page - and began to read. ‘A double first-class degree in French and History with honours, ‘...a shrewd and really quite brilliant mind,’ ‘...a determined nature characterised by inner strength and self-belief,’ ‘a highly practical young man as well as mentally adept...’ first in both of your subjects since your first year here, sent down for a term, however, for fist-fighting... Yes. You’re just what we’re looking for.’ Dakin smirked again.
Scripps frowned, deeply suspicious. ‘May I ask what this is in relation to?’
‘You’ve been recruited, Scripps.’
‘I know,’ Scripps said. ‘I’m being posted next week.’
Dakin leant in, dropping the volume of his voice considerably. ‘This is much bigger than Bletchley Park, Don.’
‘How do you know so much about me?’ Scripps demanded, his eyes narrowing. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy about my post, I was told the fist-fighting and the being sent down had been cleared from my record, I--’
‘Sir Frank Nelson wants you recruited to lead a branch of the Special Operations Executive in France,’ Dakin said, suddenly businesslike, closing Scripps’s file. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you for months. You’re exactly what we need.’
Scripps gaped.
‘There’s a train to London from Oxford every hour. Bring only what you deem essential, do not tell anyone where you are going or the business that your trip concerns. If anyone asks, you don’t know who I am.’ Dakin straightened up and put his hat back on, slipping Scripps’s file back into a clearly voluminous pocket in his coat. ‘If you decline our offer, you are never to speak of our meeting or the SOE to anyone, I trust you understand the importance of this?’
Scripps nodded, still frowning.
‘Should you accept, we’ll expect you on Monday.’
Dakin smiled and handed Scripps a small cream calling card before lifting his hat and striding out of the door.
Scripps looked down at the card and read it, the text on it embossed in gold.
64 Baker Street
NW1
Setting Europe Ablaze
~*~
Scripps looked up at the imposing building on Baker Street from the opposite pavement and looked back down at the card Dakin had given him. He must be mad. He had no idea what these people wanted from him, no idea what it was they were going to ask him to do. But, he thought, his stomach twisting with the familiar sensation of nerves he had whenever he thought about his meeting with Dakin, whenever he thought about what might lie in store - it sounded exciting. It certainly sounded better than deciphering codes all day every day, no matter how important that was to the war effort. And Dakin had said they wanted him to lead a branch. Lead? Good God. Looking up at the building again, Scripps caught sight of Dakin watching him from a first floor window. Nodding to the man, Scripps steeled himself and crossed the road, side-stepping a young lad on a bicycle. He took a breath and straightened his back before pressing the bell for number sixty-four.
‘Name?’ A female voice said from the speaker next to the bell, startling him slightly.
‘Uh... Scripps,’ he said, unsure whether the woman could hear him, having never encountered an intercom system before. He leant closer to the speaker. ‘Don Scripps.’
The door in front of him swung open. Tightening his grip on his suitcase, Scripps stepped into a dark hallway and jumped again when someone spoke.
‘Up the stairs, Sir, first door you come to,’ the doorman said with a slight deferential bow.
‘Thank you,’ Scripps said, frowning for a moment before taking the stairs two at a time, glad to find Dakin at the top of them.
‘Scripps,’ Dakin said with a smile, shaking Scripps’s hand vigorously, clapping his upper arm. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.’
Scripps’s original relief gave way to caution. Dakin seemed really too over-familiar for his liking. He raised an eyebrow.
Dakin smirked. ‘Come on in, come on in,’ he said after a moment of holding Scripps’s gaze, pulling the door open that Scripps had been directed to and ushering him through it.
The place was a hive of activity. Men and women, all immaculately dressed, were dashing around the overcrowded room, their arms full of papers and various other objects - a Nazi uniform, what appeared to be a radio transmitter, a bloody rifle. Telephones were ringing, orders were being barked - the whole environment was completely alien to Scripps, who was so used to his village on the outskirts of Sheffield and the peace of Oxford’s libraries and the quiet, romantic (if you thought of that sort of thing) walks round the colleges.
‘The Big Man wants to see you in a moment,’ Dakin said, pushing Scripps down into a chair in the middle of the office, sitting down at the desk it was in front of. ‘However, I’m to brief you beforehand, so you know what to expect.’
‘Right,’ Scripps said, putting his case down next to his feet and taking his hat off. He wondered who The Big Man was, exactly, but didn’t push for any further detail - he was overwhelmed enough as it was.
Dakin kicked his legs up onto his desk.
‘We want to drop you into France and for you to set up a network of agents in Paris for the dual purpose of espionage and sabotage. I’m of the understanding you lived in Paris for a year, yes?’
‘That’s right,’ Scripps said, still slightly unnerved by the amount Dakin, and, presumably, everyone else here knew about him.
‘And you frequently holidayed there until the occupation?’
‘When I could afford it,’ Scripps said, his cheeks reddening. Twistleton usually paid for them both to go and stay in his fancy appartement that overlooked the Seine during their long vacations from Oxford. Christ, he hoped that they didn’t know about that too.
‘I see,’ Dakin said. ‘You will be the organiser of your network of agents, working as a French journalist under an assumed name and identity, of course. While you’re in training, we will establish a false history and portfolio for you, with your help, naturally, so you know what you’re meant to have done. We want you to worm your way into the Vichy press as far as possible. A radio transmitter, a courier and one other will be dispatched to you soon after your arrival, and it is up to you to decide whether you would like to conduct further acts of sabotage, if you catch my drift.’
‘Kill people?’ Scripps said, his face likely betraying him entirely. He didn’t quite know what to think.
‘If you like, yes. Just don’t get yourself killed in the process. We need information. That’s why we want you out there.’
‘Stuart,’ a voice called from the other side of the office. Dakin swung round in his chair and smiled at the man who’d spoken as he walked towards them, leaning heavily on a stick. ‘Is this him?’
‘It is indeed,’ Dakin said, his smile lingering on the other, older man. ‘Scripps, this is Irwin. Irwin, Scripps.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Irwin said, passing his walking stick into his left hand so that he and Scripps could shake.
Scripps smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m nothing special,’ he said, honestly bewildered as to why he was being afforded so much attention.
‘Oh, well,’ Irwin said, leaning in conspiratorially, ‘I think we’d beg to differ here.’ He straightened up and raised both eyebrows at Scripps, and Scripps could have sworn that he’d winked at Dakin before walking off.
‘How long have you been watching me?’ Scripps demanded, turning to look at Dakin, his gaze hard.
Dakin looked unmoved. ‘A year, perhaps?’
‘And why should I do this? Why do you want me so badly? Why not someone else, what’s so bloody special about me?’
‘We think you’d do well,’ Dakin said, taking his legs off his desk and resting his forearms on it instead. ‘We’ve seen your exam results, your articles for the university’s newspaper, your many other... talents.’ Dakin let the words hang in the air and arched one eyebrow. Scripps’s heart seized just as it had the first time he and Dakin had met. ‘We have seen,’ Dakin murmured, leaning forward, the usually ever-present smirk gone from his face as he fixed Scripps with a penetrating stare.
Scripps swallowed and tried desperately to keep his breathing under control, his right hand curling into a fist on his lap. They had seen. Of course they’d fucking well seen, if they’d been watching him for a year. They’d have seen every time Twistleton had dragged him down to the riverbank, they’d have seen every time he scaled Twistleton’s college wall, and Chilton’s, to boot, and Lawson’s, as well.
Dakin sat back in his chair again, at ease once more. ‘You’ll be paid, of course, you’ll be doing your bit, the work will be exciting, you’ll be a hero. You’d be bored at Bletchley Park.’
‘It sounds as though I don’t have a choice,’ Scripps said quietly, his brow furrowed.
‘Oh, good, you picked up on that.’ Dakin grinned, and there was the slightest flicker of something sinister in his eyes. ‘No-one cares here, Scripps. We employ all sorts. But it’s you we want and we’re prepared to go to a great length to get you. I, for one, am not above blackmail.’
Scripps set his jaw and slowly extended his hand across the desk.
Dakin took it, his grin widening. ‘Welcome aboard then, Agent Scripps. Training begins tomorrow.’