When all were in attendance, fifty five moons lit up the night sky. The moons were blessed with heterochromia, each a different shade of blue, grey, and green with occasional brown speckles thrown in. There was significance in these moons for the Council of Cumberbatch. Each moon symbolised a character by Benedict Cumberbatch; the more in the sky, the more in attendance in council chambers. That night, so far a grand total of 11 moons hung in the sky.
Each of these characters played a vital role in Benedict’s portfolio of work; there was Khan, the Star Trek villain, valued amongst the women for his physical prowess and skills, Christopher Tietjens the broody idealist of Parade’s End, and Smaug the dragon, mainstay of the Hobbit trilogy. The man who never lived, but would never die, Sherlock Holmes was there under protest, but there all the same, with his companion, John Watson.
As the mumbling died down, Cumberbatch himself was the first to speak, calling order to the meeting. The jaguars walking around the room returned to their pet beds, and the cellist in the corner stopped playing immediately.
“First order of meeting, that magazine interview,” he started nervously.
“Yes, well done Cumberbatch,” Sherlock, sitting at the end of the table wrapped in a bed sheet, spoke up “You’ll give us all a bad name at this rate,”
“Why aren’t’t you dressed?” Cumberbatch queried.
“Never mind him, late out of bed,” John Watson leapt to his defense.
“And what are you doing here Watson?” Cumberbatch added.
“Sherlock insisted, wouldn’t come at all if I didn’t,” John answered for him.
“Yes, we’ve heard that about you two,” Cumberbatch smiled, “And when are we getting more episodes, Sherlock?”
“When I’m good and ready,” Sherlock huffed, “Next.”
Before the meeting could continue, attention was drawn to Watson staring towards the back of the room. John looked at Sherlock, then to Smaug, then back to Sherlock, an uneasy recognition crossing his face. Smaug shrugged, and snagged a cup of tea from Tietjens with a delicate claw. Tietjens stared on, most miffed as his tea disappeared down the dragon’s hatch.
“Wait, where do I know this guy from?” Watson pointed at Smaug, hunched over at the end of the table.
“Really John, you read far too many fairytales,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and adjusted himself on his chair.
“No, Sherlock, really, where do I know him from?”
“Been on any grand adventures lately?” Cumberbatch offered.
Watson rested back into his chair, confused. He exchanged furtive glances with the dragon for the next ten minutes, until the room was drawn to the sound of breaking china. Not only had Smaug drunk the tea, he’d eaten the tea cup.
“This is preposterous,” Tietjens snapped, “The Groby tree was cut down quicker than tea is served around here,”
As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson, a Baker Street regular, appeared pushing a trolley cart, the top shelf covered in tea cups and tea pots, with the bottom shelf arranged with an assortment of toast, jam, and biscuits.
“Where did she come from?” Patrick Watts, a Starter for 10 quizmaster, broke his silence.
“Don’t mind her, it just... happens,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand.
“Impossible. Things do not just happen,” Stephen Hawking interjected.
“Yes, well, you’d know,” Sherlock bit back.
“Relax, relax, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Watson tried desperately to calm the situation as toast was placed in front of him.
“Bite it,” the voice of Paul Marshall echoed darkly across the table, no Atonement sought for his creepy manner.
“Excuse you?” Watson looked at him.
“Bite it. You need to bite it,”
“Thank you very much,” a now discomforted Watson smothered his toast with jam and bit into it; while awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact with Paul Marshall.
“Right, where were we?” Cumberbatch cleared his throat, “Really need to stop going off on tangents,”
“I’m not sure why I’m here, actually,” Khan spoke up.
“You’re here so you can give us an update on the next Star Trek film,” Cumberbatch rolled his eyes.
“Right, well, no news on that,”
“And can you do something about your clothing? I’m sick of shelling out money for new clothes every week. Just ... stop it,”
Khan sat at the end of the table, at a loss as to how to respond. Dressed in his regulation issue Starfleet uniform; black boots, very well fitted pants, and top, his skin was alabaster fresh, eyes wild and all the colors of the ocean, hair silky smooth and jet black. He often joked his pants were so tight you could tell his religion; null and void of course, he was an augment with no religion, but he laughed all the same.
“Can we do something about the pants? They’re too tight, and they -,”
“No, no, you can’t, all part of the marketing; the girls love it,” Cumberbatch ignored him and pressed on, “How are you going down there, Tietjens?”
“My tea has gone cold,” he sulked, “And we’re out of toast.”
“I’ve got chocolate,” Paul Marshall interjected, the words oozing darkly into the room, “Would you like chocolate?”
“Where did Mrs. Hudson get to?” Tietjens ignored Marshall and continued to sit there stoically, the brooding romantic lead that he was.
There was a clear division in the table; Julian Assange, of the Fifth Estate who had managed to be spirited away from the Ecuadorian embassy, placed himself with Steven Ezard, no stranger to government secrets in The Last Enemy, both talking wildly about conspiracy theories. Hawking and Alan Turing, with Patrick Wattsclose by quizzing them mercilessly. Sherlock and Khan sat apart from others, discussing strategic weaknesses in both the room and attendees.
“Will someone tell me what is going on here?” Watson had returned from the bathroom, “There is a wolf in the sodding bathroom!”
“Oh, that’s Classified,” Cumberbatch waved his hand, “It’s fine,”
“It is not fine!” Watson’s fists were balled up, “Why is it classified?”
“No, no, that’s his name, Classified,” Cumberbatch offered, “Calm down John, we’ve got a bit to get through today,”
Watson sat back down next to Sherlock, aware of the rooms’ attention and Smaug still watching him. Nobody mentioned that the detective's hand had moved to unobtrusively rest on the Doctor's thigh
“Is Richard III coming today? I thought he was going to be here?” Cumberbatch looked around the table, “Let’s give him five minutes, there’s still a few of us missing,”
“I make a fabulous chocolate martini,” Paul Marshall rose from his spot and disappeared to a back room, returning with a tray of drinks.
As if summoned, there was a knock at the door; Richard III had arrived.