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turanteToday I give the world... a Christmas present for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blooms84
Something... different. But in a world where you can find Sherlock/coat porn fics, and (apparently) Sherlock/skull art... there is room enough for some chaste romance between everyday objects, right?
Rating: Pg-13
Pairing: Mycroft's Umbrella/Lestrade's Notebook, (Mycroft/Lestrade as a background)
Word Count: 1345
A/N: this is a love story between two inanimate objects. It was born of a misunderstanding between me andblooms84, it was developed seriously as a dare from crocodile_eat_u, who said 'don't make it cracky', the happier ending is thanks to Christmastime.
Dedicated to you, girls!
Warnings: contains a bit of ANGST
Title:Inanimate Doesn't Mean Heartless
Just because it was inanimate, it didn't mean that it was devoid of feelings.
Mycroft’s umbrella had a full range of emotions to draw from; it was capable of experiencing joy, disappointment, anxiety, eagerness.
The fact that it was stuck on longing and a bit of sadness was purely accidental. It was because it was in love, something not even it, or its exceptional owner, believed it was capable of.
It was dreadful to be in love, thought the umbrella. It made it feel miserable and lonely when it couldn’t see the object of its affection, and heartbroken every time it saw it.
Now was one of those times.
Its owner had brought him along as he went to visit its love’s owner, and left it beside the door with the other umbrellas. Those superficial, shallow, empty-headed things that were barely good enough to protect someone against the weather. Mycroft’s umbrella felt lonely and misunderstood in their company, it felt excluded and unhappy, and they made fun of it, as it was gazing longingly at the notebook lying beside the telephone.
The umbrella would have sighed if it only had the right equipment to do it. Its folds of fabric swished, and it made a soft wishful sound.
The notebook was a rascal, it knew it perfectly, everyone knew of its string of pens. Every now and then it dried up a pen and its owner promptly pulled out another one to continue writing. A homely ballpoint pen was lying beside it even now, uncapped, mocking the umbrella, slamming in front of his eyes the harsh reality: it had just shared an intimacy with the notebook the umbrella could never experience, and now it was resting beside it as the ink on the page dried quickly, while the poor besotted umbrella was on the other side of the room. An incommensurable distance for an object that didn’t possess the ability to move.
Then the umbrella watched its owner pick up the notebook and almost affectionately ruffle its pages, until he came to a blank, virginal one. He took out the stylish fountain pen he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote something on the page, then he blew gently on it to dry the ink. The notebook’s owner stared; maybe he didn’t trust him with his precious notebook.
And he shouldn’t have. Because as soon as the ink was dry, Mycroft ripped the page off and folded it twice before putting it in his pocket.
The umbrella would have screamed, had it had lungs and vocal chords, but as it hadn’t, it had to settle for rattling his metal rays and pulling them closer to its centre. It was the best way it knew how to express rage and disdain.
But none of the humans seemed to pay it attention.
It was just an umbrella, after all.
And its mutilated love now lay back on the coffee table, between the cheap, slutty ballpoint and the telephone, forgotten easily as the two humans engaged in kissing.
The other umbrellas made fun of it, but it didn’t pay attention to their mocking. It had feelings, and they were pure and noble. (Only the assistant’s Blackberry understood it. Even if it came from a completely different social background and had arrived in a shiny box only the Christmas before, it understood the umbrella perfectly. It understood love and suffering, and it was a good friend to the umbrella.)
In moments like these, the umbrella really wished that it was incapable of emotions, just a lifeless, thoughtless thing like a rock.
Its love for the notebook was doomed from the start, impossible. For who wanted an umbrella when it wasn’t raining?
Things changed one rainy day.
Its owner was sitting in the back of his car, waiting, looking outside at the men cursing against the changeable English weather as they hurried to protect a crime scene from being washed clean by the downpour.
It was comfortable on the seat of the car, and the umbrella was starting to feel spoiled, because it rarely got used as an umbrella anymore, these days.
That day, however, its owner grabbed its handle and opened the door of the car before opening it in the torrential rain. It felt exhilarating, fresh and purposeful to be battered by an army of droplets and shield its owner from them. It was wonderful.
Mycroft walked to the yellow tape and stopped right behind it, not wanting to interfere and annoy the notebook’s owner unnecessarily.
It was to the umbrella’s surprise that the detective inspector walked closer to it and its owner and lifted the tape to join Mycroft under its protection. The man was already soaked, and the umbrella felt really sorry for him, whishing he had brought one of those superficial jerks with him to try and protect him from the elements, at least until its owner had showed up – it knew that its owner cared about this man, and worried for his health – but for now it simply tried his best not to let even a single drop through.
The humans exchanged a few words, and then the police officer took out his notebook, now as damp and miserable-looking as its owner. The umbrella felt worried, and more protective than ever, seeing the white and once crisp pages wavy and spotted with smudged ink.
The notebook looked battered and humbled, and the umbrella was just desperate to do something other than whishing for its owner to act and help in some way. In any way.
The other police officers had finished bagging up and photographing evidence and Lestrade tried to scribble something on his notebook, but his pen almost ripped the page so he stopped. Mycroft closed his hand around the inspector’s wrist and said a few words that made the other man’s face light up with frustrated rage one moment, and mute acceptance the next when the thumb on his wrist gently started stroking circles on his skin.
The umbrella curiously observed how its owner seemed to enjoy touching this other human and only this particular one; while he didn’t mind touching the one that was his brother or his brother’s flatmate, he truly enjoyed indulging in touching this one, and it could feel the warmth of his palm around its handle intensify pleasantly whenever he did so. An odd thing.
Mycroft’s fingers gently took the damp notebook from Lestrade’s hand, then gestured towards the car. They walked back towards it, the umbrella protecting them from the elements.
When they had reached the door Mycroft put the notebook in his other hand, the one already holding the umbrella, grasping it between the tips of his fingers as he opened the door of the car for the police inspector.
The umbrella felt the wet, soft pages barely brush its handle and it was too much for it, it let himself go and allowed a gust of wind to turn it inside out, momentarily exposing both humans to the rain. Luckily, they had almost been inside, and its failure had been brief, but it was sure its owner had noticed and hadn’t been too pleased about it.
However, its owner closed it and put it in its corner like usual, as if forgetting of its earlier slip, a fact that surprised the umbrella, but also made it realise just how much the other man could distract its owner by kissing him.
However, the biggest surprise came to it when it felt the notebook ruffle its drying pages in a quiet laugh from the seat of the car where it was resting, inches away from the umbrella’s handle. They had never been this close until now, and the umbrella was sure it had never heard the notebook giggle before.
“I always thought you’d be boring and stiff,” the notebook whispered, as if the humans had been capable of understanding them, “but you seem interesting, what are you called?”
For the first time since it had been made, the umbrella was full of hope.
blooms84Something... different. But in a world where you can find Sherlock/coat porn fics, and (apparently) Sherlock/skull art... there is room enough for some chaste romance between everyday objects, right?
Rating: Pg-13
Pairing: Mycroft's Umbrella/Lestrade's Notebook, (Mycroft/Lestrade as a background)
Word Count: 1345
A/N: this is a love story between two inanimate objects. It was born of a misunderstanding between me and
blooms84, it was developed seriously as a dare from crocodile_eat_u, who said 'don't make it cracky', the happier ending is thanks to Christmastime.Dedicated to you, girls!
Warnings: contains a bit of ANGST
Title:Inanimate Doesn't Mean Heartless
Just because it was inanimate, it didn't mean that it was devoid of feelings.
Mycroft’s umbrella had a full range of emotions to draw from; it was capable of experiencing joy, disappointment, anxiety, eagerness.
The fact that it was stuck on longing and a bit of sadness was purely accidental. It was because it was in love, something not even it, or its exceptional owner, believed it was capable of.
It was dreadful to be in love, thought the umbrella. It made it feel miserable and lonely when it couldn’t see the object of its affection, and heartbroken every time it saw it.
Now was one of those times.
Its owner had brought him along as he went to visit its love’s owner, and left it beside the door with the other umbrellas. Those superficial, shallow, empty-headed things that were barely good enough to protect someone against the weather. Mycroft’s umbrella felt lonely and misunderstood in their company, it felt excluded and unhappy, and they made fun of it, as it was gazing longingly at the notebook lying beside the telephone.
The umbrella would have sighed if it only had the right equipment to do it. Its folds of fabric swished, and it made a soft wishful sound.
The notebook was a rascal, it knew it perfectly, everyone knew of its string of pens. Every now and then it dried up a pen and its owner promptly pulled out another one to continue writing. A homely ballpoint pen was lying beside it even now, uncapped, mocking the umbrella, slamming in front of his eyes the harsh reality: it had just shared an intimacy with the notebook the umbrella could never experience, and now it was resting beside it as the ink on the page dried quickly, while the poor besotted umbrella was on the other side of the room. An incommensurable distance for an object that didn’t possess the ability to move.
Then the umbrella watched its owner pick up the notebook and almost affectionately ruffle its pages, until he came to a blank, virginal one. He took out the stylish fountain pen he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote something on the page, then he blew gently on it to dry the ink. The notebook’s owner stared; maybe he didn’t trust him with his precious notebook.
And he shouldn’t have. Because as soon as the ink was dry, Mycroft ripped the page off and folded it twice before putting it in his pocket.
The umbrella would have screamed, had it had lungs and vocal chords, but as it hadn’t, it had to settle for rattling his metal rays and pulling them closer to its centre. It was the best way it knew how to express rage and disdain.
But none of the humans seemed to pay it attention.
It was just an umbrella, after all.
And its mutilated love now lay back on the coffee table, between the cheap, slutty ballpoint and the telephone, forgotten easily as the two humans engaged in kissing.
The other umbrellas made fun of it, but it didn’t pay attention to their mocking. It had feelings, and they were pure and noble. (Only the assistant’s Blackberry understood it. Even if it came from a completely different social background and had arrived in a shiny box only the Christmas before, it understood the umbrella perfectly. It understood love and suffering, and it was a good friend to the umbrella.)
In moments like these, the umbrella really wished that it was incapable of emotions, just a lifeless, thoughtless thing like a rock.
Its love for the notebook was doomed from the start, impossible. For who wanted an umbrella when it wasn’t raining?
Things changed one rainy day.
Its owner was sitting in the back of his car, waiting, looking outside at the men cursing against the changeable English weather as they hurried to protect a crime scene from being washed clean by the downpour.
It was comfortable on the seat of the car, and the umbrella was starting to feel spoiled, because it rarely got used as an umbrella anymore, these days.
That day, however, its owner grabbed its handle and opened the door of the car before opening it in the torrential rain. It felt exhilarating, fresh and purposeful to be battered by an army of droplets and shield its owner from them. It was wonderful.
Mycroft walked to the yellow tape and stopped right behind it, not wanting to interfere and annoy the notebook’s owner unnecessarily.
It was to the umbrella’s surprise that the detective inspector walked closer to it and its owner and lifted the tape to join Mycroft under its protection. The man was already soaked, and the umbrella felt really sorry for him, whishing he had brought one of those superficial jerks with him to try and protect him from the elements, at least until its owner had showed up – it knew that its owner cared about this man, and worried for his health – but for now it simply tried his best not to let even a single drop through.
The humans exchanged a few words, and then the police officer took out his notebook, now as damp and miserable-looking as its owner. The umbrella felt worried, and more protective than ever, seeing the white and once crisp pages wavy and spotted with smudged ink.
The notebook looked battered and humbled, and the umbrella was just desperate to do something other than whishing for its owner to act and help in some way. In any way.
The other police officers had finished bagging up and photographing evidence and Lestrade tried to scribble something on his notebook, but his pen almost ripped the page so he stopped. Mycroft closed his hand around the inspector’s wrist and said a few words that made the other man’s face light up with frustrated rage one moment, and mute acceptance the next when the thumb on his wrist gently started stroking circles on his skin.
The umbrella curiously observed how its owner seemed to enjoy touching this other human and only this particular one; while he didn’t mind touching the one that was his brother or his brother’s flatmate, he truly enjoyed indulging in touching this one, and it could feel the warmth of his palm around its handle intensify pleasantly whenever he did so. An odd thing.
Mycroft’s fingers gently took the damp notebook from Lestrade’s hand, then gestured towards the car. They walked back towards it, the umbrella protecting them from the elements.
When they had reached the door Mycroft put the notebook in his other hand, the one already holding the umbrella, grasping it between the tips of his fingers as he opened the door of the car for the police inspector.
The umbrella felt the wet, soft pages barely brush its handle and it was too much for it, it let himself go and allowed a gust of wind to turn it inside out, momentarily exposing both humans to the rain. Luckily, they had almost been inside, and its failure had been brief, but it was sure its owner had noticed and hadn’t been too pleased about it.
However, its owner closed it and put it in its corner like usual, as if forgetting of its earlier slip, a fact that surprised the umbrella, but also made it realise just how much the other man could distract its owner by kissing him.
However, the biggest surprise came to it when it felt the notebook ruffle its drying pages in a quiet laugh from the seat of the car where it was resting, inches away from the umbrella’s handle. They had never been this close until now, and the umbrella was sure it had never heard the notebook giggle before.
“I always thought you’d be boring and stiff,” the notebook whispered, as if the humans had been capable of understanding them, “but you seem interesting, what are you called?”
For the first time since it had been made, the umbrella was full of hope.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 21/12/2010 20:22 (UTC)*hugs you and the fic*
*blows kisses at the umbrella and the notebook*
☂☂☂☂☂
no subject
Date: 21/12/2010 20:25 (UTC)OMG those little umbrellas are adorable!
*hugs you back*
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Date: 21/12/2010 21:35 (UTC)*glomps and Christmas kisses*
Re: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Date: 21/12/2010 21:57 (UTC)(even my dislike of ballpoints serves a purpose, see?!)
but now I am curious (and I curse myself because I should not be) about the erotic activities. Surely you're talking about Mycroft and Lestrade? How would it work for the umbrella and... no, wait, I don't want to know. U_U
Re: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Date: 21/12/2010 22:44 (UTC)Okay. Perhaps only chaste cuddling for the notebook and the umbrella, but of course they can watch L and M . . . . Time for me to check myself into the asylum, I think. . . .
Re: SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Date: 21/12/2010 23:13 (UTC)Good work on your project, I hope you'll be done soon.
(hmmm, nice spoiler, now I am so looking forward to reading fengirl's story)
I'm trying to kick myself into writing again. Well, to be more accurate, into FINISHING things now.
Can't have all those half-finished things on my HD. It's unhealthy.
Am neglecting the porn. The boyfriend can entertain himself with his computer, I need to finish my writings.
I sleep with my Oxford dictionary beside the bed, and carry it everywhere around the house when I write. We can probably check ourselves in together.
no subject
Date: 22/12/2010 06:11 (UTC)no subject
Date: 22/12/2010 09:22 (UTC)I'm happy you liked it!
*snuggles in with the fic*
no subject
Date: 07/02/2011 03:34 (UTC)no subject
Date: 07/02/2011 14:28 (UTC)Well, I got the feeling that as well as a bit old-fashioned with clothes he might be a little low-tech and old fashioned when it comes to notes (after all does he not have a small notebook too?)
no subject
Date: 08/02/2011 03:08 (UTC)no subject
Date: 08/02/2011 14:46 (UTC)no subject
Date: 08/02/2011 07:10 (UTC)no subject
Date: 08/02/2011 14:47 (UTC)no subject
Date: 08/02/2011 16:09 (UTC)no subject
Date: 08/02/2011 17:29 (UTC)no subject
Date: 27/02/2011 16:23 (UTC)