[Fanfic] Her Majesty The Queen Would Not Approve
Title: Her Majesty The Queen Would Not Approve
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes ('09 and '11 movies)
Author: plalligator
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Mary Watson, Sherlock Holmes. Implied...something--Mary/Watson, Watson/Holmes, Mary/Watson/Holmes? God, I don't know. Interpret as you wish, can honestly just be interpreted as gen or pairing-oriented.
Rating/Warnings: PG, none
Summary: Three gifts. Or maybe more?
Notes: I know nothing about weaponry. Also Mary deserves all the nice things, because she is a badass and awesome forever.
::
“This is the third gift you have ever given me, Mr. Holmes,” she says to the old man-stiff white whiskers and a full beard stuck on with adhesive, loud tweed suit and clashing tie chosen to distract from the face, hands that seem to shake with arthritis-sprawled on the couch in her front parlor as she turns the gun over in her hands. He doesn’t answer for a moment, and she doesn’t expect him to. Irene Adler’s diamond sits on her finger, and they both know what else he’s given her. Or, according to one of them, what-whom-she’s stolen from him.
“Second gift. And a half,” he says finally, with a trace of the old stubbornness, the old contempt, and she inclines her head. There is nothing that can be said to that, after all, that wouldn’t have them both caught out in a lie.
His eyes are bright, birdlike as they watch her. It’s very unnerving, Holmes’ sharp eyes in the frame of a slumped-over old man, and she has to look away, her fingers skimming the barrel of the gun, the handgrip. The metal is quite as polished as any piece of jewelry she’s ever seen, the inlay on the handgrip buffed to a sheen.
“Custom made,” he says, airily, around his pipe. She doesn’t allow smoking in the house, so naturally he puffs on the wretched thing like a steam engine anytime he’s so much as near it. Which, she must admit, is often. Very often. “Courtesy of Professor Moriarty’s munitions factory in Berlin, though the inlay was done separately. Fires repeating rounds, clip goes straight in. None of this old only-six-shots business.”
She turns the thing over in her hands, feeling the smooth slide of metal and the press of power thrumming against her palms. A few pieces of oddly-shaped pieces of metal stuck together and suddenly one holds death in one’s hands. Suddenly, one controls the fates of other men. Suddenly, one is no longer powerless. It’s...intoxicating. And unorthodox, that’s certain. A respectable lady carrying this around in her handbag? Simply not done.
Somehow, she can’t bring herself to care.
There’s an inscription on the bottom of the barrel. Nothing fancy.
“M. Watson. With best regards, S. Holmes.”
“If you can’t trust me, my dear, I hope you can at least trust yourself. After all, I do leave our Watson’s health and happiness in your capable hands.” He rises. “I do hope it proves useful to you. Now. Must be off. Little matter of the Duchess of Canterbury’s emerald pendant gone missing.” Flashes a smile and quirks an eyebrow, and bounds out of the room, looking rather spry for someone supposed to be an old man.
She shakes her head disbelievingly.
“Always has to have the bloody last word,” she murmurs. Stares contemplatively at the gun, then shoves it back into its wrapping and stashes it in the kitchen cupboard to deal with later and goes to find John. It’s time for tea, and she’d better tell John he ought to go ahead and accompany Holmes in looking for the Duchess of Canterbury’s stolen emerald pendant, she will be just fine on her own even if the jewel thieves do come looking for a bit of leverage on the men tracking them. They won’t very well find it.
::
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes ('09 and '11 movies)
Author: plalligator
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Mary Watson, Sherlock Holmes. Implied...something--Mary/Watson, Watson/Holmes, Mary/Watson/Holmes? God, I don't know. Interpret as you wish, can honestly just be interpreted as gen or pairing-oriented.
Rating/Warnings: PG, none
Summary: Three gifts. Or maybe more?
Notes: I know nothing about weaponry. Also Mary deserves all the nice things, because she is a badass and awesome forever.
::
“This is the third gift you have ever given me, Mr. Holmes,” she says to the old man-stiff white whiskers and a full beard stuck on with adhesive, loud tweed suit and clashing tie chosen to distract from the face, hands that seem to shake with arthritis-sprawled on the couch in her front parlor as she turns the gun over in her hands. He doesn’t answer for a moment, and she doesn’t expect him to. Irene Adler’s diamond sits on her finger, and they both know what else he’s given her. Or, according to one of them, what-whom-she’s stolen from him.
“Second gift. And a half,” he says finally, with a trace of the old stubbornness, the old contempt, and she inclines her head. There is nothing that can be said to that, after all, that wouldn’t have them both caught out in a lie.
His eyes are bright, birdlike as they watch her. It’s very unnerving, Holmes’ sharp eyes in the frame of a slumped-over old man, and she has to look away, her fingers skimming the barrel of the gun, the handgrip. The metal is quite as polished as any piece of jewelry she’s ever seen, the inlay on the handgrip buffed to a sheen.
“Custom made,” he says, airily, around his pipe. She doesn’t allow smoking in the house, so naturally he puffs on the wretched thing like a steam engine anytime he’s so much as near it. Which, she must admit, is often. Very often. “Courtesy of Professor Moriarty’s munitions factory in Berlin, though the inlay was done separately. Fires repeating rounds, clip goes straight in. None of this old only-six-shots business.”
She turns the thing over in her hands, feeling the smooth slide of metal and the press of power thrumming against her palms. A few pieces of oddly-shaped pieces of metal stuck together and suddenly one holds death in one’s hands. Suddenly, one controls the fates of other men. Suddenly, one is no longer powerless. It’s...intoxicating. And unorthodox, that’s certain. A respectable lady carrying this around in her handbag? Simply not done.
Somehow, she can’t bring herself to care.
There’s an inscription on the bottom of the barrel. Nothing fancy.
“M. Watson. With best regards, S. Holmes.”
“If you can’t trust me, my dear, I hope you can at least trust yourself. After all, I do leave our Watson’s health and happiness in your capable hands.” He rises. “I do hope it proves useful to you. Now. Must be off. Little matter of the Duchess of Canterbury’s emerald pendant gone missing.” Flashes a smile and quirks an eyebrow, and bounds out of the room, looking rather spry for someone supposed to be an old man.
She shakes her head disbelievingly.
“Always has to have the bloody last word,” she murmurs. Stares contemplatively at the gun, then shoves it back into its wrapping and stashes it in the kitchen cupboard to deal with later and goes to find John. It’s time for tea, and she’d better tell John he ought to go ahead and accompany Holmes in looking for the Duchess of Canterbury’s stolen emerald pendant, she will be just fine on her own even if the jewel thieves do come looking for a bit of leverage on the men tracking them. They won’t very well find it.
::