Fic: Perfect Vision: G
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holmes_minorTitle: Perfect Vision
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
For: the monthly prompt
Summary: Watson observes a witness in court.
Sherlock Holmes was a mystery. Though I accompanied him on many adventures, I never knew the full extent of his professional dealings. My chronicles are more than the tip of the iceberg, but they don’t tell every story because, quite simply, I don’t know every story.
Sherlock Holmes was also a cipher. He spoke in code. For example, one evening, he asked me to attend a trial on the following day and take notes. I asked him what he wanted with such a case; it had appeared in the papers and seemed to be a straightforward, simple matter of murder.
He replied cryptically,
“I want to prove a point.”
And that was all he would say on the subject.
It was, indeed, a straightforward case of murder until the testimony of one witness. She was a striking woman, dressed in a deep mauve frock and matching hat with veil. One needn’t have been a world-famous detective to recognise her trade by her appearance and mannerisms. Her evidence confirmed it.
“And what were you doing at that lonely spot at such a late hour, Mrs—”
She interrupted in a husky, breathy voice, “It’s Miss.”
“Of course. What were you doing there, Miss Mohels?”
“I was practising my art.”
“What art is that?”
“The art of love, sir.”
A titter went through the court.
“I presume you charge for your art, Miss Mohels. Some might call that a trade,” remarked the prosecutor dryly.
“More’s the pity,” shot back the charming lady.
Laughter ensued.
The prosecutor went pink but recovered quickly. “You could not have seen what you claim to have seen, Miss Mohels, at that spot on the night in question. You are mistaken. Do you wear glasses when you are not plying your art?”
“I assure you, sir, my vision is perfect.”
“Other parts of you, however, are thoroughly corrupt. How can you be certain?”
“I saw what I saw!”
The prosecutor turned his back to the witness and said, “Your trade does not value keen powers of observation, Miss…”
But the witness was standing to her full height and tearing off hat, veil, and wig, and announcing in the deep baritone that I knew so well,
“Oh, Counselor, I assure you that it does! But why should you deride the word of Miss Violet Mohels, prostitute, and take the word of Sherlock Holmes, detective, as Gospel!”
The court erupted in a roar.
I smiled at Holmes and shook my head.
He shot me a look that was almost a wink.
It was some time before order was restored to the court, and then I realised that Holmes didn’t just request my presence as an audience to his theatrical grandstanding; the notes I took were to post his bail when they charged him with contempt, which they did.
“Worth every penny,” he said when I arrived to collect him.
“I am certain that what Miss Mohels’ clients say as well,” I retorted. “And you are a perfect vision in mauve.”
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
For: the monthly prompt
Summary: Watson observes a witness in court.
Sherlock Holmes was a mystery. Though I accompanied him on many adventures, I never knew the full extent of his professional dealings. My chronicles are more than the tip of the iceberg, but they don’t tell every story because, quite simply, I don’t know every story.
Sherlock Holmes was also a cipher. He spoke in code. For example, one evening, he asked me to attend a trial on the following day and take notes. I asked him what he wanted with such a case; it had appeared in the papers and seemed to be a straightforward, simple matter of murder.
He replied cryptically,
“I want to prove a point.”
And that was all he would say on the subject.
It was, indeed, a straightforward case of murder until the testimony of one witness. She was a striking woman, dressed in a deep mauve frock and matching hat with veil. One needn’t have been a world-famous detective to recognise her trade by her appearance and mannerisms. Her evidence confirmed it.
“And what were you doing at that lonely spot at such a late hour, Mrs—”
She interrupted in a husky, breathy voice, “It’s Miss.”
“Of course. What were you doing there, Miss Mohels?”
“I was practising my art.”
“What art is that?”
“The art of love, sir.”
A titter went through the court.
“I presume you charge for your art, Miss Mohels. Some might call that a trade,” remarked the prosecutor dryly.
“More’s the pity,” shot back the charming lady.
Laughter ensued.
The prosecutor went pink but recovered quickly. “You could not have seen what you claim to have seen, Miss Mohels, at that spot on the night in question. You are mistaken. Do you wear glasses when you are not plying your art?”
“I assure you, sir, my vision is perfect.”
“Other parts of you, however, are thoroughly corrupt. How can you be certain?”
“I saw what I saw!”
The prosecutor turned his back to the witness and said, “Your trade does not value keen powers of observation, Miss…”
But the witness was standing to her full height and tearing off hat, veil, and wig, and announcing in the deep baritone that I knew so well,
“Oh, Counselor, I assure you that it does! But why should you deride the word of Miss Violet Mohels, prostitute, and take the word of Sherlock Holmes, detective, as Gospel!”
The court erupted in a roar.
I smiled at Holmes and shook my head.
He shot me a look that was almost a wink.
It was some time before order was restored to the court, and then I realised that Holmes didn’t just request my presence as an audience to his theatrical grandstanding; the notes I took were to post his bail when they charged him with contempt, which they did.
“Worth every penny,” he said when I arrived to collect him.
“I am certain that what Miss Mohels’ clients say as well,” I retorted. “And you are a perfect vision in mauve.”
