all of hamlet’s problems would have been solved had horatio nominated him for queer eye
Karamo in the cutaway: “When Hamlet told me about his issues with his uncle, I knew exactly how to help him. I can see that he has it in him to murder Claudius, but first he has to decide to do it for himself.”
*cut to Karamo taking Hamlet to go skydiving* “This is going to help you take the plunge. If you can jump out of a plane, you can avenge your father’s death.”
gordon ramsey: so what’s wrong with the restaurant? a staff member about to drag out every single bad and/or questionable thing their boss has ever done:
Mycroft’s briefcase hits the floor of his dimly-lit kitchen with a thump. His phone is in his hand, already dialling the number that means emergency response team, now –
“No no no no wait!” A cacophany of different voices, mostly loud and American, try to restrain him. “We’re here from your brother! Your brother and Anthea.”
Adrenaline runs, hot and demanding, down Mycroft’s spine. “Sherlock – Anthea – this is my flat – who the –”
“Henny, please, breathe,” says a tall, sweet-faced man with long shining hair. He’s wearing a grey jersey dress, a denim shirt, and ankle boots with a chunky heel. He steps forward and puts his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “We do not need to start this with a heart attack. Come and sit –”
Mycroft shakes him off. “Explain this intrusion, now. Please bear in mind that I can have several teams of fully-armed and highly-trained agents here in under two minutes. I advise you to speak quickly.”
“Oh, baby,” purrs the man, tucking his arm under Mycroft’s. His accent has shifted to a Southern American drawl. “They told me you were a James Bond, and I will be your Bond girl, if you want me. I look damn good in a bikini.”
Several of the men roll their eyes and smile. A tall, muscled – muscled, oh good Lord – black man steps forward, his manner cool and confident. He holds out a hand. “I’m Karamo. And we’re the Fab Five.”
Mycroft blinks. He does not take the proffered hand. “I have so far heard nothing which will prevent me from having you escorted from the premises.”
“The Fab Five?” says an impeccably-groomed young man with soft, sweet brown eyes and a delicate, clean-cut jaw. Mycroft tries very hard not to be reminded of Detective Inspector Lestrade. “From Queer Eye?”
Mycroft simply raises one eyebrow. The effect is utterly spoiled by the man holding his arm, who moans theatrically and leans in close. “Do that again, honey. Do it all night, for me.”
A small man with bright silver-grey hair steps forward, and again Mycroft’s thoughts flick to Lestrade. He, too, holds out his hand, and this time Mycroft dazedly takes it. “Queer Eye, the TV programme,” says the man, and his voice is different: British, Pakistani heritage, if Mycroft is not mistaken. “On Netflix. Your brother signed you up for it.”
Mycroft shakes his head. “I cannot – I work for –”
“Mmmm,” purrs the man holding his arm, leaning his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we know you’re a spy. We have been told.”He mimics an appalling British accent on the last few words.
The British man smiles. “I’m Tan. Your – Anthea replied to us when the show tried to contact you to get consent. I don’t think your brother had anticipated that process. She told us that we couldn’t – for obvious reasons – film you.”
“But,” says Karamo, with a calm smile, “she did say you need some help. She made a very generous donation to the show, in return for which, Netflix were happy to fly us over here a week before our British Edition dates were due to start.”
