fixeselections (
fixeselections) wrote2011-01-09 09:10 am
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Poor Jessica is dead, she's lookin' oh so purty and so nice she looks like she's asleep
Mycroft, though he often seems lazy, does work every day of the year. The last time he took a day off work was December 12th, 2000, which turned out to be a very bad day to be at home with the flu. It is the lowest moment of Mycroft's career, in his opinion.
Still, his assistants have far more leeway than he gives himself and Jessica, his first admin assistant (as opposed to his first assistant, the ever reliable and indispensable Miss Morstan -- and her BlackBerry) had asked for two weeks off during the holiday season due to the birth of a twin niece and nephew. Mycroft not only signed off on it, but sent her along with two silver spoons engraved with the newborns' names. Because Jessica is a clever girl, she knew better than to ask how he found out the names despite not being told.
Thus, her last duty was to wrap the presents for John, Mummy, and Sherlock, before clocking out for a holiday to Carlisle.
Mycroft arrives at his office early on a Sunday morning to two frantic texts messages and a very distressing sight.
Jessica, the ever dutiful, Jessica, is at her desk, her skin mottled, and the one of her high heels is sitting on the desk. Mycroft, without even having to look (though he does) knows her feet are now an odd shade of blue.
This time, there is a note with the body:
I hate the decor.
Still, his assistants have far more leeway than he gives himself and Jessica, his first admin assistant (as opposed to his first assistant, the ever reliable and indispensable Miss Morstan -- and her BlackBerry) had asked for two weeks off during the holiday season due to the birth of a twin niece and nephew. Mycroft not only signed off on it, but sent her along with two silver spoons engraved with the newborns' names. Because Jessica is a clever girl, she knew better than to ask how he found out the names despite not being told.
Thus, her last duty was to wrap the presents for John, Mummy, and Sherlock, before clocking out for a holiday to Carlisle.
Mycroft arrives at his office early on a Sunday morning to two frantic texts messages and a very distressing sight.
Jessica, the ever dutiful, Jessica, is at her desk, her skin mottled, and the one of her high heels is sitting on the desk. Mycroft, without even having to look (though he does) knows her feet are now an odd shade of blue.
This time, there is a note with the body:
I hate the decor.
Mycroft, you ruined America. XD
Not that John's in the flat at the moment. He goes to Sarah's to pout now. It's not as if Sarah's let him into her bed yet.
Sherlock really has no opinion on that fact, one way or the other.
After checking his email and writing very nasty replies about how his time is being utterly wasted by the sheer idiocies of those requesting his attention, his eyes settle on his mobile. Mycroft.
You didn't leave a message. Are you planning on berating me further over my row with John?
Re: Mycroft, you ruined America. XD
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In which Mycroft contemplates spheres of influence.
Mycroft, don't worry so much. You're irreplaceable.
Trufax: If Mycroft didn't have his brother, he probably would've taken over the planet by now.
That's pretty adorable. Sherlock would be quite proud that he caused Mycroft to become who he is!
Well, Sherlock-wrangling takes up so much of his time, and there's only so much planet to rule.
That ought to be a sport, Sherlock-wrangling. Damn my perverted brain.
Necessary for said sport: one giant hedge-maze
I want to play this so badly now!
Sherlock wrangling: we need an app for that.
o.o Oh, only one problem, Sherlock would find a way to exploit it.
Yes, but it would be *fun*
Oh, idiot me. I never hit reply! How does that happen?!
I did that yesterday.
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I am not sorry for repeating this pun.
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