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Merry Christmas, everyone! As my very own, like, BBC Christmas special, I come bearing...UK Office fic. I missed the ten-year anniversary last year because I fail like a failing thing, but hey, it seemed like David Brent would appreciate me making the effort for the eleven-year anniversary. 
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Title - Keep the Car Running (15/31)
Author - earlgreytea68
Rating - Adult
Characters - Arthur, Eames, Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Dom Cobb
Spoilers - Through "His Last Vow" in the Sherlock universe. This takes place post-movie, so I guess spoilers for "Inception"? But just for the basic fact that it's about dream thieves, nothing in this story depends overly much on the movie's plot.
Disclaimer - I don't own any of them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - If Mycroft Holmes lived in a world where people could steal information from the subconsciouses of others, tell me he wouldn't be all over that when he had Moriarty in custody.
Author's Note - This is a very un-Christmas-y chapter. Trigger warning for descriptions of violence. I don't think it's anything too gory but these are unpleasant dreams and they needed to be unpleasant enough to rattle Eames and Arthur so nothing good is about to happen in this fic.

Chapter FifteenCollapse )
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A/N: If you're celebrating: Merry Christmas Eve! This is the last of the Advent drabbles. Normally I have a couple left over and I just finish them up, but I have a lot left over this year and I didn't have time to finish them all up, so, alas, I'm going to draw a line in the sand here. But you will be getting a fic tomorrow. IN A BRAND NEW FANDOM I'VE NEVER WRITTEN IN BEFORE. I leave you to that teaser. :-) (And KtCR will be updated eventually, too. With a chapter that is totally not full of Christmas cheer, I timed that poorly.)


“I think,” said Eames, “that we should ask for directions.”

“We’re not lost,” said Arthur. “Do you know how well I researched this? We’re not lost.”

“What do you think, Lucky?”

“I’m sure we’re not lost,” said Lucky diplomatically, “but we should probably also ask for directions.”

“Do you know whose fault this is?”

“Mine?” Eames guessed.

“Yes. Because normal people don’t cut their own Christmas trees. Normal people go to stores and get handed Christmas trees.”

“Where’s your Christmas spirit, darling? Did it also get lost?”

“We should ask for directions to Arthur’s Christmas spirit,” suggested Lucky.

Arthur sighed.
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“You will never guess,” huffed Sherlock, “the ridiculousness that happened today.”

“Was a murderer unusually stupid?” asked John good-naturedly. “Did he leave his DNA all over the murder weapon?”

“No, there were no murders at all in this sleepy, peaceful place.”


“I’ve been invited to join the Ice Capades.”

John looked at Sherlock. And then he burst into laughter.

“Stop it,” sulked Sherlock. “It’s not funny.”

“Yes, it is. They’d make you wear the feathers all the time and you’d fit right in! It’d be fabulous!”

“Shut up.”

“At least it’s not Disney on Ice calling.”

“Oh, my God.”
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“There’s a problem with your security,” Greg said.

Mycroft looked alarmed. “It is routinely checked. I find it impossible to believe that—”

“It keeps going off.”

“People keep triggering it.”

“By coming to our door.”

“People aren’t supposed to come to our door, Greg.”

“They’re carolers.”

“Even more reason to prevent them from coming to our door.”

“Your Christmas spirit is blinding.”

“You never know when a caroler might be an assassin. Or at the very least wielding the deadly weapon of atrocious singing.”

“Ah. Thank God for your security system saving us from such a horrific death.”

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“Snickerdoodle,” said John. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

Sherlock frowned. “Is it a code word?”

John looked amused. “No, it’s not a code word.”

“New recreational drug?” Sherlock guessed. “That’s what it sounds like.”

“You think drug dealers are selling ‘snickerdoodle’ these days?”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“A type of biscuit.” John held it up. “Mrs. Hudson made it.”

“And it’s called a snickerdoodle? How ridiculous. What a revolting name.”

“You ate almost the whole batch.”

“That’s before I knew what they were called.”

“I’m going to start calling you ‘snickerdoodle,’” said John. “My recreational drug of choice.”
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“Oh, dear,” sobbed Oliver. “Oh, no!”

“There, there,” said the little old lady who had been on the bench, rising to comfort him. “What’s happened?”

“I’ve lost my house key. My dad will be furious!”

“We’ll find it,” she soothed. “Where did you last have it?”

“Over there, I think,” sniffled Oliver. “By the ducks.”

Sherlock watched Oliver lead the old lady away, and immediately pounced in to collect the DNA sample he needed from the forgotten coffee cup she’d left behind.

“Should we be concerned he can cry on cue?” asked John, watching Oliver.

“Useful undercover skill,” replied Sherlock.
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John thought it would be a good idea to paint a wall of their kitchen with blackboard paint. He lived with two mad scientist geniuses who were constantly scribbling data into notebooks; he thought they would appreciate it.

They thought he was mad.

“But it’s ephemeral,” said Oliver. “When data is forever!” He lifted his notebook.

Sherlock didn’t even deign to make a comment about it.

John sighed and mainly used the blackboard to write deliberately incorrect facts and equations, just to see if they would get corrected.

Mainly they were.

Even the astronomical facts.

Because Oliver helped on those.
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