I Was Meant For the Game
Title: I Was Meant For the Game
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes, Arsène Lupin
Rating: T
Genre: Romance/Family
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/genderswap!Arsène Lupin
Summary: It is the thrill of the chase that takes them running across Paris, detective and thief, lusting for the mind of the other and never giving up. It is not a physical attraction, but an attraction none the less real.
~~~~~~~~~~
It's become a game amongst them. When he comes to town she stages something elaborate for him to decipher, to deduce, and leads him on a merry chase all across her precious Paris. And then he'll corner her in some temporary hideout, tear apart her crimes, and she'll smile coyly as if she did it on purpose. And then they'll fall into the bed, caught up in the heat of the moment, the thrill of the chase, the lust for each other's minds becoming lust for each other's bodies, and never once thinking that they should end it all. They're too perfect for each other, yet too much opposites.
They never speak of it afterwards. It's an understanding between them, that this need for equal companionship could never translate into a proper relationship. Without the thrill of the chase it would sizzle and die away, and they'd be like every other old married couple who hate each other, each seeking to end the other in some way. So they continue on like this, illicit meetings in the troisième arrondissementone month, dix-septième the next. She mocks his inability, of all things, to properly crunch his r's, he mocks her emotional attachment to her city and it's people.
They are good for each other, in the way that they should be really bad for each other. When he should be dangling the noose over her head he instead gives in to what little he's found of his emotions. And she, with her gleeful mockery of the law, should be doing anything other than welcoming him into her bed but that is what she does. They are the very essence of opposites attracting, their minds drawn to each other and becoming one and whole.
He cannot be in France without her learning of it, especially not Paris. When she learns of his plight she arranges a safe house for his use, and begs him to stay as she's heard of this devil, this Moriarty. This man who is not a man who is everywhere at once, but he assures her that he has everything under control and is gone again in the morning. The corner of her mouth twitches up wryly and she knows that she has lost her only equal. It is a week later that she learns of his official end. C'est la vie. The ambiguously good wizard cannot always defeat every head of the hydra.
Gilbert and Sylvie grow bigger and more troublesome with every passing day. Paris is their classroom and they roam it freely, blending in with the other urchins liberating gentlemen of their belongings. That is the only true way to raise children. The rich men's sons and daughters spend their days in a single room, learning Latin and mathematics and geography, never once learning about the world itself. There is time enough for that when they are older, but for now they are obtaining a practical education in life, for which she is especially glad when Gilbert presses a pocket watch into her hand at the end of a day, signaling to her that he is back.
It is almost comical how easily she finds him, enough so that he obviously wants her to. She would sneak up on him, but nothing ever escapes his attention so she settles for a hip-slinging gait, a mischievous smirk on her face. Bonjour monsieur. She twirls the watch by the chain on her finger, and then lets it fly towards him. He catches it with ease, inspects it for a moment, then slips it back into his pocket. He hadn't even noticed it was missing. And it's about time she showed up, he'd been bumming around town all day. Her standards must be falling horribly.
Well clearly the monsieur has Gilbert to thank for that. Did he notice him? A little street urchin, age of five, dirty and perhaps with his sister. Why yes, the monsieur had noticed the two of them. The girl had made such a good hungry little street urchin that he'd given her a few coins with which to buy some bread. He'd dismissed Gilbert as unimportant though, he was to be commended on his skill.
And what brought the monsieur to this fine city? Well her of course. He would like to inform her that he was well, and that none of the designs on his life had been successfully followed through on. By the way, merci for her vote of confidence all those years ago, he definitely remembered it. Was she still up for their games?
Désolé monsieur, but she had moved on in life, she informed him. She had bigger fish to fry than a sporting Englishman who still couldn't pronounce his r's right. There was something amiss in her fair city, and she had to protect her own. Fun and games came later. He understood fully, oui? But could the monsieur help with her problems? Non, this was the madame's problem alone. She would let him know one way or another how and when they ended, but for now could he return to London s'il vous plaît?
In the end she waved him off at the ferry, looking the part of a gentlewoman bidding adieu to a good friend, two clean children at her side. Gilbert's hair was ruffled slightly and both he and the mademoisellehad been complemented on their mastery of the con. She was very proud of them.
It was a grey, foggy day in London when he next heard from her two years later. To be more specific Mrs. Hudson heard from her, and then passed the message - and cargo - on to him. It was on this day that she answered the front door to find two children standing there expectantly. "Est-ce où Monsieur Holmes habite?"
Words failed her. "Um, Sherlock Holmes lives here." The girl reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a crisp envelope addressed to Sherlock Holmes, handing it to her. Mrs. Hudson took the envelope and, after a moment of indecision, gestured for the children to come inside. She led them to the kitchen, put a plate of cookies on the table, and told them to stay there while she took the letter to Mr. Holmes, hoping that they understood enough.
Mrs. Hudson delivered the letter and then excused herself to go finish preparing lunch. Holmes read the letter, his body language not saying a thing until he refolded the letter and tucked it into his own pocket. He then turned to his companion, a peculiar look on his face. "Watson," he queried, "What does one do with children?"
"Well generally one raises them to the best of one's abilities," Watson replied, completely missing the point.
"What if the children's English is questionable, their mother is on the run in South America, and one has no childrearing abilities?"
For that, Watson had no answer. Absolutely none at all.
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes, Arsène Lupin
Rating: T
Genre: Romance/Family
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/genderswap!Arsène Lupin
Summary: It is the thrill of the chase that takes them running across Paris, detective and thief, lusting for the mind of the other and never giving up. It is not a physical attraction, but an attraction none the less real.
~~~~~~~~~~
It's become a game amongst them. When he comes to town she stages something elaborate for him to decipher, to deduce, and leads him on a merry chase all across her precious Paris. And then he'll corner her in some temporary hideout, tear apart her crimes, and she'll smile coyly as if she did it on purpose. And then they'll fall into the bed, caught up in the heat of the moment, the thrill of the chase, the lust for each other's minds becoming lust for each other's bodies, and never once thinking that they should end it all. They're too perfect for each other, yet too much opposites.
They never speak of it afterwards. It's an understanding between them, that this need for equal companionship could never translate into a proper relationship. Without the thrill of the chase it would sizzle and die away, and they'd be like every other old married couple who hate each other, each seeking to end the other in some way. So they continue on like this, illicit meetings in the troisième arrondissementone month, dix-septième the next. She mocks his inability, of all things, to properly crunch his r's, he mocks her emotional attachment to her city and it's people.
They are good for each other, in the way that they should be really bad for each other. When he should be dangling the noose over her head he instead gives in to what little he's found of his emotions. And she, with her gleeful mockery of the law, should be doing anything other than welcoming him into her bed but that is what she does. They are the very essence of opposites attracting, their minds drawn to each other and becoming one and whole.
He cannot be in France without her learning of it, especially not Paris. When she learns of his plight she arranges a safe house for his use, and begs him to stay as she's heard of this devil, this Moriarty. This man who is not a man who is everywhere at once, but he assures her that he has everything under control and is gone again in the morning. The corner of her mouth twitches up wryly and she knows that she has lost her only equal. It is a week later that she learns of his official end. C'est la vie. The ambiguously good wizard cannot always defeat every head of the hydra.
Gilbert and Sylvie grow bigger and more troublesome with every passing day. Paris is their classroom and they roam it freely, blending in with the other urchins liberating gentlemen of their belongings. That is the only true way to raise children. The rich men's sons and daughters spend their days in a single room, learning Latin and mathematics and geography, never once learning about the world itself. There is time enough for that when they are older, but for now they are obtaining a practical education in life, for which she is especially glad when Gilbert presses a pocket watch into her hand at the end of a day, signaling to her that he is back.
It is almost comical how easily she finds him, enough so that he obviously wants her to. She would sneak up on him, but nothing ever escapes his attention so she settles for a hip-slinging gait, a mischievous smirk on her face. Bonjour monsieur. She twirls the watch by the chain on her finger, and then lets it fly towards him. He catches it with ease, inspects it for a moment, then slips it back into his pocket. He hadn't even noticed it was missing. And it's about time she showed up, he'd been bumming around town all day. Her standards must be falling horribly.
Well clearly the monsieur has Gilbert to thank for that. Did he notice him? A little street urchin, age of five, dirty and perhaps with his sister. Why yes, the monsieur had noticed the two of them. The girl had made such a good hungry little street urchin that he'd given her a few coins with which to buy some bread. He'd dismissed Gilbert as unimportant though, he was to be commended on his skill.
And what brought the monsieur to this fine city? Well her of course. He would like to inform her that he was well, and that none of the designs on his life had been successfully followed through on. By the way, merci for her vote of confidence all those years ago, he definitely remembered it. Was she still up for their games?
Désolé monsieur, but she had moved on in life, she informed him. She had bigger fish to fry than a sporting Englishman who still couldn't pronounce his r's right. There was something amiss in her fair city, and she had to protect her own. Fun and games came later. He understood fully, oui? But could the monsieur help with her problems? Non, this was the madame's problem alone. She would let him know one way or another how and when they ended, but for now could he return to London s'il vous plaît?
In the end she waved him off at the ferry, looking the part of a gentlewoman bidding adieu to a good friend, two clean children at her side. Gilbert's hair was ruffled slightly and both he and the mademoisellehad been complemented on their mastery of the con. She was very proud of them.
It was a grey, foggy day in London when he next heard from her two years later. To be more specific Mrs. Hudson heard from her, and then passed the message - and cargo - on to him. It was on this day that she answered the front door to find two children standing there expectantly. "Est-ce où Monsieur Holmes habite?"
Words failed her. "Um, Sherlock Holmes lives here." The girl reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a crisp envelope addressed to Sherlock Holmes, handing it to her. Mrs. Hudson took the envelope and, after a moment of indecision, gestured for the children to come inside. She led them to the kitchen, put a plate of cookies on the table, and told them to stay there while she took the letter to Mr. Holmes, hoping that they understood enough.
Mrs. Hudson delivered the letter and then excused herself to go finish preparing lunch. Holmes read the letter, his body language not saying a thing until he refolded the letter and tucked it into his own pocket. He then turned to his companion, a peculiar look on his face. "Watson," he queried, "What does one do with children?"
"Well generally one raises them to the best of one's abilities," Watson replied, completely missing the point.
"What if the children's English is questionable, their mother is on the run in South America, and one has no childrearing abilities?"
For that, Watson had no answer. Absolutely none at all.