Holmes/Watson Ficlet: Epilogue
After reading a birthday fic written for me by ccarlet I couldn't help but write an epilogue to the story! Yes, indeed, I am that crazy. Epilogue to this fic. :D
Title: The Boticelli Incident--Epilogue
Rating: PG
Length: ~700
At the time, our beloved detective resided in the sitting room of his and Watson’s shared apartment. Holmes was doing nothing in particular and-while typically restless by nature-he did not mind it. In fact, it would be fair to say that he was relaxing (although these great minds never relax, they claim, as they constantly ponder some great thought or other).
Even so, in this precise moment Holmes was basking in the afterglow of a case finished (except that the details of last night’s case, along with the undue amount of unprofessional conduct, were better left unmentioned). He was also considering sending a thank-you note to Scotland Yard addressed to one “Uncle Limberg”.
This thought was cut off by Mrs Hudson entering the room, deftly balancing a tea tray (with all the proper components placed on it) in her hands. “Good morning, Mr Holmes.”
“Ah, yes, enter sweet muse into the imagination-and bring that tea with you,” beckoned Holmes with a flourish. Mrs Hudson, completely and suspiciously unperturbed, did just that.
“Well,” she scoffed, placing the tray on the side table beside Holmes’ armchair. “You finally seem to be in a good mood today, Mr Holmes. I take it you sorted out that business what with that conspicuous lady?”
“I am in an excellent mood, Mrs Hudson, and as long as I will not be disturbed by any more conspicuous, veiled ladies, it shall remain so.” Holmes slid down in his chair-managing to ruffle his hair in the process, not that he concerned himself with that-and spread his legs out across the carpet. Today was an official holiday, if he had anything to say about it (which, frankly, he did, being a consulting detective and all).
Holmes was about ready to procure some tickets to the opera, except that Watson was taking his time getting up (unusual for such a punctual person, noted Holmes smugly) and he wanted his opinion first. He was not about to listen to several hours of nasally tragedy if Watson was inclined for…other prospects.
“So, Mr Holmes,” his landlady suddenly spoke up cheerfully, “I take it Dr Watson let you back into his bed then?”
Unfortunately, Holmes had chosen that exact moment to take a sip of his tea. The result was that he literally sputtered the-scalding-beverage, spraying it all over his dressing gown and even partially spotting the carpet, much to Mrs Hudson’s dismay.
“What?” he asked weakly, mentally denying that he squeaked.
“Oh please, Mr Holmes, do try and control yourself.” She was referring to the soiled carpet. “I may be going deaf, but one doesn’t have to be hard of hearing to miss your activities. If you were any louder, passers-by would think this was a brothel, and I would really rather not be fending off anyone, gents or otherwise.”
Holmes was currently in terrible conflict with his thoughts, which did not happen often, socially inept though he was. He honestly could not decide whether he was embarrassed or simply deeply, deeply disturbed. As time progressed, he leaned towards the latter. Holmes realized that he would never be able to look at Mrs Hudson again without either imaging her as a matron of a pleasure house or standing at his or Watson’s closed door and listening in.
“Right,” he ultimately said.
“He was truly worried about you, you know, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson continued without even batting an eyelash, and bent down to clean up the tea-ridden mess.
“Ah, yes, indeed. Indeed he was,” quickly blurted out Holmes, heading for the door and practically sprinting out before his landlady would begin to advise him on his and Watson’s relationship.
The detective stood facing the (now closed) sitting room door for a moment with his hand still on the handle, blinking in slow astonishment. He was vaguely wondering if Mrs Hudson had been joking about their, erm, volume, when a pair of hands clapped down on his shoulders.
Holmes would forever deny that he had screamed and had jumped so high that Watson easily managed to catch him. The doctor just stared at him, pretending that this was not an uncommon occurrence. Watson was surprisingly flexible about this sort of thing after…oh, never mind.
“Right,” exclaimed Holmes, disregarding that he currently resembled a jittery bride more than a genius detective, “Fancy heading to the opera then, Watson dear?”
Title: The Boticelli Incident--Epilogue
Rating: PG
Length: ~700
At the time, our beloved detective resided in the sitting room of his and Watson’s shared apartment. Holmes was doing nothing in particular and-while typically restless by nature-he did not mind it. In fact, it would be fair to say that he was relaxing (although these great minds never relax, they claim, as they constantly ponder some great thought or other).
Even so, in this precise moment Holmes was basking in the afterglow of a case finished (except that the details of last night’s case, along with the undue amount of unprofessional conduct, were better left unmentioned). He was also considering sending a thank-you note to Scotland Yard addressed to one “Uncle Limberg”.
This thought was cut off by Mrs Hudson entering the room, deftly balancing a tea tray (with all the proper components placed on it) in her hands. “Good morning, Mr Holmes.”
“Ah, yes, enter sweet muse into the imagination-and bring that tea with you,” beckoned Holmes with a flourish. Mrs Hudson, completely and suspiciously unperturbed, did just that.
“Well,” she scoffed, placing the tray on the side table beside Holmes’ armchair. “You finally seem to be in a good mood today, Mr Holmes. I take it you sorted out that business what with that conspicuous lady?”
“I am in an excellent mood, Mrs Hudson, and as long as I will not be disturbed by any more conspicuous, veiled ladies, it shall remain so.” Holmes slid down in his chair-managing to ruffle his hair in the process, not that he concerned himself with that-and spread his legs out across the carpet. Today was an official holiday, if he had anything to say about it (which, frankly, he did, being a consulting detective and all).
Holmes was about ready to procure some tickets to the opera, except that Watson was taking his time getting up (unusual for such a punctual person, noted Holmes smugly) and he wanted his opinion first. He was not about to listen to several hours of nasally tragedy if Watson was inclined for…other prospects.
“So, Mr Holmes,” his landlady suddenly spoke up cheerfully, “I take it Dr Watson let you back into his bed then?”
Unfortunately, Holmes had chosen that exact moment to take a sip of his tea. The result was that he literally sputtered the-scalding-beverage, spraying it all over his dressing gown and even partially spotting the carpet, much to Mrs Hudson’s dismay.
“What?” he asked weakly, mentally denying that he squeaked.
“Oh please, Mr Holmes, do try and control yourself.” She was referring to the soiled carpet. “I may be going deaf, but one doesn’t have to be hard of hearing to miss your activities. If you were any louder, passers-by would think this was a brothel, and I would really rather not be fending off anyone, gents or otherwise.”
Holmes was currently in terrible conflict with his thoughts, which did not happen often, socially inept though he was. He honestly could not decide whether he was embarrassed or simply deeply, deeply disturbed. As time progressed, he leaned towards the latter. Holmes realized that he would never be able to look at Mrs Hudson again without either imaging her as a matron of a pleasure house or standing at his or Watson’s closed door and listening in.
“Right,” he ultimately said.
“He was truly worried about you, you know, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson continued without even batting an eyelash, and bent down to clean up the tea-ridden mess.
“Ah, yes, indeed. Indeed he was,” quickly blurted out Holmes, heading for the door and practically sprinting out before his landlady would begin to advise him on his and Watson’s relationship.
The detective stood facing the (now closed) sitting room door for a moment with his hand still on the handle, blinking in slow astonishment. He was vaguely wondering if Mrs Hudson had been joking about their, erm, volume, when a pair of hands clapped down on his shoulders.
Holmes would forever deny that he had screamed and had jumped so high that Watson easily managed to catch him. The doctor just stared at him, pretending that this was not an uncommon occurrence. Watson was surprisingly flexible about this sort of thing after…oh, never mind.
“Right,” exclaimed Holmes, disregarding that he currently resembled a jittery bride more than a genius detective, “Fancy heading to the opera then, Watson dear?”