Happy Holidays, _Silverfox!
Title: Glimpses of a Case
Recipient: _silverfoxRating: PG
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley, Sherlock Holmes, and Watson.
Notes: This would be longer but that's a very long story and the short version is stalky burglar has a key to my beta's and my apartment and is still trying to get in.
Janet Stone hadn’t been young or pretty, or anything like that. She had been just a servant, middle-aged, plain, and a person of the sort that wasn’t offensive to demon or angel. She had been a pleasantly neutral person when it came to morals, wandering that pleasant middle ground that many inhabited where her habits were neither good enough to have Crowley’s lack of throwing temptations in her path raise any concerns with his bosses Down Below, and never evil enough for Aziraphale to be expected to interfere with her life. Of course, whomever had been assigned to her personally was probably going to have a rather dismal time of it, but that was their problem and both were glad to have escaped being anybody’s guardian angel or personal demon.1
The news of her entirely undeserved death was, therefore, quite unwelcome to both Aziraphale and Crowley. Crowley had known her a bit less, having only woken up from his rather long nap a relatively short while ago, but they both knew her and, more importantly, were fond of her. There was a great deal to be said in favor of anyone who had the talent for being able to handle, smoothly, a drunk demon and angel having dinner at the club that employed them. That she not only did so but tended to ensure that their food and drink was as at least good in as they might have produced through
miracles2 was sufficient to gain a particular fondness from them.
That somebody had seen fit, for some reason, to murder her was particularly disliked.
The minor fact that she had not, in fact, been at all likely to be the murderer’s primary target was not terribly important to Crowley, though Aziraphale did seem to consider it a particular black mark against the murderer.
Until news reached them that Scotland Yard was at an impasse, however, neither saw fit to take action.
It was a quiet night at 221B Baker Street, all things considered. The pair of gentlemen had come about a case, and Mr. Holmes was quickly intrigued.
It was beyond Dr. Watson’s powers to quite discern if what had caught his friend’s interest, however, was the mystery of how the minor Russian noble had died or the sheer lack of interest the pair had in the noble’s murder compared to the maid.
Watson was, however, quite sure that regardless of why his friend’s interest had been first caught, the pair who had brought them the case had certainly been what kept his interest.
The two seemed to be close friends, though with as little as they had in common it seemed very likely that they had gotten to know each other in some boarding school or other. There was definitely moments where it was quite clear that the pair had known each other for a very long time, even if they had not been friends for the entire time.
Even if Watson was lief to admit it, there was a distinct pleasure to be had in watching his friend be at a loss when it came to deducing details about the pair that he normally had little trouble doing. He so rarely showed his human side, though usually those were cases he would not be able to write up for The Strand.
If this particular case turned out to be such, Watson rather suspected it would be because the mystery was rather boring once solved. The point on which Scotland Yard had gotten stuck had not been who nor why, but merely how. The murder itself seemed utterly impossible, given that at the time the room had been closed, and the few reports on the cause of death were…
The Russian noble had not had an autopsy, or possibly had one carried out by a doctor hired by those who had taken charge of his body as soon as they could. His identity was not something anybody seemed to want to talk about, and from Holmes’s frown at points when people talked about the man… It seemed that he might, perhaps, be not a Russian noble but somebody of high status who was incognito.
This would not be frustrating if the doctor who had handled the autopsy of the servant girl was somebody Watson knew well, at least by reputation.
The kindest thing Watson had heard said of the man’s skills as a doctor was that at least in the morgue he was unlikely to cause deaths. It was certain that he had been a good doctor once, much like he had once been sober, but it was likely a very long time since he had last been either.
It seemed unlikely, really, that they could have suffocated.
Crowley leaned against the door, watching the detective and the angel search the room. He found it all a bit amusing, and ironic somewhat that of the two of them, Aziraphale was the one crawling on the floor looking for ‘some kind of container, made of glass, ceramic, or metal.’
He glanced over to Watson, who shrugged slightly. The room in which it had happened was not particularly large, and one very familiar to the demon. The doctor’s injuries meant that getting up reliably was not necessarily certain, and the size of the room meant that helping him up might pose a distinctly difficult problem.
Crowley still did not regret his influence on the room’s decor. He felt the large examples of the taxidermist’s arts were a particularly nice touch, given the current sensibilities.
At least he had read what of Holmes’s cases that Watson had published,3 so there was something to make some small talk about while watching the pair search.
After a while, he felt it appropriate to point out a rather large Chinese vase that he knew was not part of the room’s normal decor.
Aziraphale settled at the table in the back of his store with a bottle of wine he had somewhere, assuring Crowley that it was one he had gotten a while back with a box of books and not miracled into existence. “That was anticlimatic.”
The demon laughed. “I don’t know, it was a clever idea. Leaving a bottle of gas in the room to kill the people inside…”
“Except Janet was nice.”
Sometimes he didn’t even bother trying to resist the angel’s attempts to make him feel guilty. Besides, Aziraphale didn’t really need to know that Janet made ends meet by discreetly helping gentlemen at the club find those of negotiable virtue. “She was.”
“A toast to her, then?”
The proposal was accepted.
1. At one point Crowley would drunkenly observe that if he had ever been given that kind of assignment, he would have found out if he could switch sides back. Aziraphale was _just_ drunk enough to bring up the Eve thing.
2. That they were not particularly good at the time at producing _good_ food and drink through miracles was not to be mentioned.
3. Or, rather, Aziraphale had insisted he read them.
Happy Holidays, _silverfox, from your Secret Writer!
Recipient: _silverfoxRating: PG
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley, Sherlock Holmes, and Watson.
Notes: This would be longer but that's a very long story and the short version is stalky burglar has a key to my beta's and my apartment and is still trying to get in.
Janet Stone hadn’t been young or pretty, or anything like that. She had been just a servant, middle-aged, plain, and a person of the sort that wasn’t offensive to demon or angel. She had been a pleasantly neutral person when it came to morals, wandering that pleasant middle ground that many inhabited where her habits were neither good enough to have Crowley’s lack of throwing temptations in her path raise any concerns with his bosses Down Below, and never evil enough for Aziraphale to be expected to interfere with her life. Of course, whomever had been assigned to her personally was probably going to have a rather dismal time of it, but that was their problem and both were glad to have escaped being anybody’s guardian angel or personal demon.1
The news of her entirely undeserved death was, therefore, quite unwelcome to both Aziraphale and Crowley. Crowley had known her a bit less, having only woken up from his rather long nap a relatively short while ago, but they both knew her and, more importantly, were fond of her. There was a great deal to be said in favor of anyone who had the talent for being able to handle, smoothly, a drunk demon and angel having dinner at the club that employed them. That she not only did so but tended to ensure that their food and drink was as at least good in as they might have produced through
miracles2 was sufficient to gain a particular fondness from them.
That somebody had seen fit, for some reason, to murder her was particularly disliked.
The minor fact that she had not, in fact, been at all likely to be the murderer’s primary target was not terribly important to Crowley, though Aziraphale did seem to consider it a particular black mark against the murderer.
Until news reached them that Scotland Yard was at an impasse, however, neither saw fit to take action.
It was a quiet night at 221B Baker Street, all things considered. The pair of gentlemen had come about a case, and Mr. Holmes was quickly intrigued.
It was beyond Dr. Watson’s powers to quite discern if what had caught his friend’s interest, however, was the mystery of how the minor Russian noble had died or the sheer lack of interest the pair had in the noble’s murder compared to the maid.
Watson was, however, quite sure that regardless of why his friend’s interest had been first caught, the pair who had brought them the case had certainly been what kept his interest.
The two seemed to be close friends, though with as little as they had in common it seemed very likely that they had gotten to know each other in some boarding school or other. There was definitely moments where it was quite clear that the pair had known each other for a very long time, even if they had not been friends for the entire time.
Even if Watson was lief to admit it, there was a distinct pleasure to be had in watching his friend be at a loss when it came to deducing details about the pair that he normally had little trouble doing. He so rarely showed his human side, though usually those were cases he would not be able to write up for The Strand.
If this particular case turned out to be such, Watson rather suspected it would be because the mystery was rather boring once solved. The point on which Scotland Yard had gotten stuck had not been who nor why, but merely how. The murder itself seemed utterly impossible, given that at the time the room had been closed, and the few reports on the cause of death were…
The Russian noble had not had an autopsy, or possibly had one carried out by a doctor hired by those who had taken charge of his body as soon as they could. His identity was not something anybody seemed to want to talk about, and from Holmes’s frown at points when people talked about the man… It seemed that he might, perhaps, be not a Russian noble but somebody of high status who was incognito.
This would not be frustrating if the doctor who had handled the autopsy of the servant girl was somebody Watson knew well, at least by reputation.
The kindest thing Watson had heard said of the man’s skills as a doctor was that at least in the morgue he was unlikely to cause deaths. It was certain that he had been a good doctor once, much like he had once been sober, but it was likely a very long time since he had last been either.
It seemed unlikely, really, that they could have suffocated.
Crowley leaned against the door, watching the detective and the angel search the room. He found it all a bit amusing, and ironic somewhat that of the two of them, Aziraphale was the one crawling on the floor looking for ‘some kind of container, made of glass, ceramic, or metal.’
He glanced over to Watson, who shrugged slightly. The room in which it had happened was not particularly large, and one very familiar to the demon. The doctor’s injuries meant that getting up reliably was not necessarily certain, and the size of the room meant that helping him up might pose a distinctly difficult problem.
Crowley still did not regret his influence on the room’s decor. He felt the large examples of the taxidermist’s arts were a particularly nice touch, given the current sensibilities.
At least he had read what of Holmes’s cases that Watson had published,3 so there was something to make some small talk about while watching the pair search.
After a while, he felt it appropriate to point out a rather large Chinese vase that he knew was not part of the room’s normal decor.
Aziraphale settled at the table in the back of his store with a bottle of wine he had somewhere, assuring Crowley that it was one he had gotten a while back with a box of books and not miracled into existence. “That was anticlimatic.”
The demon laughed. “I don’t know, it was a clever idea. Leaving a bottle of gas in the room to kill the people inside…”
“Except Janet was nice.”
Sometimes he didn’t even bother trying to resist the angel’s attempts to make him feel guilty. Besides, Aziraphale didn’t really need to know that Janet made ends meet by discreetly helping gentlemen at the club find those of negotiable virtue. “She was.”
“A toast to her, then?”
The proposal was accepted.
1. At one point Crowley would drunkenly observe that if he had ever been given that kind of assignment, he would have found out if he could switch sides back. Aziraphale was _just_ drunk enough to bring up the Eve thing.
2. That they were not particularly good at the time at producing _good_ food and drink through miracles was not to be mentioned.
3. Or, rather, Aziraphale had insisted he read them.
Happy Holidays, _silverfox, from your Secret Writer!