Fic: With Trembling Hands
Oct. 11th, 2012 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
armchair_elvis posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sherlockbbcTitle: With Trembling Hands
Length/size: 1,200 words
Rating: PG
Warnings, kinks & contents: Slight mentions of drug use. Gen. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock. (And the Cold War).
Author's/artist's notes: Regrettably un-betaed. Written for the commfest challenge at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sherlockbbc LJ AO3
Summary/description: Sherlock is a black sheep, and Mrs. Hudson understands.
It is a long cold war. London is mini skirts and free love, but Century House seems stuck in an earlier time. The men smell of smoke and brandy. Martha remembers the darned socks and the fish and chip teas of her childhood.
This is not an easy place to work, the other secretaries tell her. They refer to themselves as "girls," — they are never more than that.
Darling, the men call her, and love, and occasionally sweetheart. They leave tea trays on her desk, cigarette butts floating in the curdled dregs. She is privy to the most extraordinary secrets, spoken in elevators while she stands demure and invisible in the corner.
Read the rest at my journal.
Length/size: 1,200 words
Rating: PG
Warnings, kinks & contents: Slight mentions of drug use. Gen. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock. (And the Cold War).
Author's/artist's notes: Regrettably un-betaed. Written for the commfest challenge at
sherlockbbc LJ AO3Summary/description: Sherlock is a black sheep, and Mrs. Hudson understands.
It is a long cold war. London is mini skirts and free love, but Century House seems stuck in an earlier time. The men smell of smoke and brandy. Martha remembers the darned socks and the fish and chip teas of her childhood.
This is not an easy place to work, the other secretaries tell her. They refer to themselves as "girls," — they are never more than that.
Darling, the men call her, and love, and occasionally sweetheart. They leave tea trays on her desk, cigarette butts floating in the curdled dregs. She is privy to the most extraordinary secrets, spoken in elevators while she stands demure and invisible in the corner.
Read the rest at my journal.
