A Personal Interest
A Personal Interest: Mycroft Holmes is unamused at hooligans harassing John Watson, as well. Sequel to What Friends Do.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1407
Warning: Reference to child abuse, unbeta'ed/unBritpicked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Mycroft Holmes was not an emotional man. Much like his brother, he generally frowned upon being ruled by one's emotions, though he exhibited the appearance of emotions in a much more natural fashion than Sherlock. He was adept at the use of body language, intonation, and the perfect choice of words to get the ends he desired, in most cases, though at this stage of his career it was unlikely he would do so in person - that is, after all, what personnel are for.
However, there were certainly times when what one felt was as much a tool as what one seemed to feel, and this was one of those rare situations where using an underling would be far less satisfying than doing what was required in person.
Also, he was quite fond of one Doctor John Hamish Watson.
The man handcuffed to the chair across the table from Mycroft's usual chair seemed much smaller than he actually was - fear and shame did that to a person. Mycroft was rather impressed with what Sherlock had done with a handful of sentences, though of course he would never inform him of such; his brother was quite insufferable as it was. The prison jumpsuit would normally be a badge of honour for one such as he, but after Sherlock's cutting appraisal, the man had to be questioning whether his life was as easily seen to his fellow inmates as it was to one tall, pale toff in a flash suit.
"So," Mycroft intoned, drawing out the single syllable just a touch as he walked from the door round the table, "you are one William David Adams, known as 'Billy' to your friends, how...prosaic." He allowed himself a slight pinch of the nostrils as he stood behind his chair, resting the tip of his umbrella on the floor. He had no intention of sitting; the scum across the table didn't need to feel anything like Mycroft's equal, and he was going to use every weapon at his disposal to remind this "Billy" that he was, in fact, lower than dirt. "Son of Samuel Brian Adams and Jillian Rose Adams, both deceased...good riddance," he continued, noting the flare of hate in the eyes at the last part, "as they were obviously child abusers and most likely nurtured your own ignorance and prejudice as well."
"You don't talk that way about my parents," the man growled, but with only a shadow of his former aggressiveness - he had rather clearly done a bit of "resisting arrest", and he was not in top shape.
"Merely stating facts," Mycroft replied airily. "You are part of the recreant gang that broke into JT Electronics last Wednesday evening, beating the owner badly and stealing a good portion of his wares, under the impression that he had homosexual tendencies. That alone will get you a decent amount of time behind bars. Unfortunately for you, you also made the mistake of verbally abusing a friend of mine." Allowing a smile to stretch across his face, Mycroft watched the man's face pale just a bit. It seemed he wasn't that much of a fool. The man had barely been delivered to New Scotland Yard before one of Mycroft's men had come to fetch him, and this was clearly no common interrogation chamber, as he'd taken the liberty of transporting the man to one of his own buildings. Even the most dim-witted fellow could harly avoid realizing something out of the ordinary was occurring. Combine that with Mycroft's words...well.
"I didn't - "
"I do not recall giving you permission to speak," Mycroft said sharply, causing the man to fall silent. "That's better. Now, this could be easily resolved by having one of my associates causing you to simply...disappear," he continued, thoroughly enjoying the way the man's face blanched even further. "However, I'm not entirely certain that would drive home the lesson I wish to impart to you."
Pulling an envelope from his breast pocket, Mycroft opened it and scattered the contents across the table in front of the man. "Ludicrously easy to arrange incriminating photographs these days, isn't it?" he drawled, keeping his eyes on the man's face rather than the pictures. A half-hour was more than enough time for one of his more technically savvy personnel to Photoshop a dozen photos of this man's face onto surveillance of two men engaged in rather risque behaviour in a dank sort of alleyway. The man was now gray, and he looked completely incapable of speaking.
"I'm sure you understand when I say that I'd like to come to an arrangement with you, Billy. New Scotland Yard is going to ask you some questions when we're through here, and I'd appreciate you answering them in as much detail as they require. Normally this sort of case would be beneath my regard, but I rather think your friends will think unkindly of you for providing what the police require, and I must admit I'm quite fond of that idea." He waited for a response, but the man in front of him did not seem inclined to reply yet. "In return for these details, I will...delay the revealing of these photographs to your group until you have been moved to a facility out of reach of your former comrades."
"What? But they'll kill me!" the man burst out, finally finding his tongue.
"I rather doubt they'll go to the lengths required to kill you," Mycroft said dismissively, waving one hand. "However you will certainly not be able to return to London after your eventual release."
The broken look on the man's face was everything Mycroft hoped for. He was certainly aware that he was being petty, but it felt like a lovely piece of irony that the images that would ensure the man never returned to John's home city were of things that he probably wanted to do and would never dare. On the other hand, if the man ever decided to mend his ways and embrace what he was, well...doing so far from London was probably best for him, so in a certain sense Mycroft could protest he was simply giving the man a fresh start. Not that there was anyone he needed to protest to, but he liked to have an out if necessary; he certainly hadn't gotten to his position without covering every detail. It was also no matter that someone that steeped in hatred would probably not learn the amount of tolerance needed to truly mend his ways; he would never again put his filthy tongue on Mycroft's friend, and that was what Mycroft was truly after.
"I believe I've made my wishes clear," Mycroft said, drawing himself up and raising one eyebrow at the crushed man in the chair across from him. The man nodded numbly, and Mycroft smiled in what appeared to be a perfectly natural grin, except for his eyes, which remained as hard as agates and made it clear to the man that he was deadly serious. "In that case, I wish you good day, Billy, and I do hope you enjoy your little chat with Sergeant Donovan."
Picking up his umbrella, Mycroft walked to the door, and then turned as if he'd forgotten something. The man in the chair cringed a little, and Mycroft's smile widened. "I should probably inform you that Sergeant Donovan has a cousin who was injured in a hate crime for being homosexual, and she's rather negatively inclined toward those who commit such crimes, beyond what one would normally assume of someone from two different minorities. Were I you, I would make an effort to be exceptionally polite to her - she can make your life highly difficult while you are in her possession."
With that last little gem, more likely to get the man in deeper trouble - Sally Donovan was incredibly hostile toward those she thought were being condescending, and politeness from a small-time thug would very much be perceived as condescending - Mycroft opened the door and stepped out, nodding to his PA, who had been waiting outside alongside the guard.
"I do believe that one will stay out of our hair for now," he commented to her, and she looked up long enough to give her boss a quick, blinding smile.
"I certainly hope so, sir," she replied. "I'd hate to think your scintillating words and Huey's twenty-two minutes on Photoshop had been wasted."
Rating: PG
Word count: 1407
Warning: Reference to child abuse, unbeta'ed/unBritpicked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Mycroft Holmes was not an emotional man. Much like his brother, he generally frowned upon being ruled by one's emotions, though he exhibited the appearance of emotions in a much more natural fashion than Sherlock. He was adept at the use of body language, intonation, and the perfect choice of words to get the ends he desired, in most cases, though at this stage of his career it was unlikely he would do so in person - that is, after all, what personnel are for.
However, there were certainly times when what one felt was as much a tool as what one seemed to feel, and this was one of those rare situations where using an underling would be far less satisfying than doing what was required in person.
Also, he was quite fond of one Doctor John Hamish Watson.
The man handcuffed to the chair across the table from Mycroft's usual chair seemed much smaller than he actually was - fear and shame did that to a person. Mycroft was rather impressed with what Sherlock had done with a handful of sentences, though of course he would never inform him of such; his brother was quite insufferable as it was. The prison jumpsuit would normally be a badge of honour for one such as he, but after Sherlock's cutting appraisal, the man had to be questioning whether his life was as easily seen to his fellow inmates as it was to one tall, pale toff in a flash suit.
"So," Mycroft intoned, drawing out the single syllable just a touch as he walked from the door round the table, "you are one William David Adams, known as 'Billy' to your friends, how...prosaic." He allowed himself a slight pinch of the nostrils as he stood behind his chair, resting the tip of his umbrella on the floor. He had no intention of sitting; the scum across the table didn't need to feel anything like Mycroft's equal, and he was going to use every weapon at his disposal to remind this "Billy" that he was, in fact, lower than dirt. "Son of Samuel Brian Adams and Jillian Rose Adams, both deceased...good riddance," he continued, noting the flare of hate in the eyes at the last part, "as they were obviously child abusers and most likely nurtured your own ignorance and prejudice as well."
"You don't talk that way about my parents," the man growled, but with only a shadow of his former aggressiveness - he had rather clearly done a bit of "resisting arrest", and he was not in top shape.
"Merely stating facts," Mycroft replied airily. "You are part of the recreant gang that broke into JT Electronics last Wednesday evening, beating the owner badly and stealing a good portion of his wares, under the impression that he had homosexual tendencies. That alone will get you a decent amount of time behind bars. Unfortunately for you, you also made the mistake of verbally abusing a friend of mine." Allowing a smile to stretch across his face, Mycroft watched the man's face pale just a bit. It seemed he wasn't that much of a fool. The man had barely been delivered to New Scotland Yard before one of Mycroft's men had come to fetch him, and this was clearly no common interrogation chamber, as he'd taken the liberty of transporting the man to one of his own buildings. Even the most dim-witted fellow could harly avoid realizing something out of the ordinary was occurring. Combine that with Mycroft's words...well.
"I didn't - "
"I do not recall giving you permission to speak," Mycroft said sharply, causing the man to fall silent. "That's better. Now, this could be easily resolved by having one of my associates causing you to simply...disappear," he continued, thoroughly enjoying the way the man's face blanched even further. "However, I'm not entirely certain that would drive home the lesson I wish to impart to you."
Pulling an envelope from his breast pocket, Mycroft opened it and scattered the contents across the table in front of the man. "Ludicrously easy to arrange incriminating photographs these days, isn't it?" he drawled, keeping his eyes on the man's face rather than the pictures. A half-hour was more than enough time for one of his more technically savvy personnel to Photoshop a dozen photos of this man's face onto surveillance of two men engaged in rather risque behaviour in a dank sort of alleyway. The man was now gray, and he looked completely incapable of speaking.
"I'm sure you understand when I say that I'd like to come to an arrangement with you, Billy. New Scotland Yard is going to ask you some questions when we're through here, and I'd appreciate you answering them in as much detail as they require. Normally this sort of case would be beneath my regard, but I rather think your friends will think unkindly of you for providing what the police require, and I must admit I'm quite fond of that idea." He waited for a response, but the man in front of him did not seem inclined to reply yet. "In return for these details, I will...delay the revealing of these photographs to your group until you have been moved to a facility out of reach of your former comrades."
"What? But they'll kill me!" the man burst out, finally finding his tongue.
"I rather doubt they'll go to the lengths required to kill you," Mycroft said dismissively, waving one hand. "However you will certainly not be able to return to London after your eventual release."
The broken look on the man's face was everything Mycroft hoped for. He was certainly aware that he was being petty, but it felt like a lovely piece of irony that the images that would ensure the man never returned to John's home city were of things that he probably wanted to do and would never dare. On the other hand, if the man ever decided to mend his ways and embrace what he was, well...doing so far from London was probably best for him, so in a certain sense Mycroft could protest he was simply giving the man a fresh start. Not that there was anyone he needed to protest to, but he liked to have an out if necessary; he certainly hadn't gotten to his position without covering every detail. It was also no matter that someone that steeped in hatred would probably not learn the amount of tolerance needed to truly mend his ways; he would never again put his filthy tongue on Mycroft's friend, and that was what Mycroft was truly after.
"I believe I've made my wishes clear," Mycroft said, drawing himself up and raising one eyebrow at the crushed man in the chair across from him. The man nodded numbly, and Mycroft smiled in what appeared to be a perfectly natural grin, except for his eyes, which remained as hard as agates and made it clear to the man that he was deadly serious. "In that case, I wish you good day, Billy, and I do hope you enjoy your little chat with Sergeant Donovan."
Picking up his umbrella, Mycroft walked to the door, and then turned as if he'd forgotten something. The man in the chair cringed a little, and Mycroft's smile widened. "I should probably inform you that Sergeant Donovan has a cousin who was injured in a hate crime for being homosexual, and she's rather negatively inclined toward those who commit such crimes, beyond what one would normally assume of someone from two different minorities. Were I you, I would make an effort to be exceptionally polite to her - she can make your life highly difficult while you are in her possession."
With that last little gem, more likely to get the man in deeper trouble - Sally Donovan was incredibly hostile toward those she thought were being condescending, and politeness from a small-time thug would very much be perceived as condescending - Mycroft opened the door and stepped out, nodding to his PA, who had been waiting outside alongside the guard.
"I do believe that one will stay out of our hair for now," he commented to her, and she looked up long enough to give her boss a quick, blinding smile.
"I certainly hope so, sir," she replied. "I'd hate to think your scintillating words and Huey's twenty-two minutes on Photoshop had been wasted."