Holmes fic: Pickpocketing Games
This is a ficlet from an AU wherein Holmes and Irene are siblings. They run about the globe committing crimes together, and have got themselves a pet doctor.
There are several brief posts exploring this AU on my tumblr, under the Holmes and Adler: siblings in crime tag. It is not necessary to read those posts to understand this fic, though.
rated G, 528 words
Watson has given up keeping anything in his pockets. He still puts things in them, of course; a few coins, his watch, whatever snide note Irene slipped in there most recently. He still slips his fingers into the short pocket of his waistcoat, or the broad roomy thing in his overcoat, and perhaps seven times out of ten his fingers will dredge up the desired article. Sometimes he will discover something he never placed there at all, or else there will be nothing.
If he is lucky (or unlucky?) one of the siblings will be lingering nearby, close enough to spy his bewildered (or resigned) expression and offer him whatever thing it is he wants (Holmes has a particular gift for knowing what Watson is looking for) or hold out another thing entirely, something slipped from another pocket or something shiny that he's never seen before (Irene procures such things on the regular.)
There have been times when the siblings play these games with each other. Irene is never carrying as many jewels as she thinks. A cutting glance to Holmes, perhaps a pout or two, may compel the scoundrel to produce her missing possessions from his sleeve or trouser cuff or, once (and only the once, for Irene never forgave him) from the tender hollow between his teeth and cheek. Or else Holmes will smirk, and point his riding crop at Watson.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you intend to accuse me of with those damning eyes," he says, drawling in such a way that Irene and Watson both curl their fingers into fists. "However, the doctor has rather a shifty look about him."
"I say!" Watson will cry out, or else he will glare silently, depending on how many persons are around and how cruel the siblings have been to him today. Once, on a day when the fog throbbed on the edges of the city as insistently as did the pain in his leg, Watson took the pilfered thing from his pocket and flung it at Holmes. It was a perfume bottle made of cut glass which burst upon the floor with a tinkling sound and released some expensive scent that lingered on their shoes and the hem of Irene's dress for weeks.
They did not injure him for that rash act, as he thought they might, but they did not let him out of the hotel rooms as often as they had, and he spent the entirety of that afternoon with his wrists wrapped in rope and secured to the stout handle of their safe.
Watson does not throw things anymore, though it should be noted that Irene adopted the habit immediately, with modifications: she does not throw her own things, and she aims specifically for her brother's head. But when Holmes holds out his empty hands, the poor doctor only sighs, stands if he had been sitting, and opens his coat so that Irene may slip her fingers into each pocket until she finds her missing bauble.
Eventually the game grows dull, too easy to entertain-and then they buy him a fine new costume, with pockets hidden in the seams.
This entry is cross-posted from http://kayliemalinza.dreamwidth.org/328679.html (
comments.)
There are several brief posts exploring this AU on my tumblr, under the Holmes and Adler: siblings in crime tag. It is not necessary to read those posts to understand this fic, though.
rated G, 528 words
Watson has given up keeping anything in his pockets. He still puts things in them, of course; a few coins, his watch, whatever snide note Irene slipped in there most recently. He still slips his fingers into the short pocket of his waistcoat, or the broad roomy thing in his overcoat, and perhaps seven times out of ten his fingers will dredge up the desired article. Sometimes he will discover something he never placed there at all, or else there will be nothing.
If he is lucky (or unlucky?) one of the siblings will be lingering nearby, close enough to spy his bewildered (or resigned) expression and offer him whatever thing it is he wants (Holmes has a particular gift for knowing what Watson is looking for) or hold out another thing entirely, something slipped from another pocket or something shiny that he's never seen before (Irene procures such things on the regular.)
There have been times when the siblings play these games with each other. Irene is never carrying as many jewels as she thinks. A cutting glance to Holmes, perhaps a pout or two, may compel the scoundrel to produce her missing possessions from his sleeve or trouser cuff or, once (and only the once, for Irene never forgave him) from the tender hollow between his teeth and cheek. Or else Holmes will smirk, and point his riding crop at Watson.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you intend to accuse me of with those damning eyes," he says, drawling in such a way that Irene and Watson both curl their fingers into fists. "However, the doctor has rather a shifty look about him."
"I say!" Watson will cry out, or else he will glare silently, depending on how many persons are around and how cruel the siblings have been to him today. Once, on a day when the fog throbbed on the edges of the city as insistently as did the pain in his leg, Watson took the pilfered thing from his pocket and flung it at Holmes. It was a perfume bottle made of cut glass which burst upon the floor with a tinkling sound and released some expensive scent that lingered on their shoes and the hem of Irene's dress for weeks.
They did not injure him for that rash act, as he thought they might, but they did not let him out of the hotel rooms as often as they had, and he spent the entirety of that afternoon with his wrists wrapped in rope and secured to the stout handle of their safe.
Watson does not throw things anymore, though it should be noted that Irene adopted the habit immediately, with modifications: she does not throw her own things, and she aims specifically for her brother's head. But when Holmes holds out his empty hands, the poor doctor only sighs, stands if he had been sitting, and opens his coat so that Irene may slip her fingers into each pocket until she finds her missing bauble.
Eventually the game grows dull, too easy to entertain-and then they buy him a fine new costume, with pockets hidden in the seams.
This entry is cross-posted from http://kayliemalinza.dreamwidth.org/328679.html (
comments.)