Sherlock Fanfic: Aging Gracefully (JWP #5)
Title: Aging Gracefully
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, costumes, some minor ageism, bad American accents rendered typographically, Sherlock is a bit of an ass, set sometime in series 2
Warnings: none
Word Count: 830
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #5: A False Moustache. Story must include a character in disguise (not Sherlock). No moustaches, but things are very false.
Summary: "SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU ARE NOT USING MRS HUDSON AS BAIT!"
Aging Gracefully
"SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU ARE NOT USING MRS HUDSON AS BAIT!"
"Please, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I would never ask Mrs Hudson to do anything that would put her in danger. It's mostly simple surveillance. Bus tour of the City of London, run by a company revoltingly called 'Twilight Twavels'. Caters to American tourists over seventy, a significant percentage of whom coincidentally suffer identity theft and bank fraud after their tours."
John huffed in frustration. "Yes. See? Bait. No."
"It's no trouble at all dear." Mrs Hudson's voice called faintly from behind her flat door. "I was in theatre at school. I was the lead in my final year."
With a 'there you have it' gesture at the door of Mrs Hudson's flat, Sherlock grinned smugly at John. "The only cards she'll be carrying will be stinger cards, and the second anyone tries to access them, the authorities will be notified and trace them back. The demographic analysis I've made indicates they target the chattiest and most elderly American tourists. The ones that appear the most doddering. Vulnerable."
"I don't like it." John crossed his arms and frowned. "She could be in danger."
"Jealous?" Sherlock purred with a smirk.
John's glare could've melted steel.
"Ready!" called Mrs Hudson. She opened her door and bustled out.
"Ah," said Sherlock.
"Oh," said John.
Mrs Hudson was wearing what appeared to be an entire garden. A purple flower print dress that seemed to have spent most of its life as drapes, a tatty straw hat covered in miniature daisies and baby's breath, a drooping sprig of lilac tucked into the fastening hyacinth broach securing the crocheted shawl (white with rather violently pink roses) draped over her shoulders. Her hair was tucked up under the hat in a way that made it look like it was in a bun - though John knew her hair wasn't nearly that long - and powdered white with talc. In her orange-primrose gloved hands she held an incongruously leopard-print clutch purse.
A sudden vague familiarity hit John, and he choked back a laugh when he realized he was thinking of Tweety Bird's Granny.
"Is this alright, Sherlock?" she said, turning slowly, powder flurrying down from her hair. "It's what I could find on short notice."
"It's- erm." John blinked and coughed. "Eye-catching."
Sherlock frowned. "It's no good. You don't look nearly old and feeble enough."
"Oh!" Mrs Hudson tittered and swatted Sherlock on the arm with the clutch purse. "Spare my blushes."
Sherlock smiled tightly. "The voice? You'll have to be a chatty American."
"Of course." Mrs Hudson cleared her throat. "Guhnnehss sayks, this wehthah is simpleh muhduh on mah hayuh!"
"Oh," said Sherlock.
"Ah," said John, stifling a snort. "Sherlock, a moment?"
Sherlock held up a hand. "What sort of accent is that?"
Mrs Hudson blinked behind her tiny spectacles. "It's American. At school they thought it was quite good, though I am a bit rusty."
"The, erm, acting you did at school, Mrs Hudson," John asked with a smirk. "The play where you got the lead. Which play was that?"
"Gone With the Wind. 'Ahs Gawd is mah witnehss Ah shall nehvah be poor or honrgeh agayn!'"
And that explains the dress made from drapes. John giggled and applauded. "Brilliant."
Sherlock scowled. "You lived in Florida for years."
"I did. Didn't take on the accent though." Mrs Hudson dusted talcum powder from her shoulders. "Most everyone in our neighbourhood was originally from England."
Sherlock looked pained. John grinned harder.
"Except Frank of course. Ooo! I could try Frank's accent if you'd like, or rather-"
"Please, don't," Sherlock said, but it was too late, Mrs Hudson had already cleared her throat.
"Yah wan' aye shuld do Frankie's axsnt? Ah kin tawk lahk this awl dey."
"Hmm!" John hummed, eyes twinkling.
Sherlock massaged the bridge of his nose. "No. I don't think that will do either."
"Must I talk? I can just not talk. I don't like to mention it, but I did a mime act in-"
"I'm afraid speaking is required. They target chatty elderly tourists." Sherlock pulled out his mobile. "I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'm afraid this won't work."
"Oh," she said, all her flowers drooping. "I was so looking forward to it."
"It's probably for the best Mrs H," John said, patting her on the arm. "Riding around London on a bus with a bunch of old codgers waiting to be electronically pick-pocketed? Boring."
"Yes, unfortunate," Sherlock had his mobile to his ear.
John ushered Mrs Hudson back into her flat with promises of tea. "Sherlock? Who are you calling?"
Sherlock held up a hand again. "Ah, Lestrade. Loath as I am to ask, about your-" Sherlock shuddered. "-'party piece'. How long can you sustain that for? ...No, not that one, god, never speak of that to me again. I'm talking about the Boston accent... Yes, perfect. Could you do that socially for about an hour?"
"You're going to get Lestrade to-" John's mind blanked out in a sudden vision of Lestrade in Mrs Hudson's curtain-dress. "Seriously? Greg doesn't look even close to elderly!"
Sherlock hummed and smirked. "True. But he'll look decades older if you loan him one of your cardigans."
John just glared.
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, costumes, some minor ageism, bad American accents rendered typographically, Sherlock is a bit of an ass, set sometime in series 2
Warnings: none
Word Count: 830
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #5: A False Moustache. Story must include a character in disguise (not Sherlock). No moustaches, but things are very false.
Summary: "SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU ARE NOT USING MRS HUDSON AS BAIT!"
Aging Gracefully
"SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU ARE NOT USING MRS HUDSON AS BAIT!"
"Please, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I would never ask Mrs Hudson to do anything that would put her in danger. It's mostly simple surveillance. Bus tour of the City of London, run by a company revoltingly called 'Twilight Twavels'. Caters to American tourists over seventy, a significant percentage of whom coincidentally suffer identity theft and bank fraud after their tours."
John huffed in frustration. "Yes. See? Bait. No."
"It's no trouble at all dear." Mrs Hudson's voice called faintly from behind her flat door. "I was in theatre at school. I was the lead in my final year."
With a 'there you have it' gesture at the door of Mrs Hudson's flat, Sherlock grinned smugly at John. "The only cards she'll be carrying will be stinger cards, and the second anyone tries to access them, the authorities will be notified and trace them back. The demographic analysis I've made indicates they target the chattiest and most elderly American tourists. The ones that appear the most doddering. Vulnerable."
"I don't like it." John crossed his arms and frowned. "She could be in danger."
"Jealous?" Sherlock purred with a smirk.
John's glare could've melted steel.
"Ready!" called Mrs Hudson. She opened her door and bustled out.
"Ah," said Sherlock.
"Oh," said John.
Mrs Hudson was wearing what appeared to be an entire garden. A purple flower print dress that seemed to have spent most of its life as drapes, a tatty straw hat covered in miniature daisies and baby's breath, a drooping sprig of lilac tucked into the fastening hyacinth broach securing the crocheted shawl (white with rather violently pink roses) draped over her shoulders. Her hair was tucked up under the hat in a way that made it look like it was in a bun - though John knew her hair wasn't nearly that long - and powdered white with talc. In her orange-primrose gloved hands she held an incongruously leopard-print clutch purse.
A sudden vague familiarity hit John, and he choked back a laugh when he realized he was thinking of Tweety Bird's Granny.
"Is this alright, Sherlock?" she said, turning slowly, powder flurrying down from her hair. "It's what I could find on short notice."
"It's- erm." John blinked and coughed. "Eye-catching."
Sherlock frowned. "It's no good. You don't look nearly old and feeble enough."
"Oh!" Mrs Hudson tittered and swatted Sherlock on the arm with the clutch purse. "Spare my blushes."
Sherlock smiled tightly. "The voice? You'll have to be a chatty American."
"Of course." Mrs Hudson cleared her throat. "Guhnnehss sayks, this wehthah is simpleh muhduh on mah hayuh!"
"Oh," said Sherlock.
"Ah," said John, stifling a snort. "Sherlock, a moment?"
Sherlock held up a hand. "What sort of accent is that?"
Mrs Hudson blinked behind her tiny spectacles. "It's American. At school they thought it was quite good, though I am a bit rusty."
"The, erm, acting you did at school, Mrs Hudson," John asked with a smirk. "The play where you got the lead. Which play was that?"
"Gone With the Wind. 'Ahs Gawd is mah witnehss Ah shall nehvah be poor or honrgeh agayn!'"
And that explains the dress made from drapes. John giggled and applauded. "Brilliant."
Sherlock scowled. "You lived in Florida for years."
"I did. Didn't take on the accent though." Mrs Hudson dusted talcum powder from her shoulders. "Most everyone in our neighbourhood was originally from England."
Sherlock looked pained. John grinned harder.
"Except Frank of course. Ooo! I could try Frank's accent if you'd like, or rather-"
"Please, don't," Sherlock said, but it was too late, Mrs Hudson had already cleared her throat.
"Yah wan' aye shuld do Frankie's axsnt? Ah kin tawk lahk this awl dey."
"Hmm!" John hummed, eyes twinkling.
Sherlock massaged the bridge of his nose. "No. I don't think that will do either."
"Must I talk? I can just not talk. I don't like to mention it, but I did a mime act in-"
"I'm afraid speaking is required. They target chatty elderly tourists." Sherlock pulled out his mobile. "I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'm afraid this won't work."
"Oh," she said, all her flowers drooping. "I was so looking forward to it."
"It's probably for the best Mrs H," John said, patting her on the arm. "Riding around London on a bus with a bunch of old codgers waiting to be electronically pick-pocketed? Boring."
"Yes, unfortunate," Sherlock had his mobile to his ear.
John ushered Mrs Hudson back into her flat with promises of tea. "Sherlock? Who are you calling?"
Sherlock held up a hand again. "Ah, Lestrade. Loath as I am to ask, about your-" Sherlock shuddered. "-'party piece'. How long can you sustain that for? ...No, not that one, god, never speak of that to me again. I'm talking about the Boston accent... Yes, perfect. Could you do that socially for about an hour?"
"You're going to get Lestrade to-" John's mind blanked out in a sudden vision of Lestrade in Mrs Hudson's curtain-dress. "Seriously? Greg doesn't look even close to elderly!"
Sherlock hummed and smirked. "True. But he'll look decades older if you loan him one of your cardigans."
John just glared.
-.-.-
(that's it)