(no subject)
I seem to recall reading a snippet in one of the Sharpe books something about how when the war was over Sharpe, or maybe it was Harper, was going to write a bunch of action stories and retire as a wealthy man…(wish I could remember exactly the quote.) Anyways that set off a rather silly chain of thought in my head that eventually turned into this silly little fan fic.
If you wanna read it, it’s behind the cut. You know what to do.
Sadden I watched Sharpe paced quietly across the small room. Recently he seemed as if he was adjusting to his new life rather well, but at times like these his mental distress was apparent in his short jerky walk. I knew something must be bothering him, and had a rather good idea of what it was.
“Bad day employment hunting,” I asked. In response Sharpe cast me a scornful look. Men like Sharpe were such independent creatures, and while I assured him time and time again that he was no finical burden to me, being without gainful employment never the less hurt his pride. But unfortunately in today’s world, Sharpe’s skills were not very marketable.
I was worried, though, in my heart of hearts that he blamed me for his present predicament, “I’m so sorry Sharpe,” I wailed, “I had no idea that the energy/time modulator would have this result-if I could undo it and send you back I would; but I can’t. What’s done is done.” I added meekly with what I hoped would be a believable little sniffle.
Instantly Sharpe spun on his heals and cross to me; the hard planes of his face softening as he wrapped me in his deliciously strong arms. I buried my face in his chest, hoping to hide my not too distressed expression. Having such a handsome, strong warrior in my bed every night was not such bad a result from my time travel experiment gone awry.
“Hush, luv. It’ll be alright,” Sharpe murmured soothingly. “I’ll find something.”
“You don’t have to worry so much about this, Sharpe,” I said looking up into his deep green eyes, “I make good money, you’re not causing me to go broke.”
“I know,” he assured me with a small grin, “it’s just that a man like me needs something to do with his time. I’m afraid that if something doesn’t come along soon I’ll end up and a worthless old codger telling wild tales; of course noone would believe my wild tales,” he added ruefully.
“That’s it,” I cried, as an idea went off in my head. “Why not write your stories?” I thought back to all the times Sharpe had kept me in suspense as he told me one of his many war stories. He was a natural born story teller, teaching him to use the word processor would be a snap, and surely there was a growing market for historical ‘fiction.’
Sharpe seemed dubious at first, but after more persuasion, he seemed more amiable to the idea of trying his hand at writing. And hours latter I had him seated at the computer as he hunted and pecked his memories onto the screen. Mentally I made a note to download the Mavis Beacon typing software.
After awhile, though, he enthusiasm seemed to wan a bit.
“Problem,” I asked. As I quietly read over his shoulder. From what I could read, it was coming along nicely.
Sharpe, leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know,” he remarked, “seems kind of silly writing about myself like this. And what if I do find a publisher, noone would believe that I was there and saw all this.”
I shrugged, “Change the name of your main character to something other than Sharpe, then one on would accuse you of being either crazy, or egotistical.”
“I tried that, but it doesn’t feel natural.”
“Well then, on the chance that we find a publisher, just publish it under a pseudonym,” I suggested. Sharpe brightened at the thought, and resumed his staccato typing.
“Who knows,” I added jokingly, “If your stories sell well, they may even be made into a mini-series.”
“A what series?” Sharpe asked distractly, his attention more on the screen than me.
“Oh nothing,” I replied, “so, any ideas for a pseudonym?”
Sharpe nodded absently, his mind clearly 200 years away from me, “Yes, there was this man at the foundling home. He was one of the few kind ones, his name was Bernard…”