"Unimpeachable" (ACD Holmes fanfic, rated G), 2014 JWP Amnesty Prompt #1
Title: Unimpeachable
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Word Count: 1000
Rating: G
Summary: How to get the message out without peaching?
Author's Notes: For the 2014 July Watson’s Woes Amnesty Prompt #1: Hidden words.
This is a sequel to my story Oubliette, written on July 19, and is concluded in Unimpeachable (Holmes' POV).
When you make your living just on the wrong side of the law, you don’t want no trouble from either end. The gangs ‘ere know to ‘dump’ their stuff at Frankie’s, Frankie gives ‘em the dosh and don’t ask no questions (and for a fee I gets any blood off the items neat as you please); and for that, Frankie’s place don’t get robbed, and Frankie don’t get nobbled like others do. Coppers just see another pawn shop in another dirt-poor neighborhood and walk on by. And if a certain someone on the side of the law - no copper, mind you - has a shiny gold sovereign for a worthless pocket-watch or bit of paste jewelry and don’t ask no questions, and don’t interfere with a working bloke’s regular trade, well that’s to everyone’s advantage too. Frankie don’t peach - and if that certain someone can look at that bloody watch or cheap bracelet and make IT peach, and tell ‘im what ‘e wants to know, it ain’t Frankie’s business.
Well, my eyes lit up when Charley Dunigan brought in the Gladstone that night. Nice piece of work, good leather, and it jingled full of doc’s tools that’d all fetch a pretty penny from the poor medical students what prowls shops like mine. The poor bastard the River Street gang caught would count it lost once his people bought ‘im back, and he’d easily afford a nice new one when he got home safe, if he was rich enough to have a bag this nice. I scoped the lot, hiding a grin at my bargain; five quid would make Charley a happy lad and I’d fetch twenty for everything here, easily.
Then I pulled out a card and my blood ran cold. Charley just grinned, the idiot couldn’t read ‘is own name. But JOHN H. WATSON, M.D. screamed in my hand.
They couldn’t know it was ‘im, they’d a laid off ‘im like he was a hot iron if they knew - which meant the poor bastard was in no shape to tell ‘em hisself. If I told Charley, they might let ‘im go - or they might panic and kill ‘im to cover their tracks, as if that would work. And that would mean Himself coming down ‘ere like a bloody avenging angel, with a rope for everybody who’d nobbled ‘im - and one for me too, for touching this bag. If I left it alone and let them ransom, he’d find ‘em, and it’d just be prison for everyone - me too. If I went to Himself and told, that was the end of Frankie - I’d get me throat slit for peaching. What to do, what to do?
And then I knew.
I gave Charley his money and he scarpered.
I pulled out the tools and laid them out, and chose a little pair of scissors, must be for cutting bandages or stitches or some such, and put everything back in the bag. I took my knife up and made me shop-mark on the handle, like I was going to put the scissors on the shelf with the honest goods. But above me mark, I scratched two zigzags close together, one atop the other, then two straight lines as close, up and down: ~~ ~~ ∥
I wrapped up the scissors in brown paper and hollered for the boy. I told ‘im to drop it with the old lady on Baker what always had a scone for ‘im, and he was off like a shot.
My gut was in a fist, but I done what I could.
I never open me mouth, but this is a man what can make a watch or a bracelet peach.
And if the boy was stopped and asked, his parcel searched? A pair of scratched-up sewing scissors for an old lady too miserly to buy a new pair. But I’d stake everything in the shop, honest and otherwise, that Himself would take one look and know who they belonged to, and know what the marks meant. And that I’d been the one to tip him off.
***
Next day noon the boy was full of jabber. Seems around midnight Charley and his boss Jake and ten others in the River Street gang got pinched by the peelers right in their nest, and the poor battered sod they’d been holding was freed. Me heart was in me throat during the talk, but not one word of Himself being there. Then I almost fainted for relief when the boy laughed and said Jake took a swing at Charley while they was being arrested, shouting that ‘e must a blabbed while spending his dosh at the tavern, and that’s why they was caught.
A few weeks later, who should come into the shop but Himself. I greets ‘im like I never seen him before, same as always. ‘E says he’s looking for something in particular for a gentleman friend of his acquaintance, a get-well present so to speak as the poor fellow got sick something fierce a bit back and was just lifting his head again. Told ‘im I had just the thing for the gentleman, and brought up the Gladstone that didn’t have a single pawnbroker’s mark on it, nor the tools inside neither. Says I it might be missing an item or two; says ‘e it’ll do very well and ‘e understands what with business bein’ business and all, some things are bound to go missing, and to wrap it up as it’s a surprise. Business being business and all, I says it cost me five quid for the lot; Himself tucks the wrapped bag under one arm and reaches for his pocketbook, grumbling a bit about prices, and hands me the fiver and goes, and that’s it.
Then I puts away the roll of brown paper, and under it I find the twenty-quid note. And another twenty under that one. And another. And another. Five of ‘em altogether.
And on the bottom note there’s a mark in ink: X. His promise not to peach, neither.
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Word Count: 1000
Rating: G
Summary: How to get the message out without peaching?
Author's Notes: For the 2014 July Watson’s Woes Amnesty Prompt #1: Hidden words.
This is a sequel to my story Oubliette, written on July 19, and is concluded in Unimpeachable (Holmes' POV).
When you make your living just on the wrong side of the law, you don’t want no trouble from either end. The gangs ‘ere know to ‘dump’ their stuff at Frankie’s, Frankie gives ‘em the dosh and don’t ask no questions (and for a fee I gets any blood off the items neat as you please); and for that, Frankie’s place don’t get robbed, and Frankie don’t get nobbled like others do. Coppers just see another pawn shop in another dirt-poor neighborhood and walk on by. And if a certain someone on the side of the law - no copper, mind you - has a shiny gold sovereign for a worthless pocket-watch or bit of paste jewelry and don’t ask no questions, and don’t interfere with a working bloke’s regular trade, well that’s to everyone’s advantage too. Frankie don’t peach - and if that certain someone can look at that bloody watch or cheap bracelet and make IT peach, and tell ‘im what ‘e wants to know, it ain’t Frankie’s business.
Well, my eyes lit up when Charley Dunigan brought in the Gladstone that night. Nice piece of work, good leather, and it jingled full of doc’s tools that’d all fetch a pretty penny from the poor medical students what prowls shops like mine. The poor bastard the River Street gang caught would count it lost once his people bought ‘im back, and he’d easily afford a nice new one when he got home safe, if he was rich enough to have a bag this nice. I scoped the lot, hiding a grin at my bargain; five quid would make Charley a happy lad and I’d fetch twenty for everything here, easily.
Then I pulled out a card and my blood ran cold. Charley just grinned, the idiot couldn’t read ‘is own name. But JOHN H. WATSON, M.D. screamed in my hand.
They couldn’t know it was ‘im, they’d a laid off ‘im like he was a hot iron if they knew - which meant the poor bastard was in no shape to tell ‘em hisself. If I told Charley, they might let ‘im go - or they might panic and kill ‘im to cover their tracks, as if that would work. And that would mean Himself coming down ‘ere like a bloody avenging angel, with a rope for everybody who’d nobbled ‘im - and one for me too, for touching this bag. If I left it alone and let them ransom, he’d find ‘em, and it’d just be prison for everyone - me too. If I went to Himself and told, that was the end of Frankie - I’d get me throat slit for peaching. What to do, what to do?
And then I knew.
I gave Charley his money and he scarpered.
I pulled out the tools and laid them out, and chose a little pair of scissors, must be for cutting bandages or stitches or some such, and put everything back in the bag. I took my knife up and made me shop-mark on the handle, like I was going to put the scissors on the shelf with the honest goods. But above me mark, I scratched two zigzags close together, one atop the other, then two straight lines as close, up and down: ~~ ~~ ∥
I wrapped up the scissors in brown paper and hollered for the boy. I told ‘im to drop it with the old lady on Baker what always had a scone for ‘im, and he was off like a shot.
My gut was in a fist, but I done what I could.
I never open me mouth, but this is a man what can make a watch or a bracelet peach.
And if the boy was stopped and asked, his parcel searched? A pair of scratched-up sewing scissors for an old lady too miserly to buy a new pair. But I’d stake everything in the shop, honest and otherwise, that Himself would take one look and know who they belonged to, and know what the marks meant. And that I’d been the one to tip him off.
***
Next day noon the boy was full of jabber. Seems around midnight Charley and his boss Jake and ten others in the River Street gang got pinched by the peelers right in their nest, and the poor battered sod they’d been holding was freed. Me heart was in me throat during the talk, but not one word of Himself being there. Then I almost fainted for relief when the boy laughed and said Jake took a swing at Charley while they was being arrested, shouting that ‘e must a blabbed while spending his dosh at the tavern, and that’s why they was caught.
A few weeks later, who should come into the shop but Himself. I greets ‘im like I never seen him before, same as always. ‘E says he’s looking for something in particular for a gentleman friend of his acquaintance, a get-well present so to speak as the poor fellow got sick something fierce a bit back and was just lifting his head again. Told ‘im I had just the thing for the gentleman, and brought up the Gladstone that didn’t have a single pawnbroker’s mark on it, nor the tools inside neither. Says I it might be missing an item or two; says ‘e it’ll do very well and ‘e understands what with business bein’ business and all, some things are bound to go missing, and to wrap it up as it’s a surprise. Business being business and all, I says it cost me five quid for the lot; Himself tucks the wrapped bag under one arm and reaches for his pocketbook, grumbling a bit about prices, and hands me the fiver and goes, and that’s it.
Then I puts away the roll of brown paper, and under it I find the twenty-quid note. And another twenty under that one. And another. And another. Five of ‘em altogether.
And on the bottom note there’s a mark in ink: X. His promise not to peach, neither.