More foliage and silly semi-slashy thing
Well, first, the fic. It's a short one, just a stupid little plot bunny that bit me. All I can see is that I've gotten out of practice writing, and the ending just fizzles, but here it is for what it's worth.
Title: An Afternoon Visit
Rating: PG-R, depending on your imagination
Disclaimer: don't owns 'em, just plays with 'em.
“Inspector Lestrade!” Mrs. Hudson gasps, her hand going automatically to her mouth. As this hand also contains a duster, there is a moment of confused coughing during which the detective waits patiently, noticing with interest how the usually unflappable woman is flush with obvious embarrassment, her deep agitation having little to do with the sudden infusion of dust to her nostrils.
Lestrade chooses not to comment, but puts on his most charming smile as he touches his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, and God bless you,” he says, once the lady has stopped sneezing. “May I please come in? I would stop and chat; only I have important business to discuss with Mr. -”
Mrs. Hudson’s arm slams across the door, stopping his entry. “You can’t go up there - I mean, they’re not here,” she continues, recovering her composure.
Lestrade lifts an eyebrow. He has known that the landlady was hiding something from the moment she opened the door, and he vows he shall not leave Baker Street until he finds out what his famous consultant doesn’t want him to know; the last time Mr. Sherlock Holmes ordered Mrs. Hudson to lie to him, Lestrade found himself a prisoner short and in deep water with his superiors.
But still, Mrs. Hudson is a lady, and one who has earned his respect. He gently lays a hand upon her arm. “I can wait in the sitting room.”
He feels her arm stiffen at his touch, and he is impressed by the strength of the muscle. She draws herself up to her full height, her eyes level with his own. “The sitting room,” she says imperiously, “is currently not fit for human habitation.”
“It almost never is - despite your best efforts,” he adds quickly. “I’ve survived Mr. Holmes’ chemical demonstrations, remember. Come on,” he continues, deciding upon a direct approach. “What is he hiding -”
Lestrade’s words are interrupted by a high-pitched moan from upstairs, almost a howl, made almost inhuman by the intensity of the emotion conveyed. Someone else might find it difficult to know whether that sound came from man or woman or even beast, but Lestrade knows that voice all too well.
He almost bursts out laughing, and pats the woman’s arm companionably. “At it again, are they? Then let’s wait in your sitting room ‘til they’re done.”
Mrs. Hudson steps aside with a rueful grin. “You can hear them just as well in here,” she sighs, leading him along the ground-floor passageway to her own rooms. “Usually they use the doctor’s bedroom, but sometimes ….” She shakes her head. “Sit anywhere, Inspector. Would you like tea?”
“Only if you’re having some. So when did they start?” he asks, taking his place upon the settee.
“Just a few nights after Mr. Holmes’ return to London. I think it shocked both of them, but they’ve come to some sort of understanding -”
“No, I mean this afternoon,” the detective laughs. “So I know how long I have to wait,” he explains, taking the cup from her.
“Well, they’ve been at it for over an hour, but that’s no indication that they’ll stop anytime soon.” Mrs. Hudson sits down opposite him in an overstuffed armchair. “How long have you known?”
“Since that McFarlane matter in Norwood. When I saw the look in Doctor Watson’s eyes as I taunted Holmes, I knew. That and the time they thought I’d dozed off - good heavens, they’re giving the bed a rough time of it.” The thumping noise coming from upstairs has grown louder, and it seems pointless to let it pass without some comment, especially now that the picture-frames upon the wall are shaking. The moaning has become louder, too, and the doctor’s deeper baritone joins in with Holmes’ higher-pitched wails of pleasure.
Mrs. Hudson sips demurely at her tea. “They broke the other bed twice before I had a man come in and reinforce the springs.”
“Good heavens; how did you explain that to the tradesman?”
“I told him Mr. Holmes sometimes detains dangerous suspects in the doctor’s room.”
“You’ll excuse me for saying so, but that seems hardly likely.”
“Well, it’s the explanation Doctor Watson gave me when I asked him to explain the hooks he’d drilled into the wall over his bed. And Mr. Holmes thinks the doctor’s no good at lying! Bless me, the man barely blushed.”
“I take it that they don’t know you’re aware of their relations.”
The landlady grins. “I can’t imagine that they think they’re hiding anything from the woman who launders their bed-linens. But as they haven’t said anything on the matter to me, I shan’t force a confidence.”
Lestrade nods sympathetically. “And it is amusing to watch the great detective when he thinks he’s hiding something. I still remember the time I’d almost spotted them stealing a kiss, and the frantic look in Mr. Holmes’ eye as he pretended to be interested in the beetle behind the doctor’s ear.”
“I nearly caught them in the bath one day. You should have seen Mr. Holmes’ face when he explained they were merely conducting an experiment in water displacement.”
So far, no words have been distinguishable from upstairs, but now Sherlock Holmes’ voice is unmistakable, chanting the name “John” over and over, in time to the rattling of the picture-frames.
Mrs. Hudson merely smiles up at the ceiling, where a few flakes of plaster begin to flutter peacefully down.
“So you don’t disapprove, then?” Lestrade asks, running his finger along the rim of his teacup with studied casualness.
The woman shrugs. “I’m a practical woman,” says she, “and I don’t know much about religion, but I can’t imagine the good Lord would deny them the joy they’ve found together.”
The moaning from upstairs has reached a crescendo, and Holmes’ exhortations to his lover are absolutely, painfully clear as he lets loose with a string of explicit phrases which make Lestrade’s ears burn with embarrassment. Mrs. Hudson, however, merely pours herself another cup of tea, calmly offering the detective a plate of biscuits.
Lestrade watches with increasing unease as more plaster begins to flake down from the ceiling; whatever joy Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are finding together, they are finding it in a particularly strenuous manner. Lestrade puts the unbidden vision from his mind. “Do you think they’re coming - er, I mean, that they’ll be finished soon?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” the lady replies brightly, nibbling at her own biscuit. “I forgot to tell you; the whole thing started with an argument over modern Belgian art - they could be hours yet.”
Lestrade’s jaw drops. “Hours?”
“Oh, yes. They like to take their time, and they have their ways of lasting. The last time I cleaned out the doctor’s wardrobe, I found a brochure from Paris and a couple of India-rubber rings. It was all very educational, I must say. Apparently, with one of these rings slipped over the - where are you going, Inspector?”
“I - ah - just remembered some paperwork at the Yard.”
“I thought you said it was important business.”
“It can wait. Give the gents my regards, or, well - tell them I’ll be around later. Or tomorrow, even. Yes, better tomorrow anyway. Well, thanks for the tea - no, I can show myself out.”
As soon as the lady is alone, she allows herself a hearty laugh before ascending the stairs to the sitting room, where her tenants await her, Holmes pouring himself another glass of brandy, Watson still holding the large stick he used to thump upon the floor.
“That didn’t take half the time I thought it would,” Sherlock Holmes laughs. “I would have thought he might come upstairs to have a peek. But thankfully, the good inspector’s better nature prevailed, and now he shall not have to see the evidence which would only disturb him until after my client is cleared. I told you, Watson, that Lestrade knowing our secret would serve some practical use.”
Mrs. Hudson shakes a finger at her famous lodger. “It was a dirty trick, Mr. Holmes, and I shan’t do it again. What if he’d brought a constable along?”
“Tut, Mrs. Hudson, such a wet blanket. You know that Lestrade only brings over uniformed men when he is ready to make an arrest. In any case, we -”
“In any case,” Doctor Watson interrupts softly, “we have gotten rid of the inspector until tomorrow morning. Mrs. Hudson, why don’t you take the night off?”
The landlady nods understandingly. “As long as I don’t have any more plaster on my carpet. Good night, gentlemen.”
And here's some more foliage shots.
Nice, huh? All taken just around the condo, none of them tweaked for color. Simply amazing. It's like the trees, knowing they're going to sleep soon, put on their fanciest pajamas in some sort of slumber party contest for best sleepwear. And here's one last one:
Well, hope you liked.