Waiting Room Blues
Fandom: alierakieron 's Greyson series; Sherlock (BBC 2010)
Rating: Gen
Characters: Rafe Greyson, Sherlock Holmes
Triggers: None, that I'm aware of
A/N: These two got into my head and wouldn't shut up.
Rafe Greyson was not accustomed to waiting. Neither, he could tell, was the man in the extravagantly long coat who was slumped in the chair next to him. Every three minutes, on the minute, as if the man had a pocketwatch implanted in his brain, there was a deep sigh, a slight mutter, and a twitch of a trigger finger. Rafe was, honestly, getting rather tired of the affair, and decided to upset the status quo.
“Why are you here?”
His words seemed to echo. The sprawler didn’t seem to hear him. No, that wasn’t exactly right. He did hear him, and was choosing to ignore him quite visibly. Rafe could swear that there were tangible waves of annoyance radiating from beneath his closed eyes, so he responded the only way he knew how. Poke him with a stick.
“So, do you reckon, they’ll keep us long? I mean, I have no idea why you’re here and no idea why I’m here and there is no way of knowing how long we’ll both be here and I abide by a rule of get to know your fellow man, so tell me. What’s your name? Where are you from?”
The room, if anything, grew colder. A sneer curled the lip of the silent man, but Rafe sat still. From years of experience he knew the other was about to crack. He didn’t have younger siblings for nothing.
“Well then, man, come on!”
With a movement that seemed both rushed and quite deliberate, the man jerked upright.
“You want to know who I am? Well, I can tell you that you have quite the expertise in at least 4 kinds of knife, as well as a working knowledge of poisons. Your sister was just married, and you have travelled extensively. You quit smoking in the last year, but still miss it and sneak one when either your wife or girlfriend, probably wife if your ring is anything to go by, is away or busy. She works in either a medical profession or one closely related, and you feel that you do not see each other enough, but it is not a classically unhappy marriage. I am Sherlock Holmes and I am bored. Is that enough?”
Rafe stared. It had been a while since anyone had made him feel that complete level of surprise. He didn’t know whether to go for the knife up his sleeve and look for spies or applaud this Sherlock Holmes for doing the impossible.
“All true, she’s my wife, and how on earth did you know about what she does?”
He paused, and then inserted his last barb.
“Also, if you’ve been spying on us, she’s quite deadly.”
Sherlock laughed. It was not a particularly joyful laugh, but neither was it doleful.
“I have no doubt that she is. Your wife’s profession was evident in the very neat stitching on your left arm. It is not in hospital sutures, but it is professionally done. Someone you trust sutured your arm for you, and it was a female hand. Being married, it was either your wife or your sister, and your sister being just married eliminates that. It was simple.”
All Rafe could think of at that moment was how perfectly Holmes and Edmund would communicate.
“Since you know everything about my life, tell me about yours."
This led to another uncomfortable silence as the man proceeded to apparently be bored by his very existence and slumped back into the narrow chair. Rafe just smiled. Yes, Holmes and Edmund would do very well indeed.
Rating: Gen
Characters: Rafe Greyson, Sherlock Holmes
Triggers: None, that I'm aware of
A/N: These two got into my head and wouldn't shut up.
Rafe Greyson was not accustomed to waiting. Neither, he could tell, was the man in the extravagantly long coat who was slumped in the chair next to him. Every three minutes, on the minute, as if the man had a pocketwatch implanted in his brain, there was a deep sigh, a slight mutter, and a twitch of a trigger finger. Rafe was, honestly, getting rather tired of the affair, and decided to upset the status quo.
“Why are you here?”
His words seemed to echo. The sprawler didn’t seem to hear him. No, that wasn’t exactly right. He did hear him, and was choosing to ignore him quite visibly. Rafe could swear that there were tangible waves of annoyance radiating from beneath his closed eyes, so he responded the only way he knew how. Poke him with a stick.
“So, do you reckon, they’ll keep us long? I mean, I have no idea why you’re here and no idea why I’m here and there is no way of knowing how long we’ll both be here and I abide by a rule of get to know your fellow man, so tell me. What’s your name? Where are you from?”
The room, if anything, grew colder. A sneer curled the lip of the silent man, but Rafe sat still. From years of experience he knew the other was about to crack. He didn’t have younger siblings for nothing.
“Well then, man, come on!”
With a movement that seemed both rushed and quite deliberate, the man jerked upright.
“You want to know who I am? Well, I can tell you that you have quite the expertise in at least 4 kinds of knife, as well as a working knowledge of poisons. Your sister was just married, and you have travelled extensively. You quit smoking in the last year, but still miss it and sneak one when either your wife or girlfriend, probably wife if your ring is anything to go by, is away or busy. She works in either a medical profession or one closely related, and you feel that you do not see each other enough, but it is not a classically unhappy marriage. I am Sherlock Holmes and I am bored. Is that enough?”
Rafe stared. It had been a while since anyone had made him feel that complete level of surprise. He didn’t know whether to go for the knife up his sleeve and look for spies or applaud this Sherlock Holmes for doing the impossible.
“All true, she’s my wife, and how on earth did you know about what she does?”
He paused, and then inserted his last barb.
“Also, if you’ve been spying on us, she’s quite deadly.”
Sherlock laughed. It was not a particularly joyful laugh, but neither was it doleful.
“I have no doubt that she is. Your wife’s profession was evident in the very neat stitching on your left arm. It is not in hospital sutures, but it is professionally done. Someone you trust sutured your arm for you, and it was a female hand. Being married, it was either your wife or your sister, and your sister being just married eliminates that. It was simple.”
All Rafe could think of at that moment was how perfectly Holmes and Edmund would communicate.
“Since you know everything about my life, tell me about yours."
This led to another uncomfortable silence as the man proceeded to apparently be bored by his very existence and slumped back into the narrow chair. Rafe just smiled. Yes, Holmes and Edmund would do very well indeed.