Sherlock Holmes: Weapon of Choice
Weapon of Choice
An Invitation. A Norwegian Alter-Ego. Holmes beats a man with his violin.
PG-13 | violence, mystery, Sigerson | 2,617 words
This was written as a kink meme fill. The prompt: SHERLOCK HOLMES BEATS THE CRAP OUT OF SOMEONE WITH HIS VIOLIN.
“What’s that?” Watson asks, plainly suspicious of the note that Holmes had been unconsciously turning over in his hands for the better part of an hour.
“An invitation, nothing more,” Holmes says dismissively, as if a note that had captivated his attention for nearly a full hour is anything but important. However, they are on the hunt for a criminal who has since blended in with the aristocracy, so that any chance at uncovering his identity has been thus far intercepted.
It is in times like these that Watson knows an invitation is never just an invitation, and this one is no exception. Written in the most painstakingly perfect cursive is nothing short of a desperate, exaggerated plea for the great Sigerson to play at the engagement party of a Miss Evelyn Jackson to the dashing young Winston Scott, the very same man that Holmes suspects to be the killer.
There is no question about whether or not Sigerson will accept. If there was ever a case of Holmes suspecting anyone for a prolonged period of time, it is only because he had yet to gather enough evidence to support an arrest. All in good time, though.
“But it was sent to our address, here,” Watson states plainly
“That, dear man, is where your mind has fallen predictably short,” Holmes says just as plainly. He continues quickly with the rest of his thought, knowing Watson well enough to give him an inch to feel insulted by what is fact. “The invitation, as you can see from the address, was clearly sent to Sigerson directly. It has only just been delivered to me this very morning. I hope the good Mr. Scott won’t be too distraught with such a late reply,” he adds, fretting slightly.
“Sigerson has a house?” is all Watson can manage to say, dumbfounded and altogether nonplussed at the seemingly limitless dedication Holmes has to his alter-egoes.
“Oh yes,” says Holmes, as if it is the most common thing in the world. “Although I do believe that he will find himself in need of new lodgings after the engagement. Perchance he can room with us until he finds his own way?”
An image crosses Watson’s mind of two Holmes’ living at Baker street, one poised menacingly over the prone form of Gladstone, the other with long ears and a dramatic Norwegian accent. It is horrifying. “Pray, let him find his way at the convenience of someone else. We have no room for a third lodger.”
Holmes is smiling at this although he does not look up from the invitation, and Watson knows that his mind is already mapping out the unlimited possibilities of the forthcoming evening. Watson’s own mind cannot help but wonder why Holmes’ Norwegian personality disorder would need new lodgings. But, like all problems raised by the peculiarities of one Sherlock Holmes, Watson knows all answers will make themselves known when they are ready, and, despite his diligent efforts to discover something on his own, not a moment before.
The afternoon passes quietly with Holmes absorbed in his meticulous disguise. Watson leaves him be, not particularly interested in observing the art of sculpting wax on one's face to make one look wrinkled. "Dress nice, Watson. You're coming too," Holmes calls after him, which is as much of a surprise as Watson can imagine; surely his presence would set off alarms, especially his presence being in the company of a man who, despite what is probably pounds of makeup, still looks, to Watson, like Holmes.
Just to be safe, Watson plucks his revolver from his nightstand and slips it into his inside pocket.
--
The evening is a sickeningly grand affair. The hall is lavishly decorated, the food delightfully rich; the lady Evelyn is beautiful, the dashing young Winston is dashing indeed, and Watson is anxious.
"You're anxious," Holmes, or Sigerson, rather, points out, his accent comical, although Watson doubts any members in this particularly nouveau social circle to have ever met a real Norwegian so as to recognize the phony dialect. For now, Holmes is safe.
"I am not," Watson deflects, and thinks again, Holmes is safe. Sigerson, however...
An elderly gentleman makes his presence known by calling to Sigerson from across the room, waving a hand in the air as he crosses over as fast as his arthritic limbs allow. Watson sees Holmes contort his face into a smile false enough to suit the rest of him, prosthetics and all, before turning to meet the gentleman.
“The great Sigerson, as I live and breathe!” he wheezes, panting from his short run, and leading Holmes away by the arm. Watson can see Holmes’ smile change into one that looks much more real, for the man absorbs praise and compliments like a plant does sunlight, although unlike a plant, Holmes produces nothing in return. When no one is looking in his direction, Watson slips a hand onto his inside pocket, as he has done constantly throughout the night, giving his revolver a quick touch before removing his hand before anyone could notice.
As it turns out, the older gentleman who had just led Holmes away is the father of the bride-to-be. After a tearful speech on all the joy his daughter has brought into his life, he introduces Holmes, and the crowd applauds as the greying, balding Norwegian takes his place in front of the crowd.
Watson always loved it when Holmes played the violin and this evening is no exception. Though Holmes is unrecognizable in face, voice and attire, the performance Watson watches and hears is truly Holmes, as bright and vivid a display of the man’s essence as can be expected. His closed eyes, lightness of arm, fingers dancing effortlessly up the neck of the violin, his lithe body swaying along with the melody. Watson is sure that if any person in attendance had ever seen Holmes play before, they would not think for an instant that Sigerson was anyone else.
Unfortunately, there is, in fact, another who had seen Holmes play: one Winston Scott, the very man who had invited Sigerson in the first place. It is the one aspect of the evening that Holmes was not aware of, and so, when he is done playing, he is surprised to find Winston making a beeline for him.
“Ah, the young Mr. Scott,” Holmes declares jovially, holding his Stradivarius and bow in one hand so as to welcome Winston with the other.
Winston says nothing until he is so close that no one could possibly overhear. He leans in and takes hold of Holmes’ proffered forearm. “You are to meet me in the hallway at once,” he says, his voice urgent and hushed. “Tell no one where you are going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, young man,” says Holmes dismissively, breaking free of Winston’s grip and turning his back to return his violin to its case.
“I need to speak with you,” Winston says through his teeth, his jaw clenched. “You will want to hear what it is I have to say.”
When Holmes turns back to face him, he is gone, having already left for the hallway. He picks up his violin case, and with a nod to Watson as his only way of expressing that nothing is at all amiss, sets off to meet the young Winston Scott.
“I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show up,” says Winston, “Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes does not falter for even a fraction a second. “I was invited,” he says, still maintaining the Norwegian dialect of Sigerson the violinist, “and I am not so cold and reserved that I would deny such a humble and honorable request by a gentleman as respectable as yourself.”
Winston starts, his nostrils flaring with anger, his patience already gone. “Why do you think I invited you in the first place?”
“To wish you the best of luck with your engagement to the lovely Evelyn,” says Holmes. “It should be obvious to you. After all, you’re the one marrying her. That is,” he adds quieter, in his own voice, “assuming she survives the engagement.”
With Winston already privy to Holmes’ identity, it is no skin off his back to affirm the younger man’s suspicions. Such an indulgence, however, only seems to fuel his rage.
"I will not abide to your sniffing around!”
Up goes Holmes’ left eyebrow, along with the corner of his mouth as Winston paces before him. "Are you threatening me?"
"Let's just say,” says Winston, “I'm going to throw you off my scent." In the same moment, the following three things happen: Winston snaps his fingers. Two men emerge from behind the staircase. Watson comes running out of the great hall.
“Holmes, I recognize him! He was--” Watson stops short, observing the scene at hand. The door slams shut behind him. Before he can act, the two men are at his side, twisting his arms painfully behind his back, stepping on the backs of his knees to send him crashing to the ground.
It is then that Winston launches himself at Holmes with animalistic agility, one hand clutching a dagger that Holmes himself didn't even see where it came from, momentarily distracted by Watson’s stifled cry of pain, his other hand immediately finding Holmes' throat. Holmes twists like a cat, and though he does not free himself from the grip on his throat, he is able to swing his arm: the arm holding his violin case.
The case swings back while Winston is preoccupied with suffocating Holmes at knifepoint, and then swings forward to hit him square in the chest.There is a crunching sound that could either be bone or the buckles of the case, and Winston drops the knife, though he doesn’t let go of Holmes, who is beginning to sag from lack of air.
His free hand reaches to snatch the case from Holmes, but it is already in motion, swinging into his fingers with another crack. Wounded as it must be, Winston brings his hand up to join his other in crushing Holmes’ windpipe. The two men stagger, Winston pressing Holmes back towards a wall, Holmes pressing back, his legs bent and scrambling for purchase on the elegant carpet.
Up comes the violin case once more, and Holmes sends the large end of it slamming into Winston’s forehead, and then once more. Dazed, Winston’s grip loosens, for Holmes is finally able to twist free, taking a step back in order to wind up for another swing. This time, the blow that connects once again with Winston’s skull also sends the case flying open, and Holmes’ precious Stradivarius flying out.
With a ragged cry, Holmes flings the case aside and lunges for his violin. He somehow manages to catch it by the neck, tripping over his own and landing on his back. Watson can see that he has winded himself, his mouth wide and gasping for the air that fails to come. What does come is Winston, brandishing his knife once more.
In that moment, Watson does not remember how he had shouted Holmes’ name. He does not remember how violently he had strained against his captors. He remember Winston’s knife, and how close it came to its mark before Holmes lashed out with his violin, sending the scroll directly into Winston’s throat. He remembers how time seemed to freeze for a moment, Winston’s eyes bulging, before his hands fly to his neck, and an overhanded swing of the violin sends the wider end into Winston’s nose, breaking it and sending the man flying backwards. He does not get up.
In mere seconds, Holmes is on his feet, his violin inches away from Winston’s face, as if it were a sword or a gun. He stands, panting, coughing feebly, but never taking his eyes from his would-be assailant until more doors burst open and in comes Inspector Lestrade and five of London’s finest.
“At ease, gents,” he says, and the two men who had been restraining Watson let him go and instantly back away, as if distancing themselves from the scene would erase their guilt. “What have we here?”
“Winston Scott,” says Watson, standing up carefully and leaning all his weight on his good leg. “Would-be killer of Evelyn Jackson, suspected killer of two others, as well as attacking an... innocent bystander. These two were accomplices.”
“And I thought we would only be arresting one. Not three,” says Lestrade, and his men laugh as if they had been previously advised to indulge the Inspector in any attempts he may make to be humorous.
Watson shrugs, his attention fixed on Holmes, who is sitting on the floor with his back to the room, his head and shoulders slumped dramatically. All this time, he had been quiet, not even making a dig at Lestrade’s less than impeccable timing, or his sorry attempts at levity. “Holmes,” he says gently, dragging his leg as he approaches his friend. “Are you alright, my friend?”
As if from the depths of his soul, from the deepest, darkest corner of his despairing mind, Holmes utters a single, tragic word: “No.”
“You are hurt, then,” he says.
Again, Holmes denies it. As Watson gets closer, he can see that Holmes is slumped forward over the body of his violin, which he is cradling in his arms like a mother would an infant.
Watson hesitates, wanting to take the violin away and inspect his friend’s throat for damage, but he is distracted by the scene taking place behind him. Evelyn is now standing there, with a host of guests at her back, while Lestrade and his men are clapping Winston and his men in irons. As he is led outside, Winston spits blood at his onlookers and takes to violent swearing and cursing the shallow wealth they wallow in, and so on and so forth.
Watson turns back to Holmes. “You knew this would happen?”
“Not at all,” Holmes says, his voice thick with sorrow.
“Then how could you possibly have anticipated--”
“Save it, Watson,” Holmes mutters under his inquiry, and when he finally turns to face him, Watson can see that his face appears to be peeling off, all his careful hours of work ruined in a fight that hardly lasted a minute. “Please. Must you ask this of me now? Now?”
“I suppose not,” Watson says, letting it go. He hesitates for a moment, but Holmes turns back to his violin.
“The bridge is snapped. Broken strings. A scratch, Watson. A scratch! Surface damage,” he gasps, as if there could be nothing worse done to a violin.
“All of which can be repaired,” Watson says encouragingly, having no idea as to whether the violin actually could be fixed but desperately wanting to encourage Holmes to stop wallowing because they have an audience now.
“Sigerson is dead,” Holmes continues, as mournful as if a real person had died rather than just an alter-ego of his.
“A small price to pay for the life of an innocent young woman?” Watson prompts. Holmes groans in response, a pathetic, defeated sound, and he clutches the violin to his chest.
Giving Holmes’ shoulder a quick and supportive pat, Watson straightens and turns back to face the crowd. “Ladies,” he says, his throat tightening under pressure as dozens of eyes fix on him, “gentleman. I regret to inform you that the concert is off.”
“As is the engagement,” Holmes adds from his spot on the floor.
The enchanting Miss Evelyn Jackson promptly bursts into tears.
In the haste that proceeds to quell the young woman’s sobbing, Watson grabs Holmes, hauls him upright, and drags him away before anyone has time to notice.
An Invitation. A Norwegian Alter-Ego. Holmes beats a man with his violin.
PG-13 | violence, mystery, Sigerson | 2,617 words
This was written as a kink meme fill. The prompt: SHERLOCK HOLMES BEATS THE CRAP OUT OF SOMEONE WITH HIS VIOLIN.
“What’s that?” Watson asks, plainly suspicious of the note that Holmes had been unconsciously turning over in his hands for the better part of an hour.
“An invitation, nothing more,” Holmes says dismissively, as if a note that had captivated his attention for nearly a full hour is anything but important. However, they are on the hunt for a criminal who has since blended in with the aristocracy, so that any chance at uncovering his identity has been thus far intercepted.
It is in times like these that Watson knows an invitation is never just an invitation, and this one is no exception. Written in the most painstakingly perfect cursive is nothing short of a desperate, exaggerated plea for the great Sigerson to play at the engagement party of a Miss Evelyn Jackson to the dashing young Winston Scott, the very same man that Holmes suspects to be the killer.
There is no question about whether or not Sigerson will accept. If there was ever a case of Holmes suspecting anyone for a prolonged period of time, it is only because he had yet to gather enough evidence to support an arrest. All in good time, though.
“But it was sent to our address, here,” Watson states plainly
“That, dear man, is where your mind has fallen predictably short,” Holmes says just as plainly. He continues quickly with the rest of his thought, knowing Watson well enough to give him an inch to feel insulted by what is fact. “The invitation, as you can see from the address, was clearly sent to Sigerson directly. It has only just been delivered to me this very morning. I hope the good Mr. Scott won’t be too distraught with such a late reply,” he adds, fretting slightly.
“Sigerson has a house?” is all Watson can manage to say, dumbfounded and altogether nonplussed at the seemingly limitless dedication Holmes has to his alter-egoes.
“Oh yes,” says Holmes, as if it is the most common thing in the world. “Although I do believe that he will find himself in need of new lodgings after the engagement. Perchance he can room with us until he finds his own way?”
An image crosses Watson’s mind of two Holmes’ living at Baker street, one poised menacingly over the prone form of Gladstone, the other with long ears and a dramatic Norwegian accent. It is horrifying. “Pray, let him find his way at the convenience of someone else. We have no room for a third lodger.”
Holmes is smiling at this although he does not look up from the invitation, and Watson knows that his mind is already mapping out the unlimited possibilities of the forthcoming evening. Watson’s own mind cannot help but wonder why Holmes’ Norwegian personality disorder would need new lodgings. But, like all problems raised by the peculiarities of one Sherlock Holmes, Watson knows all answers will make themselves known when they are ready, and, despite his diligent efforts to discover something on his own, not a moment before.
The afternoon passes quietly with Holmes absorbed in his meticulous disguise. Watson leaves him be, not particularly interested in observing the art of sculpting wax on one's face to make one look wrinkled. "Dress nice, Watson. You're coming too," Holmes calls after him, which is as much of a surprise as Watson can imagine; surely his presence would set off alarms, especially his presence being in the company of a man who, despite what is probably pounds of makeup, still looks, to Watson, like Holmes.
Just to be safe, Watson plucks his revolver from his nightstand and slips it into his inside pocket.
--
The evening is a sickeningly grand affair. The hall is lavishly decorated, the food delightfully rich; the lady Evelyn is beautiful, the dashing young Winston is dashing indeed, and Watson is anxious.
"You're anxious," Holmes, or Sigerson, rather, points out, his accent comical, although Watson doubts any members in this particularly nouveau social circle to have ever met a real Norwegian so as to recognize the phony dialect. For now, Holmes is safe.
"I am not," Watson deflects, and thinks again, Holmes is safe. Sigerson, however...
An elderly gentleman makes his presence known by calling to Sigerson from across the room, waving a hand in the air as he crosses over as fast as his arthritic limbs allow. Watson sees Holmes contort his face into a smile false enough to suit the rest of him, prosthetics and all, before turning to meet the gentleman.
“The great Sigerson, as I live and breathe!” he wheezes, panting from his short run, and leading Holmes away by the arm. Watson can see Holmes’ smile change into one that looks much more real, for the man absorbs praise and compliments like a plant does sunlight, although unlike a plant, Holmes produces nothing in return. When no one is looking in his direction, Watson slips a hand onto his inside pocket, as he has done constantly throughout the night, giving his revolver a quick touch before removing his hand before anyone could notice.
As it turns out, the older gentleman who had just led Holmes away is the father of the bride-to-be. After a tearful speech on all the joy his daughter has brought into his life, he introduces Holmes, and the crowd applauds as the greying, balding Norwegian takes his place in front of the crowd.
Watson always loved it when Holmes played the violin and this evening is no exception. Though Holmes is unrecognizable in face, voice and attire, the performance Watson watches and hears is truly Holmes, as bright and vivid a display of the man’s essence as can be expected. His closed eyes, lightness of arm, fingers dancing effortlessly up the neck of the violin, his lithe body swaying along with the melody. Watson is sure that if any person in attendance had ever seen Holmes play before, they would not think for an instant that Sigerson was anyone else.
Unfortunately, there is, in fact, another who had seen Holmes play: one Winston Scott, the very man who had invited Sigerson in the first place. It is the one aspect of the evening that Holmes was not aware of, and so, when he is done playing, he is surprised to find Winston making a beeline for him.
“Ah, the young Mr. Scott,” Holmes declares jovially, holding his Stradivarius and bow in one hand so as to welcome Winston with the other.
Winston says nothing until he is so close that no one could possibly overhear. He leans in and takes hold of Holmes’ proffered forearm. “You are to meet me in the hallway at once,” he says, his voice urgent and hushed. “Tell no one where you are going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, young man,” says Holmes dismissively, breaking free of Winston’s grip and turning his back to return his violin to its case.
“I need to speak with you,” Winston says through his teeth, his jaw clenched. “You will want to hear what it is I have to say.”
When Holmes turns back to face him, he is gone, having already left for the hallway. He picks up his violin case, and with a nod to Watson as his only way of expressing that nothing is at all amiss, sets off to meet the young Winston Scott.
“I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show up,” says Winston, “Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes does not falter for even a fraction a second. “I was invited,” he says, still maintaining the Norwegian dialect of Sigerson the violinist, “and I am not so cold and reserved that I would deny such a humble and honorable request by a gentleman as respectable as yourself.”
Winston starts, his nostrils flaring with anger, his patience already gone. “Why do you think I invited you in the first place?”
“To wish you the best of luck with your engagement to the lovely Evelyn,” says Holmes. “It should be obvious to you. After all, you’re the one marrying her. That is,” he adds quieter, in his own voice, “assuming she survives the engagement.”
With Winston already privy to Holmes’ identity, it is no skin off his back to affirm the younger man’s suspicions. Such an indulgence, however, only seems to fuel his rage.
"I will not abide to your sniffing around!”
Up goes Holmes’ left eyebrow, along with the corner of his mouth as Winston paces before him. "Are you threatening me?"
"Let's just say,” says Winston, “I'm going to throw you off my scent." In the same moment, the following three things happen: Winston snaps his fingers. Two men emerge from behind the staircase. Watson comes running out of the great hall.
“Holmes, I recognize him! He was--” Watson stops short, observing the scene at hand. The door slams shut behind him. Before he can act, the two men are at his side, twisting his arms painfully behind his back, stepping on the backs of his knees to send him crashing to the ground.
It is then that Winston launches himself at Holmes with animalistic agility, one hand clutching a dagger that Holmes himself didn't even see where it came from, momentarily distracted by Watson’s stifled cry of pain, his other hand immediately finding Holmes' throat. Holmes twists like a cat, and though he does not free himself from the grip on his throat, he is able to swing his arm: the arm holding his violin case.
The case swings back while Winston is preoccupied with suffocating Holmes at knifepoint, and then swings forward to hit him square in the chest.There is a crunching sound that could either be bone or the buckles of the case, and Winston drops the knife, though he doesn’t let go of Holmes, who is beginning to sag from lack of air.
His free hand reaches to snatch the case from Holmes, but it is already in motion, swinging into his fingers with another crack. Wounded as it must be, Winston brings his hand up to join his other in crushing Holmes’ windpipe. The two men stagger, Winston pressing Holmes back towards a wall, Holmes pressing back, his legs bent and scrambling for purchase on the elegant carpet.
Up comes the violin case once more, and Holmes sends the large end of it slamming into Winston’s forehead, and then once more. Dazed, Winston’s grip loosens, for Holmes is finally able to twist free, taking a step back in order to wind up for another swing. This time, the blow that connects once again with Winston’s skull also sends the case flying open, and Holmes’ precious Stradivarius flying out.
With a ragged cry, Holmes flings the case aside and lunges for his violin. He somehow manages to catch it by the neck, tripping over his own and landing on his back. Watson can see that he has winded himself, his mouth wide and gasping for the air that fails to come. What does come is Winston, brandishing his knife once more.
In that moment, Watson does not remember how he had shouted Holmes’ name. He does not remember how violently he had strained against his captors. He remember Winston’s knife, and how close it came to its mark before Holmes lashed out with his violin, sending the scroll directly into Winston’s throat. He remembers how time seemed to freeze for a moment, Winston’s eyes bulging, before his hands fly to his neck, and an overhanded swing of the violin sends the wider end into Winston’s nose, breaking it and sending the man flying backwards. He does not get up.
In mere seconds, Holmes is on his feet, his violin inches away from Winston’s face, as if it were a sword or a gun. He stands, panting, coughing feebly, but never taking his eyes from his would-be assailant until more doors burst open and in comes Inspector Lestrade and five of London’s finest.
“At ease, gents,” he says, and the two men who had been restraining Watson let him go and instantly back away, as if distancing themselves from the scene would erase their guilt. “What have we here?”
“Winston Scott,” says Watson, standing up carefully and leaning all his weight on his good leg. “Would-be killer of Evelyn Jackson, suspected killer of two others, as well as attacking an... innocent bystander. These two were accomplices.”
“And I thought we would only be arresting one. Not three,” says Lestrade, and his men laugh as if they had been previously advised to indulge the Inspector in any attempts he may make to be humorous.
Watson shrugs, his attention fixed on Holmes, who is sitting on the floor with his back to the room, his head and shoulders slumped dramatically. All this time, he had been quiet, not even making a dig at Lestrade’s less than impeccable timing, or his sorry attempts at levity. “Holmes,” he says gently, dragging his leg as he approaches his friend. “Are you alright, my friend?”
As if from the depths of his soul, from the deepest, darkest corner of his despairing mind, Holmes utters a single, tragic word: “No.”
“You are hurt, then,” he says.
Again, Holmes denies it. As Watson gets closer, he can see that Holmes is slumped forward over the body of his violin, which he is cradling in his arms like a mother would an infant.
Watson hesitates, wanting to take the violin away and inspect his friend’s throat for damage, but he is distracted by the scene taking place behind him. Evelyn is now standing there, with a host of guests at her back, while Lestrade and his men are clapping Winston and his men in irons. As he is led outside, Winston spits blood at his onlookers and takes to violent swearing and cursing the shallow wealth they wallow in, and so on and so forth.
Watson turns back to Holmes. “You knew this would happen?”
“Not at all,” Holmes says, his voice thick with sorrow.
“Then how could you possibly have anticipated--”
“Save it, Watson,” Holmes mutters under his inquiry, and when he finally turns to face him, Watson can see that his face appears to be peeling off, all his careful hours of work ruined in a fight that hardly lasted a minute. “Please. Must you ask this of me now? Now?”
“I suppose not,” Watson says, letting it go. He hesitates for a moment, but Holmes turns back to his violin.
“The bridge is snapped. Broken strings. A scratch, Watson. A scratch! Surface damage,” he gasps, as if there could be nothing worse done to a violin.
“All of which can be repaired,” Watson says encouragingly, having no idea as to whether the violin actually could be fixed but desperately wanting to encourage Holmes to stop wallowing because they have an audience now.
“Sigerson is dead,” Holmes continues, as mournful as if a real person had died rather than just an alter-ego of his.
“A small price to pay for the life of an innocent young woman?” Watson prompts. Holmes groans in response, a pathetic, defeated sound, and he clutches the violin to his chest.
Giving Holmes’ shoulder a quick and supportive pat, Watson straightens and turns back to face the crowd. “Ladies,” he says, his throat tightening under pressure as dozens of eyes fix on him, “gentleman. I regret to inform you that the concert is off.”
“As is the engagement,” Holmes adds from his spot on the floor.
The enchanting Miss Evelyn Jackson promptly bursts into tears.
In the haste that proceeds to quell the young woman’s sobbing, Watson grabs Holmes, hauls him upright, and drags him away before anyone has time to notice.