Look, I have Holmes-y gifts!
I haven't exactly been around much in the Holmesian universe, not because anyone has done anything or I have got bored... I'm just allowing my plot hedgehogs to play in other fandoms for awhile. Haven't really had a decent Holmes-y idea either, I have a few but they didn't really work out, but I did poke around in my 'Sherlock Holmes' folder on my desktop to see if I had anything that was post-worthy. Discovered there were a few little things so... here ya go! :))
I entered my first fic exchange, I'm both terrified and excited at the prospect! :))
Title: Untitled WIP Staring Mycroft Part 2
RATING: PG
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes/Female Character (implied), Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade (will eventually be Mycroft/Lestrade)
Synopsis: Continuing on from Part 1. Sherlock gets himself into trouble.
Florence Holmes's funeral came and went without any fuss. It was a small family affair, with her brothers in attendance. Mycroft had thought about asking his younger brother Sherlock to join them, but he knew that the lad would feel out of place and would only make some excuse to disappear. Sherlock had been in touch to express his condolences, but this had been in the extent of their contact since he had left Cambridge earlier this summer.
He had been offered two weeks leave by his employers, he had turned them down with a polite 'no', he preferred to be working. The truth was he did not quite know what to do, the house was empty without his wife and it had been almost three weeks since her death and he still had not managed to enter her room. His daughter was in the care of a capable wet-nurse and he received daily reports. What was he supposed to do with a three week old infant? Most things in his life were explainable with logic or mathematics, children were not.
He shuffled the papers on his desk and stared out of the window. This was not customary behaviour for him, but he could not help feeling that his life was shifting in a strange directions.
A knock at his office door brought his mind back to reality.
"Yes?" He called.
A nervous looking clerk put his head around the door, "sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes, there is a police inspector here to see you."
"Thank you. Send him in."
The clerk retreated and a few moments later returned with a somewhat short, fat-faced fellow whom Mycroft took to be the inspector.
"Good afternoon, my name's Godfrey Lestrade I'm with Scotland Yard."
"How can I help you?" He asked once the door had been closed.
"I know you are a busy man sir, so I will come straight to the point. Do you have a brother by the name of Sherlock?"
"I do."
"Then I'm sorry to report that he's in hospital."
"Dear me. What mischief did he get himself into this time?"
"He was attacked, he was found in an alleyway off Soho at a quarter to three in the morning. You wouldn't by any chance know what he was doing there at that time of morning?"
"I couldn't possibly speculate, but my brother is a cab driver perhaps he was simply working late."
"Your brother was not on duty at the time, we confirmed that with his employers. The alleyway he was found in has some dubious connections, what would your brother be doing there?"
"I really couldn't say."
"He claims that he was walking."
"It wouldn't surprise me, Sherlock has some alarming attitudes concerning his own safety."
"He claims that he uses the time to learn routes around the capital."
"Again, that wouldn't surprise me inspector. As it seems you are asking questions that have no answer or answers that I cannot give then you are now starting to waste my time in continuing this interview."
"Of course, my apologies. Oh, there is one more thing though. Isn't a cab drive a rather strange profession for someone of your standing?"
"My standing? Inspector I don't know what your source of information is but my family background is not as grand as it seems. A cab driver is a perfectly legitimate profession, one has to make a living somehow."
"Yes, you are of course right. Well, thank you for your time."
Mycroft showed the inspector to the door before returning to his office to postulate on what possible trouble Sherlock could have got himself into this time. He really should consider visiting the young man in hospital but he had work to complete before taking personal time.
...
He stood by the hospital bed, watching as his battered, bruised looking younger brother was trying to dress himself.
"Really Sherlock, you should take the doctors advice."
"I'm risking my job, Mycroft." He replied through gritted teeth, "Mr Carver said I can take a few days but I won't be earning."
"I had a visit from a certain Inspector Lestrade."
Sherlock groaned, and Mycroft was sure it was not from pain. "What did he want?"
"He was curious as to why you were in that alleyway."
"I told him."
"Yes, you told him that you were walking. What were you really up to? I hope you weren't indulging your vices."
"Certainly not!" His brother blushed, "I was on a case."
"Oh a case. You haven't given up on this silly idea of yours then."
"It's not a 'silly idea'. I admit that things aren't as straight forward as I thought they might be, but I'm not giving up."
"I never said that you should. What is the case?"
"It's so simple a child could solve it." Sherlock snapped. "A woman is suspecting her husband of having an affair, she asked me to investigate."
"And?"
"He is, with several young boys. I would have had all the evidence I needed to turn him over to the police but..."
"You were careless."
"Yes."
"They didn't take your wallet?"
"No."
"So they must have known you were watching. Dear me, Sherlock."
"I just wasn't as careful as I should have been, I didn't think the case through."
"Beginners mistake." Mycroft observed.
Sherlock sighed, "yes." Standing he turned to his brother, "things will improve."
"Before or after you starve?" Seeming not to hear his brother began to limp painfully away from the bed, "Sherlock." He turned, "be careful."
Title: Bed Sharing
Rating: PG-ish
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Synopsis: Dialogue. Holmes and Watson on bed sharing.
"For Christ's sake Holmes!"
"My apologies."
"I might write about how much of an annoyance it is to share a bed with you."
"You snore."
"You can't keep still."
"You can always sleep on the floor."
"Why would I have to sleep on the floor?"
"You're the one complaining. Good night."
"Good night."
"Would you really write about sharing a bed with me?"
"... Not if you keep doing that."
"Then I shall."
Title: A Fitting End
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Synopsis: Takes place after 'His Last Bow', using the audio adaptation by Bert Coules as inspiration. Holmes and Watson share a conversation in which certain truths are revealed and regrets are expressed. (Contains character death).
Disclaimer: The words taken from the audio adaptation by Bert Coules are not mine, nor ever will be. They are denoted in italics.
With Von Bork safety at Scotland Yard I joined my old friend Sherlock Holmes for a final drink at the Claridge’s Hotel. I looked at him over my glass. “What now, more work for the government?”
Holmes stared into the amber liquid of his brandy for some time before replying to my question. “I don't believe so.”
“Holmes?” I queried, a little taken back.
“You said earlier that you knew I was leading up to something.”
“You mean there's still another twist?” I laughed. “And I'm supposed to be the writer.”
“Well you needn't fear the competition.” He sat forward and I could see that he was deeply troubled. “I'm laying down my pen. For good, this time.”
“Why Holmes? You still have so much to offer, this business proves it.”
“No, Doctor. I was right. It's time to stand aside. There's a new age coming. I don't belong in it. I'm sorry Watson.” There was something in his manner of speech that terrified me, a crawling fear that slowly grappled at the far reaches of my mind.
“Well... If it's what you want.” The fear that was circling my mind descended rapidly to my stomach. I sipped my brandy slowly, trying to stem the rising nausea.
“Yes, it is.”
“So this it then. This really is the end.”
“Yes. It really is.”
We sat together in silence. I watched him carefully, tried to read what was going on behind those grey eyes of his, try to see what could possibly going through his mind. He had refused the original request from the Prime Minister because he feared he was no longer able, he had told me in the car that his old methods had been useless and he had felt like an outsider in the city he was once so much a part of. London had been part of Holmes, he could read it better than any book and knew it better than a man knew his own wife. Now? It had changed, everything had changed. I had felt it to. It wasn't just the motor cars, the electricity, the underground transport, it was everything.
Eventually I cleared my throat. “Holmes... I have to ask you this, please don't... don't lie...”
“Watson?”
“You're not going to...going to...” I searched, stumbling over my words as I tried to formulate my terrifying fear into a coherent sentence. “Going to do anything... stupid... are you?” I finally asked.
He glanced briefly up at me before looking back at table-cloth. “I'm not brave enough.” He replied in a quiet voice.
“Brave enough? Are you saying...”
He rolled his empty glass between his palms. “Three years ago.”
“Holmes...”
“It was the 8th January ,1911 I woke early and went to my study. The notes from my research were lying on the desk and so I thought I would continue my write up from the previous night. I wrote for almost an hour before sitting back in my chair to read through what I had written, there was a word that was bothering me, the spelling I think, and I crossed to the bookcase to retrieve the dictionary.” His voice faltered for a moment from it's almost schoolmaster like delivery, he quickly recovered himself and continued. “There's a photograph on the bookcase of you, me and Martha1 standing on the steps to our old rooms in Baker Street. I remember when it was taken 5th April, 18942. Two days after I returned to London. It was four years since since I handled my last case3 and I hadn't missed crime or the old days even then. Looking at this photograph I realised how...empty my life was. Here I was, fifty-seven years old4, standing alone in my study in the early hours of the morning and suddenly, so suddenly wanting...you.” He coughed, his eyes suspiciously bright and looked apologetically at me, “would you mind ordering me another brandy?”
“Of course.”
I left him alone for a few moments to collect his thoughts and I have to admit I was glad for the break. I ordered drinks for myself and Holmes and returned to the table where his eyes no longer had that vague shine to them and he seemed more settled.
“Thank you.” He said taking a sip of his drink.
I waited for him to take a few more sips before I asked my question. “You said you wanted me...What did you mean by that?”
He seemed somewhat embarrassed, “you have always been...aware of my...nature though we have never discussed it. I thought of you... and your wife together5. How you seemed so happy together on your wedding day. I had been feeling depressed for some time but couldn't understand why, I thought I was happy in my new life. Looking at that photograph, remembering the times we sat together in Baker Street... I felt so alone. You had your wife, someone who would take care of you... who would... love you. In a moment of foolishness I sat down and wrote to you...telling you everything I'd ever wanted to say. It was the type of letter that someone like our old friend Milverton would have loved. Before I posted it I read it through and...it was pathetic. I knew you never shared my...inclinations and here I was threatening to break into your peaceful existence, to tell you things that should never be said. Life seemed so utterly pointless. I had come to the end of my usefulness, I no longer found pleasure in crime, seeing just the empty shells that were left and it dawned on me that that's exactly what I was. An empty shell. I sealed the letter in an envelope, and took my revolver from the desk drawer. I walked along the cliff edge to an isolated spot towards the top of a large hill. I stood for some time just watching the waves crash against the rocks, it reminded me of standing there on the Reichenback Falls waiting for Professor Moriarty. I have no recollection of how long I stood there, maybe hours I don't know. Damn it, Watson! I couldn't even pull the trigger.”
Tears were flowing freely down his face and I was too horrified by his story to do anything. I sat fixed to my chair, staring at my friend. My association with Sherlock Holmes had been over twenty years but I had never felt as far apart from him as I did that moment. He was always the strong one in our friendship, never swayed by emotion or feeling, never afraid for own safety, risking himself for others. I watched as he buried his face in his hands and tried to quieten his sobs. I watched as all the pain and the hurt that he had been feeling for the past few years poured out of him. I couldn't let myself sit here and watch him.
Ignoring the watching stares of the other diners I moved my chair next to his and put my arm around his shoulders. I pulled a hand away from his face and held it tightly in my own, squeezing it in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. A waiter approached our table cautiously.
“Excuse me, sir... is your friend all right?” He asked.
“He's just had a bit of bad news. Would you please bring another brandy and a glass of water?”
“Yes sir.” I watched the waiter disappear.
“I'm sorry.” Holmes murmured through his tears. “I'm so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Holmes. I'm just sorry we couldn't have talked sooner, I'm sorry that I wasn't there whilst you were feeling this way. Holmes, you're wrong I do love you.” He looked at me through red-rimmed eyes, searching my face. “When you told me all those years ago all I could think was how... lucky I was.”
“Lucky?”
“Yes, lucky. When you told me about your... nature I felt... I don't know what I felt but I was happy, I was pleased that you trusted me enough to tell me. I feel honoured that a man as...wise as you should... love someone like me.”
“Like you? Watson, you never do yourself credit, never in your stories and never to yourself. I don't know many men who would have put up with me for years the way you did. Watson, I feel honoured that you are my friend, that's why... that's why I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger because all I saw was...you. How miserable you would be and how much you would blame yourself. I knew there was nothing I could write or do that would tell you that you weren't to blame.”
The waiter brought the drinks and left almost as quickly as he had arrived.
“Do you want the water or the brandy?”
To my relief Holmes laughed and soon I joined in. “Come on old friend, let's walk together for one last time through this changing metropolis before we have to return to our loved ones.”
“Loved ones?”
“You have your wife, I have my bees.” I smiled at him.
And so we walked together arm in arm through the once familiar streets of London. We walked to our old rooms and stood together remembering the times we had shared together. As I walked with Holmes back to the train station I asked him if he any regrets in life, with a small smile he turned to me and said that his only regret was never telling me the truth about his feelings.
One year later as our country raged against the Central Powers, as our brave boys lay dying in the trenches a more personal event affected my life once more.
Sherlock Holmes was found dead on the cliff side a short walk from his cottage, a heart attack the coroner ruled. As I stood in the small chapel reading the eulogy to a small gathering of close friends and family I realised that it really was the end of an era. The world was changing, I was growing older. I had seen those I had loved die and I had lost many friends, there were people today who had never heard of Sherlock Holmes or if they had it was only in a passing reference to great crime.
The obituary appeared in The Times, small, unnoticed. It read: “Sherlock Holmes, Sussex, formerly of Baker Street, London. 1854 - 1915, a great friend to those needed help.”
The way he would have liked it.