Sherlock Holmes - The Adventure of the Runaway Bride - Chapter 1
Title: The Adventure of the Runaway Bride - Chapter 1, The Game is Afoot!
Word Count: 2200
Rating: PG for this chapter
Characters/Pairings: Holmes, Watson, Mary, Irene. Eventual Holmes/Watson, Irene/Mary (I am a walking cliché . I am aware of this.)
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the 2009 movie. I'll probably manage some book spoilers at some point, too.
Warnings: Err, my sense of humour, which always requires a warning.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes: How does one of these a week 'til we're done sound? I hope you said "good", 'cause it's what you're getting.
Many thanks to anna_bm for assuring me ahead of time that at least it's the good kind of "on crack".
In which Mary is not all she seems, Irene makes her entrance, Watson is distraught and Holmes is hungover, and mostly naked.
There is a distinctive knocking on the window, one which Mary has not heard often but recognises instantly. She scrambles, perhaps a little too excitedly, out of bed, not even sparing a glance for her husband of only a few weeks.
The window opens with a slight squeak, and Mary prays that John is not too light a sleeper. She smiles warmly when she sees the familiar form climb nimbly into the room.
“Have you got it?” A pretty, feminine voice whispers, complete with an accent which Mary has always thought speaks of the exotic wilds of the world but retains an air of class and civility.
“I have - it was just as you said,” she holds out her hand in the moonlight for her companion to see, “Holmes gave it to John as a pre-emptive wedding gift.” She smiled excitedly, revelling in the intelligence of the other woman. No wonder she had bested Holmes, if she could read him so easily.
“Good. Excellent,” Irene held her hand out the window, “shall we?” she smiled sweetly, the glint of good humour in her eye unmissable.
“Let me dress.” Mary rushed to the closet and quietly pulled out a plain dress. She dressed with the efficiency of one used to doing so quickly and in the dark.
They climbed carefully out of the first-storey window and dropped softly into the alley below, each woman equally as graceful as the other. They made their way through the quiet streets of London like cats in the night, unnoticed and undisturbed.
<><><>
Sherlock Holmes found himself awoken at an ungodly hour (half past seven, as if anyone with any decorum rose so early on a Saturday) by the shouting of a familiar voice. Through the fog of a hangover, he took a second to connect the voice to the man who had moved out of these rooms so recently. The man he hadn't seen in over a week (or rather, a man who had not consented to being seen. Holmes had followed him - to be sure he was safe and comfortable - but only once or twice).
The moment all the facts slid into place in his slightly addled brain, panic began to rise - was Watson hurt? In trouble? Bleeding out in the hall? He rolled out of bed and burst out of his room and into the hallway, to find a slightly dishevelled (but thankfully not dead or dying) Watson standing just outside his door.
“Watson?” The man looked pale, worried. Something was wrong, then.
“Holmes,” the doctor's face lit up a little under the gloom of his demeanour. Holmes stopped himself just short of smiling back, but he enjoyed the reaction.
“Come in, sit down,” he ushered his friend into the sitting room. The doctor sighed and allowed himself to be led.
Holmes, completely unselfconscious at his state of undress, took up his usual position in the armchair opposite Watson's.
“I suppose Mrs. Hudson is already making tea, and indeed,” he sniffed the air delicately, “breakfast, if I'm not mistaken. Which I'm not, obviously. So what interests me is the reason behind your waking me up when it is still mostly dark, on a Saturday, and looking so troubled.”
Watson sat back in the armchair, drawing comfort from the familiar surroundings and strength from his friend. He sighed wearily.
“Mary has gone missing, Holmes. We went to bed together last night,” the detective made a conscious effort not to scowl, “and when I awoke this morning, she was gone. The bedroom window was open, none of the household had seen her.”
“And this was at about six-thirty, when you woke up,” Holmes paused to enjoy Watson's puzzled look before continuing, “the mud on your shoes and trousers, my dear - you walked here, since getting a cab at this hour, when no sane person would be awake,” he gave the doctor a long-suffering look, but it was laced with affection, “would be nearly impossible, and your residence with Mary,” not your home, of course, “is just under an hour from here on foot for you, given the cold and the time of year.”
Watson was satisfyingly mystified - apparently it only took a mere week out of the detective's company to forget how impressive he was in just knowing things.
“Mary's disappearance is something of a mystery to me though.” He stood and began pacing the room. “Did you notice anything else about the room before you left at all?”
“Uh,” Watson seemed to struggle with the question for a moment, “her nightclothes were on the floor, one of her dresses was gone from the wardrobe.”
“So she was dressed when she left?” Holmes' brow furrowed. He knew what that likely meant, and wondered if the good doctor had come to the same conclusion.
“She must have been, I suppose...” The look of betrayal which flickered across Watson's face as he came to the conclusion Holmes had already reached was heartbreaking to the detective. The doctor truly adored this woman. He almost hated to make his next statement, but it had to be said.
“Then it is unlikely she was abducted. The struggle which would ensue if a woman was forcibly made to dress in your room would have woken you - the obvious answer, that she may have been coerced, does not hold up in this case since if she were threatened with harm, she would likely have made even more noise, and it would be illogical to threaten her with your demise, since the only reason to kidnap her would be to either extract a ransom from you, or solicit my involvement, and if you were dead, neither of these things would be possible, as they would not have survived to see the sun set,” Holmes watched as Watson's face got paler and sadder as he spoke, but he couldn't stop himself from talking, “the only conclusion then...”
“Is that she left of her own free will,” Watson finished in such a pathetic tone that Holmes wanted to bundle him up in his room, away from the world where the truth was going to hurt the poor doctor even more before this was all sorted out. But he knew Watson wouldn't thank him for hiding the truth from him.
“It would appear so, old chap. I am so sorry.” Holmes kept his mounting joy out of his voice - he was indeed sorry that his friend was to be hurt, even if he was glad that it would inevitably mean that he could have him back.
“Sorry. You're sorry?” Watson sounded angry. Understandable, given the circumstances, “I don't need you to be sorry, I need you to find her.”
“To what end, my dear Watson? If she has purposefully run away-”
“Because I love her, Holmes - will you get it through your stubborn, self-absorbed skull - I. Love. Mary.” Watson had risen from his seat and stalked to where Holmes stood near the fire. He was so close that the detective could hear his heartbeat - elevated, not that that was a surprise.
“Even after she has deceived you so?” Holmes was trying to keep any trace of his usual smugness out of his voice. He knew he could lose Watson over this, if he wasn't careful.
“You haven't any proof of that, not yet,” even as he said it, the doctor did not look entirely convinced himself.
Holmes debated offering his next piece of information. He knew Watson wouldn't like it, but it was certain to come out eventually if he insisted on pursuing this, which he inevitably would. He sighed heavily.
“You do know she was lying about her dead fiancé, don't you?” Holmes awaited the punch he knew was coming. It was rather less forceful than he expected - perhaps a sign that the dear doctor did know? Holmes had let his observations in regards to Watson slip to an unacceptable point, he realised. He'd gotten too comfortable and now they'd gotten into a mess which might all have been prevented if he'd been paying closer attention.
There was a long pause in which the only sound that could be heard was Watson's heavy breathing. Holmes waited until it levelled out before he spoke.
“I am so sorry, my dear, dear doctor. If I hadn't so studiously avoided any discussion with you about your intended, this might all have been prevented and sorted well before now.” he sniffed to prevent a small drop of blood from escaping his nose.
“As noble as it is for you to blame yourself,” Watson sighed as he sat back down in his armchair, “if what you say is true - which I am having trouble disbelieving, as I'm sure you can tell - then I was as blind to it as you were. I was taken in, Holmes.”
“You are not the first of us to be beguiled by a woman, Watson, and I dare say you will not be the last,” Holmes thought ruefully of his own weakness where the fairer sex was concerned. Irene Adler had fooled him on more than one occasion, even in recent days, “we will investigate this - perhaps there are more forces at work, here. Perhaps we can get her back for you, and if not, at least you will know that the whole arrangement was one-sided, and be able to move on,” and then I can have you back.
No doubt because the Gods of Fortune were in a particularly bad mood with one Sherlock Holmes at that moment, he heard a sharp rap on the front door. Quick and efficient, familiar enough but slightly meek. A police officer, a constable, no doubt. Constable Clark, most probably. The brief exchange between the newcomer and Mrs. Hudson confirmed Holmes' suspicion, and moments later there was the sound of heavy boots on the stairs and the door to the sitting room opened. Constable Clarke entered the room, Mrs. Hudson close behind with a tea tray, complete with enough toast for half a dozen hungry people. She poured Watson a cup of tea and glared mildly at Holmes before leaving the room.
“Begging your pardon, sirs,”
“Not at all, Clarkie. Your interruption is impeccably timed - have some toast, please.”
“Ah, no thank you, Mr. Holmes.” The constable smiled amicably. Holmes liked the man, despite his occupation - he was one of the few competent police officers he'd ever come across.
“Well, then, what brings you to Baker Street at this hour of the morning?”
“There was a robbery, last night or in the early hours of this morning. Mappin & Webb jewellers. Thieves only took unset gems, as far as the manager's concerned. And - and this is the part that might interest you, sir,” the constable paused while he dug into his inner pocket, and after a few moments produced half a white handkerchief, “they left this behind,” he handed the scrap of fabric to the detective, “thought you might recognise it,” the police constable smiled with not a hint of smugness. The sentiment was well deserved, though, Holmes thought as he stared at the red monogram. I A. Irene Adler. She was supposed to have left.
Holmes' mind went in to overdrive. Mary had disappeared last night or in the early hours of this morning. Mary whom he had given Irene's ill-acquired diamond to, in the form of an engagement ring. Mary, who had lied about the fate of her last fiancé. The detective felt just a little sick at the prospect that the two women might be working together. It would certainly fit with the facts, for the moment. Still, it was not wise to make hasty judgements.
“This does interest me indeed,” he walked over to Watson and handed him the handkerchief, “is the crime scene secure?”
“Secure and awaiting your arrival, sir.”
“Fore Street premises?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Excellent. Watson and I shouldn't be more than an hour and a half, if you would be so kind as to keep your colleagues and their large heavy boots away from anywhere they would do damage,” he turned to the doctor, “Come, Watson, we're off to visit the scene of your crime first - it is on the way, after all,” he spun back around to the constable, “please, help yourself to the remainder of the toast, constable Clarke.”
Holmes strode purposefully towards the door, Watson close behind, and only realised as he was opening the front door of 221b that he still hadn't gotten dressed. He tore back up the stairs and was back in a flash - looking, Watson thought, as artfully dishevelled as ever. At least he was decent.
They hailed a cab from the side of the street - by now it was 8 o'clock and the streets were bustling - and headed towards Cavendish Place.
Chapter 2
Word Count: 2200
Rating: PG for this chapter
Characters/Pairings: Holmes, Watson, Mary, Irene. Eventual Holmes/Watson, Irene/Mary (I am a walking cliché . I am aware of this.)
Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the 2009 movie. I'll probably manage some book spoilers at some point, too.
Warnings: Err, my sense of humour, which always requires a warning.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine.
Notes: How does one of these a week 'til we're done sound? I hope you said "good", 'cause it's what you're getting.
Many thanks to anna_bm for assuring me ahead of time that at least it's the good kind of "on crack".
In which Mary is not all she seems, Irene makes her entrance, Watson is distraught and Holmes is hungover, and mostly naked.
There is a distinctive knocking on the window, one which Mary has not heard often but recognises instantly. She scrambles, perhaps a little too excitedly, out of bed, not even sparing a glance for her husband of only a few weeks.
The window opens with a slight squeak, and Mary prays that John is not too light a sleeper. She smiles warmly when she sees the familiar form climb nimbly into the room.
“Have you got it?” A pretty, feminine voice whispers, complete with an accent which Mary has always thought speaks of the exotic wilds of the world but retains an air of class and civility.
“I have - it was just as you said,” she holds out her hand in the moonlight for her companion to see, “Holmes gave it to John as a pre-emptive wedding gift.” She smiled excitedly, revelling in the intelligence of the other woman. No wonder she had bested Holmes, if she could read him so easily.
“Good. Excellent,” Irene held her hand out the window, “shall we?” she smiled sweetly, the glint of good humour in her eye unmissable.
“Let me dress.” Mary rushed to the closet and quietly pulled out a plain dress. She dressed with the efficiency of one used to doing so quickly and in the dark.
They climbed carefully out of the first-storey window and dropped softly into the alley below, each woman equally as graceful as the other. They made their way through the quiet streets of London like cats in the night, unnoticed and undisturbed.
<><><>
Sherlock Holmes found himself awoken at an ungodly hour (half past seven, as if anyone with any decorum rose so early on a Saturday) by the shouting of a familiar voice. Through the fog of a hangover, he took a second to connect the voice to the man who had moved out of these rooms so recently. The man he hadn't seen in over a week (or rather, a man who had not consented to being seen. Holmes had followed him - to be sure he was safe and comfortable - but only once or twice).
The moment all the facts slid into place in his slightly addled brain, panic began to rise - was Watson hurt? In trouble? Bleeding out in the hall? He rolled out of bed and burst out of his room and into the hallway, to find a slightly dishevelled (but thankfully not dead or dying) Watson standing just outside his door.
“Watson?” The man looked pale, worried. Something was wrong, then.
“Holmes,” the doctor's face lit up a little under the gloom of his demeanour. Holmes stopped himself just short of smiling back, but he enjoyed the reaction.
“Come in, sit down,” he ushered his friend into the sitting room. The doctor sighed and allowed himself to be led.
Holmes, completely unselfconscious at his state of undress, took up his usual position in the armchair opposite Watson's.
“I suppose Mrs. Hudson is already making tea, and indeed,” he sniffed the air delicately, “breakfast, if I'm not mistaken. Which I'm not, obviously. So what interests me is the reason behind your waking me up when it is still mostly dark, on a Saturday, and looking so troubled.”
Watson sat back in the armchair, drawing comfort from the familiar surroundings and strength from his friend. He sighed wearily.
“Mary has gone missing, Holmes. We went to bed together last night,” the detective made a conscious effort not to scowl, “and when I awoke this morning, she was gone. The bedroom window was open, none of the household had seen her.”
“And this was at about six-thirty, when you woke up,” Holmes paused to enjoy Watson's puzzled look before continuing, “the mud on your shoes and trousers, my dear - you walked here, since getting a cab at this hour, when no sane person would be awake,” he gave the doctor a long-suffering look, but it was laced with affection, “would be nearly impossible, and your residence with Mary,” not your home, of course, “is just under an hour from here on foot for you, given the cold and the time of year.”
Watson was satisfyingly mystified - apparently it only took a mere week out of the detective's company to forget how impressive he was in just knowing things.
“Mary's disappearance is something of a mystery to me though.” He stood and began pacing the room. “Did you notice anything else about the room before you left at all?”
“Uh,” Watson seemed to struggle with the question for a moment, “her nightclothes were on the floor, one of her dresses was gone from the wardrobe.”
“So she was dressed when she left?” Holmes' brow furrowed. He knew what that likely meant, and wondered if the good doctor had come to the same conclusion.
“She must have been, I suppose...” The look of betrayal which flickered across Watson's face as he came to the conclusion Holmes had already reached was heartbreaking to the detective. The doctor truly adored this woman. He almost hated to make his next statement, but it had to be said.
“Then it is unlikely she was abducted. The struggle which would ensue if a woman was forcibly made to dress in your room would have woken you - the obvious answer, that she may have been coerced, does not hold up in this case since if she were threatened with harm, she would likely have made even more noise, and it would be illogical to threaten her with your demise, since the only reason to kidnap her would be to either extract a ransom from you, or solicit my involvement, and if you were dead, neither of these things would be possible, as they would not have survived to see the sun set,” Holmes watched as Watson's face got paler and sadder as he spoke, but he couldn't stop himself from talking, “the only conclusion then...”
“Is that she left of her own free will,” Watson finished in such a pathetic tone that Holmes wanted to bundle him up in his room, away from the world where the truth was going to hurt the poor doctor even more before this was all sorted out. But he knew Watson wouldn't thank him for hiding the truth from him.
“It would appear so, old chap. I am so sorry.” Holmes kept his mounting joy out of his voice - he was indeed sorry that his friend was to be hurt, even if he was glad that it would inevitably mean that he could have him back.
“Sorry. You're sorry?” Watson sounded angry. Understandable, given the circumstances, “I don't need you to be sorry, I need you to find her.”
“To what end, my dear Watson? If she has purposefully run away-”
“Because I love her, Holmes - will you get it through your stubborn, self-absorbed skull - I. Love. Mary.” Watson had risen from his seat and stalked to where Holmes stood near the fire. He was so close that the detective could hear his heartbeat - elevated, not that that was a surprise.
“Even after she has deceived you so?” Holmes was trying to keep any trace of his usual smugness out of his voice. He knew he could lose Watson over this, if he wasn't careful.
“You haven't any proof of that, not yet,” even as he said it, the doctor did not look entirely convinced himself.
Holmes debated offering his next piece of information. He knew Watson wouldn't like it, but it was certain to come out eventually if he insisted on pursuing this, which he inevitably would. He sighed heavily.
“You do know she was lying about her dead fiancé, don't you?” Holmes awaited the punch he knew was coming. It was rather less forceful than he expected - perhaps a sign that the dear doctor did know? Holmes had let his observations in regards to Watson slip to an unacceptable point, he realised. He'd gotten too comfortable and now they'd gotten into a mess which might all have been prevented if he'd been paying closer attention.
There was a long pause in which the only sound that could be heard was Watson's heavy breathing. Holmes waited until it levelled out before he spoke.
“I am so sorry, my dear, dear doctor. If I hadn't so studiously avoided any discussion with you about your intended, this might all have been prevented and sorted well before now.” he sniffed to prevent a small drop of blood from escaping his nose.
“As noble as it is for you to blame yourself,” Watson sighed as he sat back down in his armchair, “if what you say is true - which I am having trouble disbelieving, as I'm sure you can tell - then I was as blind to it as you were. I was taken in, Holmes.”
“You are not the first of us to be beguiled by a woman, Watson, and I dare say you will not be the last,” Holmes thought ruefully of his own weakness where the fairer sex was concerned. Irene Adler had fooled him on more than one occasion, even in recent days, “we will investigate this - perhaps there are more forces at work, here. Perhaps we can get her back for you, and if not, at least you will know that the whole arrangement was one-sided, and be able to move on,” and then I can have you back.
No doubt because the Gods of Fortune were in a particularly bad mood with one Sherlock Holmes at that moment, he heard a sharp rap on the front door. Quick and efficient, familiar enough but slightly meek. A police officer, a constable, no doubt. Constable Clark, most probably. The brief exchange between the newcomer and Mrs. Hudson confirmed Holmes' suspicion, and moments later there was the sound of heavy boots on the stairs and the door to the sitting room opened. Constable Clarke entered the room, Mrs. Hudson close behind with a tea tray, complete with enough toast for half a dozen hungry people. She poured Watson a cup of tea and glared mildly at Holmes before leaving the room.
“Begging your pardon, sirs,”
“Not at all, Clarkie. Your interruption is impeccably timed - have some toast, please.”
“Ah, no thank you, Mr. Holmes.” The constable smiled amicably. Holmes liked the man, despite his occupation - he was one of the few competent police officers he'd ever come across.
“Well, then, what brings you to Baker Street at this hour of the morning?”
“There was a robbery, last night or in the early hours of this morning. Mappin & Webb jewellers. Thieves only took unset gems, as far as the manager's concerned. And - and this is the part that might interest you, sir,” the constable paused while he dug into his inner pocket, and after a few moments produced half a white handkerchief, “they left this behind,” he handed the scrap of fabric to the detective, “thought you might recognise it,” the police constable smiled with not a hint of smugness. The sentiment was well deserved, though, Holmes thought as he stared at the red monogram. I A. Irene Adler. She was supposed to have left.
Holmes' mind went in to overdrive. Mary had disappeared last night or in the early hours of this morning. Mary whom he had given Irene's ill-acquired diamond to, in the form of an engagement ring. Mary, who had lied about the fate of her last fiancé. The detective felt just a little sick at the prospect that the two women might be working together. It would certainly fit with the facts, for the moment. Still, it was not wise to make hasty judgements.
“This does interest me indeed,” he walked over to Watson and handed him the handkerchief, “is the crime scene secure?”
“Secure and awaiting your arrival, sir.”
“Fore Street premises?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Excellent. Watson and I shouldn't be more than an hour and a half, if you would be so kind as to keep your colleagues and their large heavy boots away from anywhere they would do damage,” he turned to the doctor, “Come, Watson, we're off to visit the scene of your crime first - it is on the way, after all,” he spun back around to the constable, “please, help yourself to the remainder of the toast, constable Clarke.”
Holmes strode purposefully towards the door, Watson close behind, and only realised as he was opening the front door of 221b that he still hadn't gotten dressed. He tore back up the stairs and was back in a flash - looking, Watson thought, as artfully dishevelled as ever. At least he was decent.
They hailed a cab from the side of the street - by now it was 8 o'clock and the streets were bustling - and headed towards Cavendish Place.
Chapter 2