LIGHT THE MATCH

[diogenesis]

Who: Mycroft Holmes and ~*you*~
What: An attempt to learn about the City in the most casual way possible.
Where: The Library of Blessed St. Brian
When: Veerdi, Kavadry 3rd
Notes: This is an open post! I have certain things I want to accomplish here, planting certain seeds and so forth, but anyone should feel free to come and poke the antisocial bear.
Warnings: Spoilers for Sherlock S2E3: The Reichenbach Fall.

It has been a long three days.

When Mycroft had first appeared in the small, tiled waiting room at the Inn, his first theory had been that he was dying. Perhaps I'm already dead, he'd thought.

Even now, having had hours of solitude to think it all over, he can't rule it out—there is no absolute way to disprove the existence of an afterlife—but his memories of the moments before he'd arrived here are so clear, and he feels certain he wasn't ill or in the process of being attacked. Surely, there would have been a moment just before unconsciousness, even the smallest moment, that would have allowed him to notice a twinge of pain, a blur of movement, the feeling of disorientation, the sound of a gun going off.

But all he knows is that he blinked, and he was elsewhere.

His chair from the Diogenes Club had taken the journey with him, making the fiasco even more mysterious. Mycroft hadn't even been near the club at the time; he'd been in 10 Downing Street. He can't deny the fact that having something familiar nearby has helped, in a small way, to soothe the burn of such a sudden transition, but in the end it is a single sandbag in the face of a hurricane. Not only has Mycroft been torn away from decades of work in a job only he could do, but his brother, Sherlock, is relying on him for resources and protection more than ever after being forced to fake his own death by the late James Moriarty. Mycroft's level of worry is unspeakable. None of his usual centering techniques have helped to focus his mind. He's beginning to fray at the edges.

This is why, despite the fact that it seems dangerous to go outside what with the City's residents capable of breaking the laws of physics and performing magic (not to mention the place being some version of a police state), Mycroft is at the University's library today. Three days trapped in his own mind was too long (felt the warning signs start to creep in, too much like Sherlock, can't afford that now, have to be alert now). The order of the day is fresh air and fresh knowledge. He needs to learn more about this place, whether it's all in his mind or not.

After all, if he is in a coma, he could be here for quite a long time.

Comments

[apostatised]

The question doesn't seem to entirely surprise Martel - questions about Hellsing are common, and while the subject of Princess Nuala directly is slightly less so, Mycroft does strike him as having a particular set of interests - and the fact he takes a moment to consider his response is only because it's one that deserves that consideration.

“That position puts me more regularly under Sir Integra than her counterpart,” he admits, resting his hand against the shelf that he'd tapped a moment before as he eases back from the preparation to move away, relaxing almost like some great cat at rest, “but the conversations we've had about some of my lectures have been fascinating. She has a perspective worth hearing, on the subject.” A moment later, “Political theory,” wryly.

It's something it pays for their agents to have some kind of grasp of, and so is among the courses he offers in the training program - it's not a required attendance, but it is encouraged.

“I believe we're all very relieved to have her back in her office where she belongs.” Martel is not one of those employees privy to the knowledge that it wasn't an assassination attempt, and what he's permitted to believe on the subject offends and irritates him; he's terribly susceptible to maternal leadership. After a moment, considering, “Hellsing on the whole is a less fraught employment than the library, for those among our cohort. Given the leadership and collective political interests.”

This kind of how dare those uppity new arrivals horseshit he's about to field from the professors doesn't happen there, for instance.

[diogenesis]

Employment. There's something Mycroft needs to devote more thought toward (and oddly, he hadn't been thinking of it at all when asking after Princess Nuala). He's been considering investigating the university, but his experiences with academia in the past have been largely negative and the thought of returning to that environment has not enthused him. After reading about Hellsing both in the library and in the daily paper, he's gleaned that the guild has some ties to politics (mainly through the princess), but passed over giving it due consideration as a workplace after categorizing it primarily as a kind of militia or substitute police force with a specialization in subduing supernatural problems. Martel's position there only seemed to cement that fact.

If other members of the CeidaryBlue cohort are seeking jobs in politics there, however, it may be worth investigating. Mycroft hadn't been lying when he'd said the princess seemed interesting. Reading about the attempt on her life had certainly given Mycroft something to think about.

"If one were interested in finding out more about what types of positions were available there," he says to Martel, "who might one ask after?"

[apostatised]

“The Princess's department is handled directly through her hands,” Martel says, considering him for only a moment; if the impression of Mycroft he has already is accurate, he expects Nuala will be able to find a use for him. Hellsing's position is a precarious, complex one within Baedal and their participation in the political sphere is primarily aimed at maintaining (bettering, if she can) the same-- it's the sort of thing he'd have a place in if he wanted it, he knows, but frankly the academic politics are preferable than wading into that bloodier mess again.

At least he's not lecturing at the university. Then he might actually murder someone.

(If only he were being facetious.)