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errantcommentTitle: Portraits of Baker Street: Doctor John H. Watson
Rating: PG (Language, mainly)
Summary: Just some short studies of the men of Baker Street. Mainly a writing exercise.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
D. I. G. Lestrade
Mr. Jim Moriarty
Doctor John H. Watson
Inspired by this rather good picture of a GQMF.
Mycroft Holmes is the sort of man you're not supposed to look at twice. Hence the plain blue suit, the rather boring black umbrella. And to be honest, he would prefer it that way. Nothing about him should stand out.
But... He's tall, you see. And that's where it would start off. You're standing next to him, I don't know, waiting for a taxi, something like that. He's not, he's waiting for a personal car, but shh, you don't know that. You're standing next to him. So he's tall. And slim. That suit, that boring business man's suit, it's well cut. Trim, almost. He's slim, and the pinstripe on the waistcoat draws you in, pulls the eye up and down. Drawn down, long legs and good shoes- polished, well kept. You can tell a lot about a person by looking at his shoes. Drawn up, (don't blush, he's looking straight ahead, he doesn't know you're staring) a gold watchchain catches your wandering eye, quietly expensive and tasteful. Blue tie, impeccably knotted. Everything about him is quiet taste, understatement. It's nice, a little nondescript, but a good suit worn well is always a pleasure. And then the neck- it's not hugely long, but you know, nice, if you're into that sort of thing (and you totally are, don't lie). And then a good jaw, not overtly masculine, and a faraway expression. He looks stern, like he's thinking about telling someone off. It's a keep-off face. Pale eyes, squinting as they scan the street. Intense, they don't miss a thing. He won't have missed you looking at the tall man in case he spots you staring like a school-girl, special needs or similar.
A movement catches your eye. He's fumbling in his inner pocket pocket. Gold cigarette case (and really, did you expect a tatty packet of Silk Cut?) and a sleek gold lighter (that comes out of the trouser pocket, he knows not to ruin the line of the suit). You are staring now, his fingers are so deft, but he's not paying attention, flipping a cigarette into his mouth with practiced ease (and you can somehow imagine that this is a man who doesn't think he'll live long enough to worry about cancer). He lights it, cupping his hand round to protect it against the slight breeze lifting his hair, and drags the smoke in deep. His eyes flutter shut, the shut out look in his face relaxing as the nicotine hits his system, and suddenly you have a dreadfully clear image of what he must look like asleep, or... in bed but wide awake, as it were, at the crucial moment- mouth a little open (not like it is as it exhales cigarette smoke, but you know, something like that, and don't worry, those pale eyes can't actually see in your head, which is good because, um, yes.)
And then his car is there, he looks down at you, and he flashes you the briefest smile, and you kind of wish you had said something to him instead of just staring, because that was rather a good smile. You'd like to see more of it. Despite his laquered appearance and keep away sneer, there's something a little softer underneath.
Doesn't stop him from scaring the crap out of you though. A man should not be able to contain that much energy without exploding. A man should not give the impression with a single fleeting expression that he knows you've been thinking wicked thoughts. A man should definitely not give this impression whilst apparently answering a call from the Home Secretary. Whom you're pretty sure just called him 'Sir'.
Good lord.
Rating: PG (Language, mainly)
Summary: Just some short studies of the men of Baker Street. Mainly a writing exercise.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
D. I. G. Lestrade
Mr. Jim Moriarty
Doctor John H. Watson
Inspired by this rather good picture of a GQMF.
Mycroft Holmes is the sort of man you're not supposed to look at twice. Hence the plain blue suit, the rather boring black umbrella. And to be honest, he would prefer it that way. Nothing about him should stand out.
But... He's tall, you see. And that's where it would start off. You're standing next to him, I don't know, waiting for a taxi, something like that. He's not, he's waiting for a personal car, but shh, you don't know that. You're standing next to him. So he's tall. And slim. That suit, that boring business man's suit, it's well cut. Trim, almost. He's slim, and the pinstripe on the waistcoat draws you in, pulls the eye up and down. Drawn down, long legs and good shoes- polished, well kept. You can tell a lot about a person by looking at his shoes. Drawn up, (don't blush, he's looking straight ahead, he doesn't know you're staring) a gold watchchain catches your wandering eye, quietly expensive and tasteful. Blue tie, impeccably knotted. Everything about him is quiet taste, understatement. It's nice, a little nondescript, but a good suit worn well is always a pleasure. And then the neck- it's not hugely long, but you know, nice, if you're into that sort of thing (and you totally are, don't lie). And then a good jaw, not overtly masculine, and a faraway expression. He looks stern, like he's thinking about telling someone off. It's a keep-off face. Pale eyes, squinting as they scan the street. Intense, they don't miss a thing. He won't have missed you looking at the tall man in case he spots you staring like a school-girl, special needs or similar.
A movement catches your eye. He's fumbling in his inner pocket pocket. Gold cigarette case (and really, did you expect a tatty packet of Silk Cut?) and a sleek gold lighter (that comes out of the trouser pocket, he knows not to ruin the line of the suit). You are staring now, his fingers are so deft, but he's not paying attention, flipping a cigarette into his mouth with practiced ease (and you can somehow imagine that this is a man who doesn't think he'll live long enough to worry about cancer). He lights it, cupping his hand round to protect it against the slight breeze lifting his hair, and drags the smoke in deep. His eyes flutter shut, the shut out look in his face relaxing as the nicotine hits his system, and suddenly you have a dreadfully clear image of what he must look like asleep, or... in bed but wide awake, as it were, at the crucial moment- mouth a little open (not like it is as it exhales cigarette smoke, but you know, something like that, and don't worry, those pale eyes can't actually see in your head, which is good because, um, yes.)
And then his car is there, he looks down at you, and he flashes you the briefest smile, and you kind of wish you had said something to him instead of just staring, because that was rather a good smile. You'd like to see more of it. Despite his laquered appearance and keep away sneer, there's something a little softer underneath.
Doesn't stop him from scaring the crap out of you though. A man should not be able to contain that much energy without exploding. A man should not give the impression with a single fleeting expression that he knows you've been thinking wicked thoughts. A man should definitely not give this impression whilst apparently answering a call from the Home Secretary. Whom you're pretty sure just called him 'Sir'.
Good lord.
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no subject
Date: 2011-09-06 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-06 10:37 pm (UTC)