Not in Blood, but in Bond ch5
Title:Not in Blood, but in Bond ch5
Rating:PG-13
Word count:823
Summary: The stakeout!
Warning: blood, minor death
Again, the park I mention may or may not have been around at that time.
It is cannon that Sherlock refers to Lestrade the way he does J
Sorry if it really doesn’t sound Watson-ish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I firmly believe stand in the hypothesis that Holmes endangers his health to gauge my reactions. For example: whilst I sat under a tree not four metres from the assassin camp, covered with several of the blankets that I’d obtained from the butler, waiting for their return, Holmes dropped a coverlet upon my head, leaving him with one thin, black quilt across his shoulders. We had already been in the crisp night air, laying in wait not five meters away from the assassins’ camps, and as such I was too fearful that they lay somewhere out of sight watching us observing the camp to even reprimand his reckless actions.
It was not long after that, perhaps only five or ten minutes, when I discerned the sound of feet in the underbrush. Quiet, practiced feet. Holmes shifted on the branch above me, perhaps to hide himself better, as I sank beneath the covers, losing full view of the camp.
“We need to go back,” it was the voice of a youth, and though I couldn’t see the entire group, I was sure Holmes was correct in that the younger of the mercenaries was a boy.
“We can’t, ya twat! Sherlock Holmes is been by!” the second voice was deeper, that of a man.
“Well, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Don’t you know nothing‘? The man’s magic! He’ll know ya’re ‘round before ya know ya’re goin’ ta be there!!”
“Indeed, gentlemen.”
“Holmes!” in a move far more idiotic than I’d ever thought him capable of making, he leapt from the branch of the tree, straight into the camp of, I‘ll say again, assassins.
“Worry not, Watson!” he called back to me, “We’re just going to have a bit of a chat.” I hoisted myself from under the tree to join Holmes in the open. Again, my colleague was correct, as I observed three men and a single boy, all whom looked rather shocked at our appearance. One man who, in my regard, looked rather like a gorilla, pulled a revolver from his boot and leveled it on Holmes. My hand flashed to my own pistol instinctively, then I took aim at his heart.
“Lower your gun, sir!”
“Easy, Watson,” said Holmes, patting my elbow as if a duel hadn't just been a hair's breadth from occurring, "We'll just be having a little talk, isn't that so, boys?" The gorilla and I lowered, but did not pocket, our guns. "So," Holmes advanced a pace, blocking my view and forcing me to move with him, "would you be so kind as to inform me of your employer‘s name?"
"What's i’ to ya?" snarled a blond man from behind his gun wielding comrade.
"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was a friend to the woman you slew," Holmes said drolly, "That man, how ever incompetent forensically he may be, is as tenacious as a lobster, and I assure you that he wishes to retaliate for the death of Lady Mary." Though I had heard Holmes praise and abuse the inspector in turn for years, I had yet to be present in a case where my friend gifted a completely true complement to Lestrade such as this. "You'd fare much better with the Bobby if you have something to give. Like the name of the mastermind."
Suddenly the gorilla man raised his gun again. I reacted purely on adrenalin, leveling and shooting the revolver before my brain understood what I was doing. My military training assured a kill shot, and blood was strewn from his chest as he struck the ground like a heavy bookend. “Does anyone else care to attempt to duel my friend?”
“No,” was their only response.
“Very good!” cried Holmes, “Now, who is the executive of this despicable crime?” His eyes were hard and sharp, looking for any sign of trickery on their parts. The three remaining men stood as silent as their felled fourth member until, that is, I leveled my gun on the oldest man of the group. From the corner of my eye, I perceived a rather shocked expression at my current violence in his, but it never registered on his face.
“We don’t know!” the youngest bemoaned, “he hired us by note, and paid half in one go!”
“Bill!” was the elder’s reproach. “You’ll get us killed!”
“Or he’ll,” the youth exclaimed, pointing at my person, “shoot us! At least in court we might stand a chance!”
“Ya fool!” cried the blond, “The court will ‘ang us!”
“How were you to obtain the other half?” Holmes interjected, and again the group was silent for a time.
“We’re to meet him at Allestree Park,” said the eldest.
“At what time?”
“Midnight,” Holmes then smirked, and it struck me what he was thinking.
“Perfect, my good men! We shall be present for the exchange.”
Rating:PG-13
Word count:823
Summary: The stakeout!
Warning: blood, minor death
Again, the park I mention may or may not have been around at that time.
It is cannon that Sherlock refers to Lestrade the way he does J
Sorry if it really doesn’t sound Watson-ish
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I firmly believe stand in the hypothesis that Holmes endangers his health to gauge my reactions. For example: whilst I sat under a tree not four metres from the assassin camp, covered with several of the blankets that I’d obtained from the butler, waiting for their return, Holmes dropped a coverlet upon my head, leaving him with one thin, black quilt across his shoulders. We had already been in the crisp night air, laying in wait not five meters away from the assassins’ camps, and as such I was too fearful that they lay somewhere out of sight watching us observing the camp to even reprimand his reckless actions.
It was not long after that, perhaps only five or ten minutes, when I discerned the sound of feet in the underbrush. Quiet, practiced feet. Holmes shifted on the branch above me, perhaps to hide himself better, as I sank beneath the covers, losing full view of the camp.
“We need to go back,” it was the voice of a youth, and though I couldn’t see the entire group, I was sure Holmes was correct in that the younger of the mercenaries was a boy.
“We can’t, ya twat! Sherlock Holmes is been by!” the second voice was deeper, that of a man.
“Well, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Don’t you know nothing‘? The man’s magic! He’ll know ya’re ‘round before ya know ya’re goin’ ta be there!!”
“Indeed, gentlemen.”
“Holmes!” in a move far more idiotic than I’d ever thought him capable of making, he leapt from the branch of the tree, straight into the camp of, I‘ll say again, assassins.
“Worry not, Watson!” he called back to me, “We’re just going to have a bit of a chat.” I hoisted myself from under the tree to join Holmes in the open. Again, my colleague was correct, as I observed three men and a single boy, all whom looked rather shocked at our appearance. One man who, in my regard, looked rather like a gorilla, pulled a revolver from his boot and leveled it on Holmes. My hand flashed to my own pistol instinctively, then I took aim at his heart.
“Lower your gun, sir!”
“Easy, Watson,” said Holmes, patting my elbow as if a duel hadn't just been a hair's breadth from occurring, "We'll just be having a little talk, isn't that so, boys?" The gorilla and I lowered, but did not pocket, our guns. "So," Holmes advanced a pace, blocking my view and forcing me to move with him, "would you be so kind as to inform me of your employer‘s name?"
"What's i’ to ya?" snarled a blond man from behind his gun wielding comrade.
"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was a friend to the woman you slew," Holmes said drolly, "That man, how ever incompetent forensically he may be, is as tenacious as a lobster, and I assure you that he wishes to retaliate for the death of Lady Mary." Though I had heard Holmes praise and abuse the inspector in turn for years, I had yet to be present in a case where my friend gifted a completely true complement to Lestrade such as this. "You'd fare much better with the Bobby if you have something to give. Like the name of the mastermind."
Suddenly the gorilla man raised his gun again. I reacted purely on adrenalin, leveling and shooting the revolver before my brain understood what I was doing. My military training assured a kill shot, and blood was strewn from his chest as he struck the ground like a heavy bookend. “Does anyone else care to attempt to duel my friend?”
“No,” was their only response.
“Very good!” cried Holmes, “Now, who is the executive of this despicable crime?” His eyes were hard and sharp, looking for any sign of trickery on their parts. The three remaining men stood as silent as their felled fourth member until, that is, I leveled my gun on the oldest man of the group. From the corner of my eye, I perceived a rather shocked expression at my current violence in his, but it never registered on his face.
“We don’t know!” the youngest bemoaned, “he hired us by note, and paid half in one go!”
“Bill!” was the elder’s reproach. “You’ll get us killed!”
“Or he’ll,” the youth exclaimed, pointing at my person, “shoot us! At least in court we might stand a chance!”
“Ya fool!” cried the blond, “The court will ‘ang us!”
“How were you to obtain the other half?” Holmes interjected, and again the group was silent for a time.
“We’re to meet him at Allestree Park,” said the eldest.
“At what time?”
“Midnight,” Holmes then smirked, and it struck me what he was thinking.
“Perfect, my good men! We shall be present for the exchange.”