A Game of Cats: Sherlock Holmes, Irene/Mary
Title: A Game of Cats
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009 movie)
Characters/Pairings: Irene, Mary
Genre: General, implied romance
Rating: G
Word Count: 2061
Summary: Miss Mary Morstan was formerly quite content with only being curious about the world of her future husband's companion. And then it showed up in her parlor.
Author's Notes: Written for calasara as part of fandomaid. The prompt was something involving Irene/Mary, and, um, this was the closest I got. Sorry about that. Beta'd by the lovely bay115.
Miss Mary Morstan, fiancée of Dr. John Watson, was well aware of the complexities of her future husband's favored company. The specific details as to how she was introduced to such a world (and, by extension, Dr. Watson himself) were considered rather irrelevant to the company in question (which is to say Mr. Holmes's reputation preceded him, he extended his usual mode of gentlemanly etiquette towards a woman, and the wine stain on his shirt would have taken days to get out had he cared), but to Miss Morstan herself, it was a glimmer of excitement in her otherwise ordinary life. Granted, her first real encounter with Watson's confidante - if he could be called such - left her with a less than favorable impression of him, as did the number of times the man pulled Watson from her side. Yet, seeing how much it engrossed her fiancé left her curious. And why wouldn't she be curious? She had questions - hundreds of them, actually. Some of them were simple. What was he doing? Where was he going? What was he to Mr. Holmes? Other questions tended to be more complex. Why was she asked early one morning to come retrieve him from a London prison, and what was he doing in a prison with Mr. Holmes and a gang of questionable young men?
When she found her curiosity piqued by these questions and the many others, she also discovered that finding answers was no easy task. Watson, understandably, felt that his memoirs were inappropriate for a woman of his fiancée's standing, and she knew very well that stories he stammered to her concerning where he had been and why he was in a prison with his questionable companion were complete fabrications. The only other person she knew who was at all connected to her fiancé's world - besides perhaps the police of Scotland Yard, who she wouldn't dare ask - was their landlady, a woman who responded to all of her questions with a huff and a vague answer concerning the quality of Mr. Holmes's being.
Yet, Miss Morstan knew a thing or few concerning Mr. Holmes. Hearsay, mostly. Newspaper articles she read between her charges' lessons. Rumors filtered through the damp London streets on the occasion that she would spend her day off in the city. Through these methods, she came to hear about a whole host of characters that Mr. Holmes encountered, but primarily, there was a woman. The Woman, really, with a capital W. She was the mystery that eluded Mr. Holmes, the heroine of more than one highly romanticized account. The only one to deny Mr. Holmes of a sense of closure to one of his cases. The one who got away.
Miss Morstan didn't even know her name, yet she liked the woman already.
The day they met, it rained. This was hardly unusual for Her Majesty's kingdom, and for that, Mary thought nothing of it. Outside, large droplets pelted the windows and the roofs, filling the house - their house, the lady mused with a small smile - with soft, constant rapping. Rain, for one reason or another, always seemed to soothe her. Probably for the steady rhythm of rain above her. Most likely because the gray skies that seemed perpetually looming over the English countryside was always a fixture in her daily life. Whatever the reason, by the time she reached the parlor where - from what she had been told by the housekeeper - a guest was currently awaiting her presence, she felt the utmost serenity, the sort where one would feel as if no news could possibly sway them.
She walked into the parlor unaccompanied to find a woman in red seated with her back turned towards the door. The lady turned her head, gazing up at Miss Morstan with wide eyes and a friendly smile. Then, her entire body swept upwards until she stood, the hem of her dress rustling to a halt as they brushed against the carpet with her sharp turn.
"Ah! Good evening, Mrs. Watson!"
American, the bride realized. This woman, whoever she was, spoke with a smooth, American accent. As a result, every possible identity she could have matched with her guest was invalidated. Not willing to admit right away that she had no idea who this foreigner was, she bowed her head slightly.
"Well, not yet," she said politely. "Wednesday, actually. Thank you all the same, and good evening to you also. I take it your travel here was well?"
The woman beamed. "Oh, Mary, you have no idea who I am, do you?"
Her associate didn't respond. She had very little experience dealing with Americans, and from what she heard, they were a unique species that went out of its way to clash thoroughly with English sensibilities. They were blunt. To the point. Open-minded and open-mouthed. She didn't look down on Americans, but the thought of dealing with such a woman left her timid and uncertain of what to say to her.
"I'm afraid I don't," she admitted. "Please pardon my forgetfulness. You must understand that with the wedding only a few days away..."
"Oh, well, now that's quite a shame."
The woman sauntered Miss Morstan's way. Her fingers played across the wooden arm of the chair she had been sitting in just a moment ago, and her eyes remained on it as if it was far more interesting than her host. At the same time, her companion froze as she watched her creep closer. Was this simply how a social call went in America? The thoroughly English Mary couldn't be certain, but either way, something about her guest made her feel uneasy.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten all about your dear, sweet cousin Irene now," she said.
The guest threw a sideways glance towards her host. At once, Miss Morstan lifted a hand and drew her fingers to her lips. Cousin? Her mind scrambled to recall the faces of her relatives. Some of the portraits that flicked through her mind were hazy - stern eyes and stern mouths at best, faded voices distorted by imperfect memory at worst. Did she have a cousin from America? She was inclined to say she didn't, but she couldn't honestly be certain.
"Oh," she finally said. "Forgive me. It must have been years since we've last seen each other. I don't seem to..."
"Ages," Irene drawled. "Never mind, dear. That's not important. What is is the fact that I wanted to come to see you and send my congratulations personally. Dr. Watson has quite a reputation, I've heard."
Miss Morstan removed her hand from her mouth. "Good, I should hope."
Before her hand could drift down to her side, she watched as Irene grabbed it. Instinctively, she jumped; she wasn't used to such a forward gesture. Was this the American openness she had heard so much about? Irene looked at the engagement ring on her finger, at the massive, glittering jewel that represented not only her future husband's love for her but also the blessings of Mr. Holmes himself. Miss Morstan glanced at it for a second and then found herself studying the face of her guest. Irene's smirk was small and knowing, and her eyes gazed back at her cousin darkly. Suddenly, a thought wormed its way into the lady's brain and stayed there.
She had seen this woman somewhere. Where? A newspaper clipping? A photograph on someone else's table? A specter on the streets?
"Very good," Irene said.
Those two words snapped Miss Morstan back into reality just in time for Irene to let go of her hand. Her arm fell limply at her side, and she couldn't help but stand there staring at her companion. In the meantime, Irene wandered about the room, hands brushing over tables and the edges of frames while her eyes fell on one object after another with disinterest.
"Marriage," she said. "You're a brave woman. I can't imagine ever settling down myself. It's hard to find the right man, and there's so many out there with their individual... uniqueness."
Miss Morstan bristled, but when she spoke, her voice remained neutral and soft. "John has had his flaws, but I've been assured that he's no longer interested in such questionable activities."
"Not all of them," Irene replied. "I'd keep an eye on his relationship with Mr. Holmes, if I were you."
"Is that so?" she murmured.
"Hm? It goes without saying." The American turned to her with a wide grin. "But you've read the papers. You probably know more about Mr. Holmes than I do."
Without thinking, Miss Morstan answered, "Are you certain of that?"
Irene stopped. Her eyebrow arched as she eyed her host carefully. Then, she walked forward, slowly, with each step placed deliberately on the carpet beneath her feet.
"There's only a few things you need to know about Mr. Holmes," Irene told her. "First, everything you hear about him is true. All the praise, all the scandal... all of it. Second, because of this, to say that he's an eccentric... now that would be an understatement. He's dangerous, and although he has a formidable mind, his brilliance doesn't keep him from running directly into trouble. I would call it one of his charms. Third, Mr. Holmes has a certain sense of charisma, and it seems your doctor is thoroughly wrapped up in it."
"What are you saying?" her companion asked.
"I'm saying that it wouldn't be right if I told you your husband is always safe when Mr. Holmes decides he needs his assistance. I can tell you, though, that he's the kind of person who would gladly go out of his way to ensure that Dr. Watson will be at the altar on Wednesday."
"I already know that." The softness in the bride's voice surprised her. It was as if the words tumbled out of her mouth on their own volition.
To her surprise, there was no change in emotion on her guest's face and no unsteadiness in the woman's smile. There wasn't even a glint in her eyes that might have betrayed what was going on in her mind. All Irene did was smile peacefully to the other woman as she closed the gap between them. Then, before Miss Morstan could pull away from the foreigner, she found herself in a tight embrace.
"Oh, Mary, don't mind me," Irene cooed. "I'm only looking out for you. You know how unsavory people like Mr. Holmes can be, and I'm afraid he might be a terrible influence on your John."
Irene's fingers slipped to the bride's wrists as she took a step backwards. She lifted her arms just enough to hold their hands in the small gap between the both of them. Miss Morstan kept her gaze steady on the American's face. The woman's eyes misted, as if she was completely and genuinely interested in her host's well-being. Of course, Mary was almost certain by that point that she was everything but interested, but she said nothing on the matter.
"I'm glad we've had this talk. It feels like a weight's been lifted right off my chest," Irene told her.
Her host nodded slightly. "I thank you kindly for your advice."
"Well." The caller rubbed her thumb on the bride's left hand. "Anything for my dearest cousin."
She pulled away from her host and started for the door. When she reached it, she looked over her shoulder at her acquaintance, who stood watching her in silence.
"I'm terribly sorry I can't stay for much longer," she said, "but I've got a few appointments to make. Don't worry about seeing me to the door. I'll find my own way. You take care of yourself, Mary, and I wish you luck and happiness in your marriage."
In the next moment, Irene was gone. It took a few more seconds for a realization to slip into her companion's mind, and when it did, she rushed to the door and darted into the hallway. By then, she could hear the front door click closed.
As she stood in the empty corridor, Miss Mary Morstan listened to the patter of the rain on the roof. Still uncertain of what to make of the whole meeting, she folded her slender hands in front of her and confirmed with a strange sense of satisfaction in her heart that her engagement ring was gone.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009 movie)
Characters/Pairings: Irene, Mary
Genre: General, implied romance
Rating: G
Word Count: 2061
Summary: Miss Mary Morstan was formerly quite content with only being curious about the world of her future husband's companion. And then it showed up in her parlor.
Author's Notes: Written for calasara as part of fandomaid. The prompt was something involving Irene/Mary, and, um, this was the closest I got. Sorry about that. Beta'd by the lovely bay115.
Miss Mary Morstan, fiancée of Dr. John Watson, was well aware of the complexities of her future husband's favored company. The specific details as to how she was introduced to such a world (and, by extension, Dr. Watson himself) were considered rather irrelevant to the company in question (which is to say Mr. Holmes's reputation preceded him, he extended his usual mode of gentlemanly etiquette towards a woman, and the wine stain on his shirt would have taken days to get out had he cared), but to Miss Morstan herself, it was a glimmer of excitement in her otherwise ordinary life. Granted, her first real encounter with Watson's confidante - if he could be called such - left her with a less than favorable impression of him, as did the number of times the man pulled Watson from her side. Yet, seeing how much it engrossed her fiancé left her curious. And why wouldn't she be curious? She had questions - hundreds of them, actually. Some of them were simple. What was he doing? Where was he going? What was he to Mr. Holmes? Other questions tended to be more complex. Why was she asked early one morning to come retrieve him from a London prison, and what was he doing in a prison with Mr. Holmes and a gang of questionable young men?
When she found her curiosity piqued by these questions and the many others, she also discovered that finding answers was no easy task. Watson, understandably, felt that his memoirs were inappropriate for a woman of his fiancée's standing, and she knew very well that stories he stammered to her concerning where he had been and why he was in a prison with his questionable companion were complete fabrications. The only other person she knew who was at all connected to her fiancé's world - besides perhaps the police of Scotland Yard, who she wouldn't dare ask - was their landlady, a woman who responded to all of her questions with a huff and a vague answer concerning the quality of Mr. Holmes's being.
Yet, Miss Morstan knew a thing or few concerning Mr. Holmes. Hearsay, mostly. Newspaper articles she read between her charges' lessons. Rumors filtered through the damp London streets on the occasion that she would spend her day off in the city. Through these methods, she came to hear about a whole host of characters that Mr. Holmes encountered, but primarily, there was a woman. The Woman, really, with a capital W. She was the mystery that eluded Mr. Holmes, the heroine of more than one highly romanticized account. The only one to deny Mr. Holmes of a sense of closure to one of his cases. The one who got away.
Miss Morstan didn't even know her name, yet she liked the woman already.
The day they met, it rained. This was hardly unusual for Her Majesty's kingdom, and for that, Mary thought nothing of it. Outside, large droplets pelted the windows and the roofs, filling the house - their house, the lady mused with a small smile - with soft, constant rapping. Rain, for one reason or another, always seemed to soothe her. Probably for the steady rhythm of rain above her. Most likely because the gray skies that seemed perpetually looming over the English countryside was always a fixture in her daily life. Whatever the reason, by the time she reached the parlor where - from what she had been told by the housekeeper - a guest was currently awaiting her presence, she felt the utmost serenity, the sort where one would feel as if no news could possibly sway them.
She walked into the parlor unaccompanied to find a woman in red seated with her back turned towards the door. The lady turned her head, gazing up at Miss Morstan with wide eyes and a friendly smile. Then, her entire body swept upwards until she stood, the hem of her dress rustling to a halt as they brushed against the carpet with her sharp turn.
"Ah! Good evening, Mrs. Watson!"
American, the bride realized. This woman, whoever she was, spoke with a smooth, American accent. As a result, every possible identity she could have matched with her guest was invalidated. Not willing to admit right away that she had no idea who this foreigner was, she bowed her head slightly.
"Well, not yet," she said politely. "Wednesday, actually. Thank you all the same, and good evening to you also. I take it your travel here was well?"
The woman beamed. "Oh, Mary, you have no idea who I am, do you?"
Her associate didn't respond. She had very little experience dealing with Americans, and from what she heard, they were a unique species that went out of its way to clash thoroughly with English sensibilities. They were blunt. To the point. Open-minded and open-mouthed. She didn't look down on Americans, but the thought of dealing with such a woman left her timid and uncertain of what to say to her.
"I'm afraid I don't," she admitted. "Please pardon my forgetfulness. You must understand that with the wedding only a few days away..."
"Oh, well, now that's quite a shame."
The woman sauntered Miss Morstan's way. Her fingers played across the wooden arm of the chair she had been sitting in just a moment ago, and her eyes remained on it as if it was far more interesting than her host. At the same time, her companion froze as she watched her creep closer. Was this simply how a social call went in America? The thoroughly English Mary couldn't be certain, but either way, something about her guest made her feel uneasy.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten all about your dear, sweet cousin Irene now," she said.
The guest threw a sideways glance towards her host. At once, Miss Morstan lifted a hand and drew her fingers to her lips. Cousin? Her mind scrambled to recall the faces of her relatives. Some of the portraits that flicked through her mind were hazy - stern eyes and stern mouths at best, faded voices distorted by imperfect memory at worst. Did she have a cousin from America? She was inclined to say she didn't, but she couldn't honestly be certain.
"Oh," she finally said. "Forgive me. It must have been years since we've last seen each other. I don't seem to..."
"Ages," Irene drawled. "Never mind, dear. That's not important. What is is the fact that I wanted to come to see you and send my congratulations personally. Dr. Watson has quite a reputation, I've heard."
Miss Morstan removed her hand from her mouth. "Good, I should hope."
Before her hand could drift down to her side, she watched as Irene grabbed it. Instinctively, she jumped; she wasn't used to such a forward gesture. Was this the American openness she had heard so much about? Irene looked at the engagement ring on her finger, at the massive, glittering jewel that represented not only her future husband's love for her but also the blessings of Mr. Holmes himself. Miss Morstan glanced at it for a second and then found herself studying the face of her guest. Irene's smirk was small and knowing, and her eyes gazed back at her cousin darkly. Suddenly, a thought wormed its way into the lady's brain and stayed there.
She had seen this woman somewhere. Where? A newspaper clipping? A photograph on someone else's table? A specter on the streets?
"Very good," Irene said.
Those two words snapped Miss Morstan back into reality just in time for Irene to let go of her hand. Her arm fell limply at her side, and she couldn't help but stand there staring at her companion. In the meantime, Irene wandered about the room, hands brushing over tables and the edges of frames while her eyes fell on one object after another with disinterest.
"Marriage," she said. "You're a brave woman. I can't imagine ever settling down myself. It's hard to find the right man, and there's so many out there with their individual... uniqueness."
Miss Morstan bristled, but when she spoke, her voice remained neutral and soft. "John has had his flaws, but I've been assured that he's no longer interested in such questionable activities."
"Not all of them," Irene replied. "I'd keep an eye on his relationship with Mr. Holmes, if I were you."
"Is that so?" she murmured.
"Hm? It goes without saying." The American turned to her with a wide grin. "But you've read the papers. You probably know more about Mr. Holmes than I do."
Without thinking, Miss Morstan answered, "Are you certain of that?"
Irene stopped. Her eyebrow arched as she eyed her host carefully. Then, she walked forward, slowly, with each step placed deliberately on the carpet beneath her feet.
"There's only a few things you need to know about Mr. Holmes," Irene told her. "First, everything you hear about him is true. All the praise, all the scandal... all of it. Second, because of this, to say that he's an eccentric... now that would be an understatement. He's dangerous, and although he has a formidable mind, his brilliance doesn't keep him from running directly into trouble. I would call it one of his charms. Third, Mr. Holmes has a certain sense of charisma, and it seems your doctor is thoroughly wrapped up in it."
"What are you saying?" her companion asked.
"I'm saying that it wouldn't be right if I told you your husband is always safe when Mr. Holmes decides he needs his assistance. I can tell you, though, that he's the kind of person who would gladly go out of his way to ensure that Dr. Watson will be at the altar on Wednesday."
"I already know that." The softness in the bride's voice surprised her. It was as if the words tumbled out of her mouth on their own volition.
To her surprise, there was no change in emotion on her guest's face and no unsteadiness in the woman's smile. There wasn't even a glint in her eyes that might have betrayed what was going on in her mind. All Irene did was smile peacefully to the other woman as she closed the gap between them. Then, before Miss Morstan could pull away from the foreigner, she found herself in a tight embrace.
"Oh, Mary, don't mind me," Irene cooed. "I'm only looking out for you. You know how unsavory people like Mr. Holmes can be, and I'm afraid he might be a terrible influence on your John."
Irene's fingers slipped to the bride's wrists as she took a step backwards. She lifted her arms just enough to hold their hands in the small gap between the both of them. Miss Morstan kept her gaze steady on the American's face. The woman's eyes misted, as if she was completely and genuinely interested in her host's well-being. Of course, Mary was almost certain by that point that she was everything but interested, but she said nothing on the matter.
"I'm glad we've had this talk. It feels like a weight's been lifted right off my chest," Irene told her.
Her host nodded slightly. "I thank you kindly for your advice."
"Well." The caller rubbed her thumb on the bride's left hand. "Anything for my dearest cousin."
She pulled away from her host and started for the door. When she reached it, she looked over her shoulder at her acquaintance, who stood watching her in silence.
"I'm terribly sorry I can't stay for much longer," she said, "but I've got a few appointments to make. Don't worry about seeing me to the door. I'll find my own way. You take care of yourself, Mary, and I wish you luck and happiness in your marriage."
In the next moment, Irene was gone. It took a few more seconds for a realization to slip into her companion's mind, and when it did, she rushed to the door and darted into the hallway. By then, she could hear the front door click closed.
As she stood in the empty corridor, Miss Mary Morstan listened to the patter of the rain on the roof. Still uncertain of what to make of the whole meeting, she folded her slender hands in front of her and confirmed with a strange sense of satisfaction in her heart that her engagement ring was gone.