Disclaimer: All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: This was a fill for a prompt over at sherlockbbc_fic on LiveJournal - "Sherlock and royalty." Enjoy!
God Save The Queen
By Alice Day
What was it that Mycroft had said? Oh, and John? Do try to keep my brother from putting his exceeding large foot in his mouth tonight.
Yes, well, so much for that. While Sherlock slouched in his chair, John found himself sitting ramrod straight, not even touching the back of the elegantly carved chair. His posture wasn't intentional - it just happened, a purely atavistic response to the person who sat across the table from them.
There was something in the air, a faint scent of roses and wood polish, and the privileged hush that wasn't anything like being by yourself in your flat. This was like Mycroft's private car, magnified a thousandfold. He hadn't tried his tea yet, although it smelled lovely. He was terrified he'd break the cup, or dribble, or dump the tea all over himself. She glanced at him, her expression ever so faintly amused, then gave his cup a pointed look.
John swallowed hard. Still a soldier, he understood an order when he received one (particularly from someone who was his ultimate commanding officer), and ever so carefully picked up the cup, sipping from it. Darjeeling, and damned good at that. At least she hadn't insisted on him having one of the little sandwiches arranged artfully on a tiered serving tray, although lunch had been a long time ago and they did look mouthwateringly good.
It was just that he'd grown up seeing her picture on his classroom walls, after all, and then in Army mess halls. She was like a strict but fond great aunt, all manners and pearls, who expected you to do your best for her. He'd even seen her once in person; not close up, true, but across a parade ground just before he'd shipped out for Afghanistan. She looked like a little white-haired doll, then, done up in a plum-colored coat and matching hat.
Seeing her over tea, however, was...slightly different.
And Sherlock, that bastard, hadn't even warned him. Just waited until he got back from the surgery, ready for an evening of crap telly and a takeaway from the Chinese down the street, and said, "Leave your coat on - we need to meet a client." When they left the flat and saw the black car waiting for them, he'd naturally assumed Mycroft had another job for them.
Which was technically true, since Mycroft was waiting in the car for them. It wasn't until they were driving through the palace gates, however, that John wondered who might have tapped Mycroft for this particular job. Once they rolled to a stop, the elder Holmes remained in the car with the explanation, "She requested a private audience." Sherlock shot him a dirty look, but Mycroft simply smiled, pulled out his little brown book and settled down to read.
A quiet man in livery opened the car door, ushering them through a discreet side entrance and down various hallways that John recognized from telly specials, until they reached a beautiful sitting room. The moment he realized who was waiting for them, his stomach went into a series of backflips that could have won Olympic gold.
Meanwhile, Sherlock sipped his tea, supremely unaffected by their hostess. "I presume you already have all of the details ready for me?" he said.
"Of course." She nodded to the man (Equerry? Private secretary? Bodyguard? John had no idea) who stood unobtrusively behind her. He stepped forward, handing Sherlock a plain manila folder.
Sherlock opened it, grey eyes narrowing as he absorbed the contents. He flipped back and forth between two pictures, then sighed in annoyance. "The older footman did it. You'll find the jewels in the nearest cleaning supply cupboard to the staff changing rooms - he won't have had time to pawn them safely yet, and he won't have kept them in his flat for obvious reasons," he announced.
Their hostess nodded at her equerry/secretary/bodyguard/whatever, and he left the room. To John's utter mortification, his stomach picked that moment to rumble loudly.
Another amused glance, and a gesture to the tiered serving tray. "Do have a sandwich, Doctor Watson. I'm quite aware that you've missed supper due to this visit."
There was no way out of it now. "Yes, ma'am, thank you ma'am," John mumbled, taking what looked like an egg and cress sandwich and trying to eat it without dropping so much as a crumb.
Her attention shifted to Sherlock, now, and John realized she looked just like the picture from the Kandahar mess; the great aunt ready to pounce. "It has come to my attention that you're still refusing a knighthood, Sherlock," she said, a hint of exasperation in her tone.
John almost choked on a mouthful of sandwich when Sherlock said, "Of course I am - it would be of no use whatsoever in my line of work, and might even be a detriment." Mycroft's request roared in his head; as unobtrusively as he could, he kicked Sherlock's ankle.
"But I do appreciate the thought, ma'am," his flatmate added smoothly. "Perhaps you could give it to Mycroft, as a kind of finder's fee."
John wanted to drop his head into his hands and groan. To his shock, their hostess seemed - resigned? "Your brother keeps refusing a knighthood as well," she observed, taking a sip of tea. "He's pointed out that it would draw unnecessary attention to himself."
Sherlock dredged up his V-shaped smile. "And so it would. The kindest thing you could do for Mycroft is to leave him in the shadows - it's where he feels the most at home, after all." Like the other mushrooms, John could almost hear him add.
A single nod, and then those sharp blue eyes studied them both. "However, I wasn't aware you required the shadows as well. After all, times have changed, and your personal situation is quite common these days. Take Sir Elton, for example."
Horrified, John realized his jaw had dropped and he was doing a passable imitation of a fish. The Queen of England thought - he and Sherlock were - oh, God no.
Before he could blurt out the usual disclaimer, Sherlock gently kicked his ankle. "I'm afraid the shadows are the most useful place for a detective, ma'am," he said, "but thank you for your consideration."
The equerry/secretary/bodyguard returned, nodding once to their hostess. Obviously the jewels, whatever kind they were, had been recovered. "Ah. Well, then, I shan't keep you any longer," the Queen said. "Thank you once again for your service. I believe you still have my private secretary's direct number?"
"I do," Sherlock said, and John hoped she couldn't see the boredom already lurking under that pleasant mask. "Although it's a pity you don't text."
She pursed her lips the tiniest bit. "I have people to do that for me, Sherlock."
"Of course you do, ma'am."
Ten minutes later, they were back in Mycroft's car and heading back to Baker Street. "Was it the older footman, then?" he asked, cool and collected as always.
Sherlock gave him an irritated look. "If you already knew, why didn't you just tell her instead of dragging me out?"
Thin shoulders shrugged. "She likes you, Sherlock. And you refuse to go to the Palace for any other reason."
John turned, staring at his flatmate. He'd always assumed that the Holmes family were upper class, judging by the brothers' public school accents and taste for subtly expensive clothing.
But this was something entirely different. This was the Queen of England using Sherlock's Christian name, assuming they were (oh God) a couple, and tutting at him about not accepting a knighthood, like a stern but fond great aunt.
And suddenly, John Watson really wanted to take a look at Burke's Peerage. Mate, we are very much having a little chat once we get back to the flat...