"Dropping Eaves" (July Writing Prompt 2012), Amnesty Prompt # 1
Title: Dropping Eaves
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Ritchie!Verse)
Rating: PG (police language)
Warning: May or may not be manly scrumpings involved!
Word Count: 800
Summary: Holmes really is a clever bastard sometimes.
Author's Notes: For the
watsons_woes 2012 July Writing Prompt, Amnesty Prompt #1 (August 1) - Eavesdropping and its possible consequences (be it misunderstandings, hurt and anger, something awkward taken totally out of context, whatever)
"You were unjustifiably fierce on my arse last night, Watson."
"No more than you deserved, old cock."
Lestrade froze, his hand barely at the doorknob of the sitting room. The bizarre murder scene he'd come to discuss - too gruesome to discuss with a lady present, he'd reassured Mrs Hudson downstairs, no need to show him in - fled his mind as the familiar voices on the other side of the door continued a conversation he could scarcely believe.
"Still you might have shown a little pity -"
"Pity? You? The man who'd take your cudgel to a dead man's buttocks? No, you're only in a pet because I proved myself to be champion in this particular sport."
"-Cudgel? That's not an entirely accurate description of the implement in question -"
"I heard no complaining last night!"
"Because you expressly forbade it, I might remind -"
Oh Christ, if he heard any more he'd have to arrest them both under 28 - Lestrade pounded on the door, shouting "Holmes! Are you in! It's Lestrade!"
The conversation stopped dead. Oh, if that wasn't a confession right then and there.
Watson opened the door, and the flush of colour across his cheekbones was Exhibit B. "Come in, Inspector," he said, his voice the hard-plated tones of the soldier.
Both were properly dressed for the time of day (why should that be surprising?); even Holmes was properly arrayed in coat and waistcoat and ready to receive visitors in his chair, fingertips together and pressed to his lips, eyes meeting Lestrade's.
Lestrade coughed. "We've, erm, had a nasty bit of business to contend with -"
"Which I will be happy to discuss with you at the crime scene, but that is not what is uppermost in your mind at the present time is it Inspector?" All in that mad rush, as if his very words were a stampede of horses, and ending with Holmes leaning forward, eyes intent as if fixing his prey.
"Holmes -" Watson said from behind both men, sounding a little strangled.
"No, Watson, it is pointless to equivocate. As you yourself have deduced, the Inspector was able to hear enough of our conversation to arrive at the sole inevitable conclusion to which it points, even to the police, as he carries the same flush on his cheeks that you wear now, and he is gamely attempting to pretend he heard nothing."
In-bloody-credible. Those serpent eyes of his never even lowered in shame, even as Holmes prepared to deliver the lie, the necessary lie that all three of them would pretend to believe because that was the only way to escape from the law's barbs -
"The truth is, Inspector Lestrade," Holmes said, reaching for the tobacco pouch, "that Watson and I share a sodomitic relationship" [Watson emitted a strangled sound of denial] "which sometimes involves a bit of disciplinary caning. I was remonstrating with Watson for his playing the rôle of the headmaster with too much enthusiasm for strict comfort the night before. It is a common defect in former soldiers." He continued to fill his pipe as if he'd been discussing the weather.
Lestrade's entire face felt on fire, and his brain seemed to have stopped working at "sodomitic." He didn't dare look behind him at the groaning Watson. Holmes' eyes were level and cool as he set the pipe to his lips.
Cool? Twinkling. Just a twitch of his lower lip before it clenched around the mouthpiece.
And only then did Lestrade see the singlesticks lying in the corner directly behind Holmes' chair.
"Singlesticks," Lestrade choked - and the relief made him burst out laughing like a hyaena. Holmes gave a droll pout. "You shit," Lestrade gasped, "you bloody shit, d'you know how close you were to me clapping you in the darbies?" He'd gone and grasped the short end of the stick - literally - and oh, wouldn't that have made Geoffery Lestrade a laughingstock at the Yard?
"Really, Inspector, that was too bad of me," Holmes cried, for all the world as if he were more interested in lighting his pipe. "Watson will tell you that - that is, if he can stop laughing long enough," for Watson was gasping with laughter nearly as hard as Lestrade. "Do sit, and I'll ring Mrs Hudson for tea. Tell me everything."
Lestrade proceeded to fill them in, his cheeks and sides still aching. That bloody Holmes!
***
"You nearly frightened me to death," Watson murmured that night; his fingers lightly ran over the warm welts that still remained, lined up with regimental precision, on his lover's arse.
Warm breath over his collarbone, smelling of tobacco and red wine. "He'd overheard us, mother hen. After that, the only thing that we could do that would not shout our guilt to the City, was hide in plain sight."
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Ritchie!Verse)
Rating: PG (police language)
Warning: May or may not be manly scrumpings involved!
Word Count: 800
Summary: Holmes really is a clever bastard sometimes.
Author's Notes: For the
watsons_woes 2012 July Writing Prompt, Amnesty Prompt #1 (August 1) - Eavesdropping and its possible consequences (be it misunderstandings, hurt and anger, something awkward taken totally out of context, whatever)
"You were unjustifiably fierce on my arse last night, Watson."
"No more than you deserved, old cock."
Lestrade froze, his hand barely at the doorknob of the sitting room. The bizarre murder scene he'd come to discuss - too gruesome to discuss with a lady present, he'd reassured Mrs Hudson downstairs, no need to show him in - fled his mind as the familiar voices on the other side of the door continued a conversation he could scarcely believe.
"Still you might have shown a little pity -"
"Pity? You? The man who'd take your cudgel to a dead man's buttocks? No, you're only in a pet because I proved myself to be champion in this particular sport."
"-Cudgel? That's not an entirely accurate description of the implement in question -"
"I heard no complaining last night!"
"Because you expressly forbade it, I might remind -"
Oh Christ, if he heard any more he'd have to arrest them both under 28 - Lestrade pounded on the door, shouting "Holmes! Are you in! It's Lestrade!"
The conversation stopped dead. Oh, if that wasn't a confession right then and there.
Watson opened the door, and the flush of colour across his cheekbones was Exhibit B. "Come in, Inspector," he said, his voice the hard-plated tones of the soldier.
Both were properly dressed for the time of day (why should that be surprising?); even Holmes was properly arrayed in coat and waistcoat and ready to receive visitors in his chair, fingertips together and pressed to his lips, eyes meeting Lestrade's.
Lestrade coughed. "We've, erm, had a nasty bit of business to contend with -"
"Which I will be happy to discuss with you at the crime scene, but that is not what is uppermost in your mind at the present time is it Inspector?" All in that mad rush, as if his very words were a stampede of horses, and ending with Holmes leaning forward, eyes intent as if fixing his prey.
"Holmes -" Watson said from behind both men, sounding a little strangled.
"No, Watson, it is pointless to equivocate. As you yourself have deduced, the Inspector was able to hear enough of our conversation to arrive at the sole inevitable conclusion to which it points, even to the police, as he carries the same flush on his cheeks that you wear now, and he is gamely attempting to pretend he heard nothing."
In-bloody-credible. Those serpent eyes of his never even lowered in shame, even as Holmes prepared to deliver the lie, the necessary lie that all three of them would pretend to believe because that was the only way to escape from the law's barbs -
"The truth is, Inspector Lestrade," Holmes said, reaching for the tobacco pouch, "that Watson and I share a sodomitic relationship" [Watson emitted a strangled sound of denial] "which sometimes involves a bit of disciplinary caning. I was remonstrating with Watson for his playing the rôle of the headmaster with too much enthusiasm for strict comfort the night before. It is a common defect in former soldiers." He continued to fill his pipe as if he'd been discussing the weather.
Lestrade's entire face felt on fire, and his brain seemed to have stopped working at "sodomitic." He didn't dare look behind him at the groaning Watson. Holmes' eyes were level and cool as he set the pipe to his lips.
Cool? Twinkling. Just a twitch of his lower lip before it clenched around the mouthpiece.
And only then did Lestrade see the singlesticks lying in the corner directly behind Holmes' chair.
"Singlesticks," Lestrade choked - and the relief made him burst out laughing like a hyaena. Holmes gave a droll pout. "You shit," Lestrade gasped, "you bloody shit, d'you know how close you were to me clapping you in the darbies?" He'd gone and grasped the short end of the stick - literally - and oh, wouldn't that have made Geoffery Lestrade a laughingstock at the Yard?
"Really, Inspector, that was too bad of me," Holmes cried, for all the world as if he were more interested in lighting his pipe. "Watson will tell you that - that is, if he can stop laughing long enough," for Watson was gasping with laughter nearly as hard as Lestrade. "Do sit, and I'll ring Mrs Hudson for tea. Tell me everything."
Lestrade proceeded to fill them in, his cheeks and sides still aching. That bloody Holmes!
***
"You nearly frightened me to death," Watson murmured that night; his fingers lightly ran over the warm welts that still remained, lined up with regimental precision, on his lover's arse.
Warm breath over his collarbone, smelling of tobacco and red wine. "He'd overheard us, mother hen. After that, the only thing that we could do that would not shout our guilt to the City, was hide in plain sight."