Fic: In the Mews: PG
Nov. 4th, 2016 11:41 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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holmes_minorTitle: In the Mews
Rating: PG
Length: 500
Content Notes: Angst; Holmes/Watson (unresolved); homophobia; mention of suicide; case is lifted from Agatha Christie's "Murder in the Mews," in which the suicide (made to look like murder) occurs on Guy Fawkes Night.
Summary: On Guy Fawkes Night, a case leads to revelations and disappointment.
Author's Note: I was going for something 'authentic' for the 5th of November and ended up with...this not-happy fic.
The revelers were still at their merry-making when our hansom cab began its slow return to Baker Street.
“The tragedy of Miss Allen seems more horrid with all this gaiety about,” I said. “But I think that’s the quickest you’ve wrapped one up yet, Holmes.”
“The case possessed feature or two of interest. One, it was not murder made to look like suicide but rather suicide made to look like murder, and, two the gunshot was purposefully masked by the eruption of fireworks.”
I nodded. “Miss Allen’s friend, Miss Plenderleith, is a very skilled photographer. I suppose you know a good deal about photography.”
There was a long pause; then Holmes replied,
“The only photograph I shall take of you, Watson, should circumstances allow for it, will be of your corpse.”
I started at the coldness of his reply. Neither of us spoke for the remainder of the journey.
I confess that I did not realise how inflated my fantasy was until Holmes’s statement pricked it like a needle, and it burst. Though the case had been a sobering one, I had still clung to the notion that upon our return to Baker Street, I would propose that he and I don masks and costumes and go out amidst the revelers. In disguise, and perhaps with a cup or two in us, we might feel at liberty to…
I shook my head. Holmes’s words were even more sobering than a young lady blackmailed into suicide and another young lady so determined to bring the blackmailer to justice that she reframed the scene of her best friend’s death to look like murder.
I had been stupid: Holmes was not the type to indulge in…frivolity, even with me, and perhaps, and this hurt most of all, especially with me.
We were both ensconced in our armchairs before the fire when he finally spoke,
“Miss Plenderleith was reckless to take those photographs. To keep them. Anyone with any imagination,” he stressed the word as only he could, “would see them for what they are.”
“Which is?”
“Declarations of love. She might be comfortable with such open expressions, but what of Miss Allen? Her fiancée, Mister Charles Laverton-West, might not look so kindly on it.”
“I don’t know,” I said dryly. “He strikes me as a singularly unimaginative type, but we can’t know precisely what Miss Allen thought, can we? Poor girl.”
“No. But I shall do everything possible to bring Major Eustace to justice for his other crimes. Blackmailers rarely stick to one class of violation.”
“Holmes…”
“Watson.” He cut me off with a raised hand. “You will marry a fine woman someday and grow old with children and grandchildren surrounding you.”
“And if I wish to dance in the streets with you beneath colourful explosions of light and sound?” I cringed at the need in my voice. “Need one preclude the other?”
He rose. “Good night, Watson.”
And for the third time that night, his words detonated in my chest.
Rating: PG
Length: 500
Content Notes: Angst; Holmes/Watson (unresolved); homophobia; mention of suicide; case is lifted from Agatha Christie's "Murder in the Mews," in which the suicide (made to look like murder) occurs on Guy Fawkes Night.
Summary: On Guy Fawkes Night, a case leads to revelations and disappointment.
Author's Note: I was going for something 'authentic' for the 5th of November and ended up with...this not-happy fic.
The revelers were still at their merry-making when our hansom cab began its slow return to Baker Street.
“The tragedy of Miss Allen seems more horrid with all this gaiety about,” I said. “But I think that’s the quickest you’ve wrapped one up yet, Holmes.”
“The case possessed feature or two of interest. One, it was not murder made to look like suicide but rather suicide made to look like murder, and, two the gunshot was purposefully masked by the eruption of fireworks.”
I nodded. “Miss Allen’s friend, Miss Plenderleith, is a very skilled photographer. I suppose you know a good deal about photography.”
There was a long pause; then Holmes replied,
“The only photograph I shall take of you, Watson, should circumstances allow for it, will be of your corpse.”
I started at the coldness of his reply. Neither of us spoke for the remainder of the journey.
I confess that I did not realise how inflated my fantasy was until Holmes’s statement pricked it like a needle, and it burst. Though the case had been a sobering one, I had still clung to the notion that upon our return to Baker Street, I would propose that he and I don masks and costumes and go out amidst the revelers. In disguise, and perhaps with a cup or two in us, we might feel at liberty to…
I shook my head. Holmes’s words were even more sobering than a young lady blackmailed into suicide and another young lady so determined to bring the blackmailer to justice that she reframed the scene of her best friend’s death to look like murder.
I had been stupid: Holmes was not the type to indulge in…frivolity, even with me, and perhaps, and this hurt most of all, especially with me.
We were both ensconced in our armchairs before the fire when he finally spoke,
“Miss Plenderleith was reckless to take those photographs. To keep them. Anyone with any imagination,” he stressed the word as only he could, “would see them for what they are.”
“Which is?”
“Declarations of love. She might be comfortable with such open expressions, but what of Miss Allen? Her fiancée, Mister Charles Laverton-West, might not look so kindly on it.”
“I don’t know,” I said dryly. “He strikes me as a singularly unimaginative type, but we can’t know precisely what Miss Allen thought, can we? Poor girl.”
“No. But I shall do everything possible to bring Major Eustace to justice for his other crimes. Blackmailers rarely stick to one class of violation.”
“Holmes…”
“Watson.” He cut me off with a raised hand. “You will marry a fine woman someday and grow old with children and grandchildren surrounding you.”
“And if I wish to dance in the streets with you beneath colourful explosions of light and sound?” I cringed at the need in my voice. “Need one preclude the other?”
He rose. “Good night, Watson.”
And for the third time that night, his words detonated in my chest.
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