(via yaygay-sex)Source: alexrame
(Nick Kenning is an original character playing in the BBC Sherlock universe. Nick is happy to interact with other canon or original characters; please reference the 'About Nick' section for character background, basic stats, and the best ways to interact.
Please note that this blog is occasionally not safe for work. I don't post porny pictures, but some of the roleplay/fiction is inappropriate for minors.)
“We have two in London, as you already know.” Anthea had heard all about Sherlock and Nick’s conversation.
Anthea’s phone chirped again, with a pragmatic interjection from her boss.
[SMS to A. Jones] I am in Durham, you know that. I was explicitly clear with my instructions, we were to meet here and fetch him together. MH
“They’re so alike,” Nick replied drily.
Ignoring the man for the moment, she lifted her phone, biting back a smile as she typed her reply to her boss.
[SMS to M. Holmes] Apologies. We should be there in four hours. -A
Nick pulled out his phone as well, feeling that it only fair that he should have contact with Mycroft. He pulled up his ongoing thread of texts with his lover and wrote:
[SMS to M. Holmes] Your wife is giving me the third degree. NK
“If that’s the case, I don’t know why you don’t just work for Sherlock and have done with it,” Nick said.
“Mycroft pays better. And working with Sherlock involves living with him it seems and you don’t want to know what the man keeps in his kitchen.”
Nick’s feed updated although the phone made no sound.
[SMS to N. Kenning] I am SO sorry. Please just answer directly and be your charming self. I’ll make it up to you. MH
[SMS to N. Kenning] She’s not my wife. MH
“Well, perhaps I don’t want it in my kitchen either, hence why I prefer your employer to his brother,” Nick said, laughing lightly.
“I’m glad to hear that,” replied the PA. “However, you don’t seem the sort to engage in such a complicated relationship.”
“You don’t actually know me well enough to make statements like that,” Nick pointed out, his eyes skimming over Mycroft’s texts. He smirked, then turned his attention back to the leggy brunette seated beside him, “For all you know, I might like my relationships ridiculously complicated.”
Anthea smirked, rolling through the files on her phone, “Nickolaus Kenning, prefers Nick though. 5’9’’, thirty four years old. Born and raised in New York City, left to attend Cornell for Uni, studied finance, attended graduate school in London, currently works as a financial analyst for Charleton-Waites.” Her tone was flat, bored.
“You and Mycroft both travel enough to see each other, that explains his trips to New York, but your passport suggests that you go to Asia for work too.” Anthea allowed the phone to rest in her lap, turning to Nick, “I’d think with a life like that you’d prefer your,’ she paused, searching for the right word, “partners, to be less stressful. Mycroft doesn’t sit home and knit.”
The New Yorker politely waited for her to finish, then mused, “Those are very bare-bones facts… I think you’re pulling inferences from them that aren’t necessarily accurate, and don’t even come close to describing the person I am. Though with that said, I’m impressed by your research.”
His mind flicked to other things that she could potentially know, things that were on record, even if they were sealed or protected by patient privilege. Things like his admissions to the hospital as a teen for a broken arm, his time in foster care, or his multiple instances of alcohol poisoning. There was no point in being self-conscious, though; he wasn’t that type. He lifted his chin slightly, pridefully, and said, “I’ve had Mycroft’s attention for a few months now… do you really think I’m just some stupid prettyboy who’s looking for a sugar daddy? Please. I’m a high end financial consultant; I make a two million dollars a year in commissions.”
“And as for stupid… do you really think that Mycroft would tolerate me if I was?”
Anthea held back many answers to his question. Of course she thought he was just a pretty face. The last few men Mycroft had dated were dumb young men who were using him. The fact that Nick worked in finance meant nothing to Anthea, she kept herself from mentioning the financial crisis of 2008. Anthea wasn’t about to tell Nick Mycroft’s relationship history if he didn’t know it or understand why she would be wary of a younger man who entered Mycroft’s life with such intensity. Part of her wanted to know what made him so special, why would he decide to bring this man home to meet his mother?
“No of course not. I’m simply trying to understand his interest of in you.”
“I know you have no interest in thinking I could possibly be an intellectual peer for him… so I don’t think you’re going to find any reason that’s too your liking. I’m not young or poor or good looking enough to be a social climber looking for a sugar daddy. I’m American, so I have no interest your politics,” Nick replied, meeting her eyes evenly.
His expression was challenging; he obviously was intelligent enough to hold his own against Mycroft, though his mind clearly worked in different ways. That was obvious just in his reasoning and even in more minute differences in his sentence structures and word choices. Word choices that were flawless English, but obviously altered by being a native speaker of another language as well.
The idea that Anthea could only appreciate Mycroft for his intelligence was insulting and so off the mark she audibly scoffed. Most people did that, say the brilliant mind and thought of how to use it for their own ends, but Anthea was one of the few privileged to see the private side of the man after six years working for him.
The sound got Nick’s attention and his eyes made a rapid circuit of her features as he tried to identify the emotions that she was masking. After a moment, he smiled slowly, then said, “You’re… jealous, aren’t you?”
I can feel that clawing sensation at the back of my chest that generally accompanies major anxiety issues, and I know that I both haven’t been communicating well and will likely be worse for a little while. If I seem to disappear for a bit or just seem to be a shitty conversationalist, please just know it isn’t you. I’ll hopefully level out soon.
Anthea contemplated lying to him, but knew that would be found out soon enough. “I’m here to collect you at take you too Mycroft. He doesn’t know I am the one collecting you though.”
She sighed heavily, “Can we go now?”
He smirked, though he did climb into the back seat of the car. His grin broadened slightly, “Great… so I suppose I’m going to get the third degree?”
Anthea followed him into the car, knocking once to tell the driver to proceed.
Turning slightly in the seat, he looked her over from the crown of her dark-haired head to her smart, expensive little shoes. He raised his eyebrows challenging, his pale eyes mischievous, “I know you dislike me.”
She flicked her eyes over to Nick’s, “Whatever gave you that idea?” The PA pulled out her phone, now that she had Nick in the locked car Anthea sent Mycroft a quick message.
[SMS to M. Holmes] I’ve collected Mister Kenning, your suitcase is in the back, we will be at the office in thirty minutes, should we wait in the car for you?-A
There was a lengthy pause, before Anthea’s phone chimed back to life.
[SMS to A. Jones] …I was under the impression we were meeting Mr. Kenning together. -MH
“Ah,” Nick replied, watching her eyes as they flicked between him and her mobile, “I’ve pieced it together from things Mycroft has said… and your wanting to meet me without him being here doesn’t bode well for me.”
“I’ve never met you before,” she replied simply. “All I know is what Mycroft’s told me about you I wanted to meet you without him because I have a vested interest in his relationships.” After the first disastrous relationships that she’d seen Mycroft in, all young men who were nowhere near bright enough for him who only wanted him for his money, Anthea wanted him to be happy and with someone who cared about him. She and Nick would have problems if she thought that Nick would break his heart.
[SMS to M. Holmes] I got out of my meeting early so I went to pick him up personally.-A
The New Yorker laughed lightly, “Because you’re his trophy wife, mm?”
He knew by now that they weren’t actually married, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with their relationship in light of Mycroft’s fury over his own continued relationship with Jim Moriarty. With the sex aside, he saw no difference between Mycroft’s description of his relationship with Anthea and his own relationship with Jim; it was about the emotional proximity more than anything else, and while he hadn’t made any sort of issue over it when they had discussed it, he couldn’t help but feel that Mycroft was a bit of a hypocrite for thinking that he should be the only one with that sort of emotional connection outside of their relationship.
That wasn’t Anthea’s fault, but it didn’t mean that he was necessarily going to pull all of his punches, particularly when he could tell that the intelligent woman opposite him certainly had no plan to do so.
Anthea laughed, “Something like that.” She didn’t contradict him, publically Anthea was Mycroft’s beard and took that role seriously. Of course the pair had never shared anything more than a kiss on the cheek, but it wasn’t Anthea’s place to define her relationship with Mycroft to this interloper.
“What are your intentions regarding Mycroft?”
“Intentions?” Nick asked, raising his eyebrows. He shook his head, pausing to look out the window, “You make it sound… like we’re talking about the farmer’s daughter, here. Mycroft is more than capable of taking care of himself.”
“He’s a busy man with many responsibilities.” Anthea offered by way of explanation. She didn’t want to undermine him, but part of her knew that for all Mycroft’s brilliant he face the same problems everyone did, and maybe more, when entering into romantic entanglements.
“So… you’re conducting intuition-based background checks for the British Government’s lovers?” Nick said, his voice slightly teasing.
“I’ve always found my intuition to be reliable when it comes to reading people.” Anthea volleyed back.
“Mm-hm,” he laughed lightly, tilting his head back against the headrest and looking up at the lightly upholstered ceiling. “Do you have specific questions for me, Miss Jones? I assure you, I’m not out to use your boss. Or hurt him. Or anything. We’re just seeing each other.”
“Sure.” She knew that Mycroft never did anything by halves and if he was engaged in a relationship with the American sitting next to her than they weren’t ‘just seeing each other.’
“We can skip the dull biographical questions.” She’d been able to glean most of his personal history though her access to various American databases, including to a medical history which provided a fascinating story of over indulgence in spirits which seemed to begin in 1993.
“From what I understand you are a very eligible man and could find someone easily in New York. Mycroft’s not the easiest person to be in a relationship with. Why him?”
The American leaned forward, tilting his chin down and looking up at her with a playful smile, “I like a challenge.”
Knowing that response wasn’t going to please her, he sat back again and smirked, “Do you actually think there’s anyone else like Mycroft in the world, let alone in New York?”
The flight from New York was spent in relative peace, aside from the children around six rows back, just past the wall between first class and coach, who loudly argued for most of the time that the plane was in the air. Nick was an expert at tuning out external distractions, but in his present state of vague agitation, he actually asked the stewardess to speak to the parents. This worked for about 20 minutes at a time, until the younger sibling fell asleep and the older subsided into his DS for the rest of the flight.
Mycroft had invited him to meet his family. Despite his best efforts at stalling the inevitable meeting of the Holmes matriarch, it seemed that the time had come and Nick was largely powerless to stop it. It was a bit like standing on the bow of the Titanic and listening to the orchestra play in preparation of the final tilt and slide to the bottom of the ocean.
Of course, it wouldn’t be that bad. He’d already met the brother. And that had gone just swimmingly, between being grilled on his reasons for liking Mycroft, having some inaccurate information about Mycroft’s marital state slipped into his thoughts, and, well, nearly shooting the bastard on sight.
This would be another fun foray into the world of Mycroft Holmes, the British fucking Government.
The New Yorker passed through customs as usual, and met up with one of his London contacts who immediately slipped him his pistol and holster in a discreet brown bag. He also gave him a cup of coffee, which was equally important and served to complete the illusion that the foreigner was just getting a late lunch rather than a firearm.
As he stood on the sidewalk and raised his hand to hail a taxi, a familiar black car slid up in front of him. He hadn’t quite expected Mycroft to pick him up, but it wasn’t so strange that it really caught him off guard. He smiled slightly as he stepped down from the curb.
The anonymous black sedan didn’t contain the government official, but his PA. The woman had used the long ride out to Heathrow to prepare to meet her employer’s latest paramore, someone she’d heard much about but had never had the pleasure to meet. Anthea was aware that Nickolaus Kenning was American, was someone Mycroft questioned the possibility of a romantic attachment with, was definitely sleeping with someone else, male, and had ghastly taste in art judging by the Rothko and Mucha that had found their way into Mycroft’s home.
Mycroft had told her that the man was coming to meet his mother, something she considered a rather large step, especially for Mycroft who was so far in the closet he may have found Narnia. She understood the need professionally of course, having played the beard for years now.
When she’d found out his arrival date it was almost too simple for the PA to find Nick’s flight information and decided to meet the man who’d brought so much Sturm und Drang to Mycroft’s life in the last few months. Anthea reviewed the file on Nick one more time before stepping out of the car, she was wearing a skirt suit that was less conservative, true black instead of a soft navy, she wasn’t out to seduce the analyst but it was just to see if he flirted with anything with legs and a pretty face.
Anthea met his smile with a controlled one of her own, “Mister Kenning. Shall we?”
Nick’s eyebrows flicked up, but his expression didn’t really reflect the surprise that he felt. He tilted his head to the side as he regarded her appraisingly, a smile coming to his lips, “What, you think I’ll just get into a car with the first pretty girl who shows up?”
His life was built on carefully weighing risks, connecting dots, and making logical guesses. His mind didn’t work in nearly the same way as Mycroft’s, or even Sherlock’s, but he was a shrewd, smart man; he could guess that this was the Anthea that he heard so much about. Even so, it didn’t mean that he was just going to climb in the car with her.
Anthea smirked reaching back into the car and pulled out a slim manila folder and a chauffeur’s cap. She pulled out a single piece of paper, a sign that read NICKOLAUS KENNING, then put the cap, grinning.
The foreigner chuckled slightly, slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out his phone to check to see if Mycroft had given him any warning. Finding only a charming flirtation from his lover, he looked back to Anthea and asked, “And I can assume I’m meeting Anthea Jones?”
The woman extended her hand, “I’ve heard so much about you Mister Kenning. It’s a pleasure, now it’s a long drive, unless you’d like to sleep here?” She glanced around the airport, looking to see if he had any other transportation options, her car would be the most efficient, especially with her control of the traffic.
He brought up Mycroft’s contact information on his phone, then said, “For verification purposes, tell me the last four digits of his direct line. Personal.”
“Home, office or mobile?” There was a slight challenge to her voice, she was enjoying this exchange and so far found Nick at least bright.
“Mobile. It’s what I’m looking at.”
“Of course you’d ask for the last four digits,” American. “4646”
“Hm. 4646,” Nick repeated with a smirk before slipping his phone back into his pocket. He grinned, just a little bit of teeth and pulling unevenly to the right. He picked his bag up from where he’d set it beside the car, then said, “Last question. Does he know you’re here for me, or is this your own reconnaissance?”