"Her two men"
.
Title: Her two men.
Warning: my grasp of the British dialects (even RP) is scattershot on a good day; this story has not been checked for Americanisms, though I tried to keep them to a minimum.
Summary: Anthea’s getting married. Watson’s and Holmes’ thoughts on the matter.
Written for: special_schizo
Rating: PG-13
Note: I’m sorry…Watson and Anthea kept flirting through the whole fic - I tried to get them to behave, but…
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this story. This is unrelated to my other entry for this Sherlockmas community.
Notes: I was researching this story…and this article on Watson’s wives shocked me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
J.WATSON -
I’ll admit I was reluctant in the beginning to even the idea of these lunches. But that was more an understandable reluctance to get into featureless vehicles -- sent by Her Majesty’s Government or not -- without knowing why my attendance was vital.
But then I realized I was being irrational. It wasn’t Sherlock or Moriarty who wanted to eat with me. Wasn’t even the other Holmes or Lestrade or Donovan.
I like Anthea.
Not her real name, I know. Doesn’t matter. Its almost a private joke between us now.
Lunches with her are quiet and companionable. And if we say five words in as many minutes, we’re being chatty. I don’t ask about where she’s from or why she works for a Holmes, and she gives me the same courtesy - though she no doubt already knows. So there’s a bit of a disparity, but she doesn’t have an attitude of superiority. I like that. I like her. She’s nice to be around. A great friend.
I could pour out my heart to her, and Anthea would look at me with those wise eyes and
But I won’t do that to her, just like she wouldn’t do that to me. Not that I wouldn’t listen, because I would. And then I’d do everything I can to help.
For one thing, I’m not blind to how his brother looks at you - and much as I like Sherlock, I’d have no trouble giving his brother an alibi.
Were circumstances different, I probably would have asked her if she would like to go out with me. But I haven’t.
“John,” she says. I look up from my sandwich. “I am getting married.”
I not be a Holmes, but I’m not so unobservant that I would miss an engagement ring. And she doesn’t have one. Or she isn’t wearing one.
“Congratulations,” I say.
“You know him,” Anthea tells me.
Please don’t say Sherlock.
“He’s a lucky man,” I say. Smart as she is, Anthea wouldn’t play word games with me, watching me run down blind alleys of assumtion based on clues in the pronouns employed - Anthea’s not my sister. For which I am eternally thankful.
“Luck?” Anthea asks me, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s teasing me.
“Oh absolutely. You’re a brilliant woman with an incredible mind.” And her smile shifts from one of humour to kind appreciation.
“Thank you, John,” she says. “I should have mentioned earlier, you were placed on the guest list early on.”
“Plus one?” I ask.
“Plus n.”
Any number. Okay. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That you will come.”
“That goes without saying,” I tell her.
“Not in my line of work,” Anthea says.
I want to apologize, but what comes out of my mouth is, “Which is?”
“Is or was?” she replies.
“Either.”
“Yes.”
“You said yes?”
“That’s why I’m getting married.”
There are so many ways that conversation could be misinterpreted. “So long as you’re happy,” I say.
“Good John. One of the few.”
That clarifies things, actually. There’s rather little in the way of things which I’m one of a handful who know something…about anything, some would say. One of them is her name, confided to me from her own lips.
Irene Adler.
But I still call her Anthea. She seems to like it.
She stands up, and, hand on the table, says to me, “Oh, and John.”
“Yes?”
“Harry will be in attendance.”
Oh bloody hell. “You shouldn’t have,” I say.
Turning and leaving, Anthea adds, “And yet did.”
~~~
M.HOLMES -
Irene has gone to inform my brother’s employee that he is invited to the wedding.
I should be jealous. I should be uncertain and uneasy. John Watson and my affianced enjoy one another’s company and both are well at ease in the presence of one another. Any man would count himself justified in being suspicious of their affairs, John Watson included.
It is not that I am trustful. It is that I know both individuals minutely. There is a difference.
She is Irene Adler. Watson and I are in full agreement as to how intelligent she is. For a time, I wondered if Sherlock would pursue the half-report half-rumors that are all which trail behind her; his loss that he did not, yet I suspect part of Sherlock’s recent attitude towards me pertains to my relationship with Miss Adler.
She was my employee.
For a time.
As fan boys and the religiously-minded are wont to say, to all things there is a season, and all things end. Sometimes in fire.
She of the blazing intellect. Had she been so inclined, she could have destroyed Moriarty. Could have brought us all to our knees.
We should be thankful she has no desire to dominate anyone. Or to acquire power or political connections or wealth.
And yet she agreed to marry me. A man with far more than a passing aquataince with all of the above. I also have a great deal of love for her…yet I have no clue why Irene has agreed to marry me.
And now she is informing Mr. Watson of that fact. The fact of the marriage, though perhaps he will be privy to the why of it.
When Irene first met Watson was a full day and a half after I persuaded her to come and work for me. On the day of their meeting, she had applied nail polish to her right index finger. Made no explanation nor provided one. While I am not the social failure my brother is, I could not grasp the meaning of it.
It took me a full week to ascertain the actual reason behind it. A gang of enemies she had made over the course of years, attempted to end her with great finality; to no avail. Irene terminated every one of them, emerging from the ruckus winded and with only one bruise on her person. On that finger. So she applied polish to it.
Describing her does make her sound slightly Mary Sue-ish, I realize. Perhaps my vision is ever-so-slightly rose-tinted in her direction.
Between Sherlock, John, Irene, and my job…
Let MI-5 have their tv series. My life is quite enough for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The end
Title: Her two men.
Warning: my grasp of the British dialects (even RP) is scattershot on a good day; this story has not been checked for Americanisms, though I tried to keep them to a minimum.
Summary: Anthea’s getting married. Watson’s and Holmes’ thoughts on the matter.
Written for: special_schizo
Rating: PG-13
Note: I’m sorry…Watson and Anthea kept flirting through the whole fic - I tried to get them to behave, but…
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this story. This is unrelated to my other entry for this Sherlockmas community.
Notes: I was researching this story…and this article on Watson’s wives shocked me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
J.WATSON -
I’ll admit I was reluctant in the beginning to even the idea of these lunches. But that was more an understandable reluctance to get into featureless vehicles -- sent by Her Majesty’s Government or not -- without knowing why my attendance was vital.
But then I realized I was being irrational. It wasn’t Sherlock or Moriarty who wanted to eat with me. Wasn’t even the other Holmes or Lestrade or Donovan.
I like Anthea.
Not her real name, I know. Doesn’t matter. Its almost a private joke between us now.
Lunches with her are quiet and companionable. And if we say five words in as many minutes, we’re being chatty. I don’t ask about where she’s from or why she works for a Holmes, and she gives me the same courtesy - though she no doubt already knows. So there’s a bit of a disparity, but she doesn’t have an attitude of superiority. I like that. I like her. She’s nice to be around. A great friend.
I could pour out my heart to her, and Anthea would look at me with those wise eyes and
But I won’t do that to her, just like she wouldn’t do that to me. Not that I wouldn’t listen, because I would. And then I’d do everything I can to help.
For one thing, I’m not blind to how his brother looks at you - and much as I like Sherlock, I’d have no trouble giving his brother an alibi.
Were circumstances different, I probably would have asked her if she would like to go out with me. But I haven’t.
“John,” she says. I look up from my sandwich. “I am getting married.”
I not be a Holmes, but I’m not so unobservant that I would miss an engagement ring. And she doesn’t have one. Or she isn’t wearing one.
“Congratulations,” I say.
“You know him,” Anthea tells me.
Please don’t say Sherlock.
“He’s a lucky man,” I say. Smart as she is, Anthea wouldn’t play word games with me, watching me run down blind alleys of assumtion based on clues in the pronouns employed - Anthea’s not my sister. For which I am eternally thankful.
“Luck?” Anthea asks me, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s teasing me.
“Oh absolutely. You’re a brilliant woman with an incredible mind.” And her smile shifts from one of humour to kind appreciation.
“Thank you, John,” she says. “I should have mentioned earlier, you were placed on the guest list early on.”
“Plus one?” I ask.
“Plus n.”
Any number. Okay. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That you will come.”
“That goes without saying,” I tell her.
“Not in my line of work,” Anthea says.
I want to apologize, but what comes out of my mouth is, “Which is?”
“Is or was?” she replies.
“Either.”
“Yes.”
“You said yes?”
“That’s why I’m getting married.”
There are so many ways that conversation could be misinterpreted. “So long as you’re happy,” I say.
“Good John. One of the few.”
That clarifies things, actually. There’s rather little in the way of things which I’m one of a handful who know something…about anything, some would say. One of them is her name, confided to me from her own lips.
Irene Adler.
But I still call her Anthea. She seems to like it.
She stands up, and, hand on the table, says to me, “Oh, and John.”
“Yes?”
“Harry will be in attendance.”
Oh bloody hell. “You shouldn’t have,” I say.
Turning and leaving, Anthea adds, “And yet did.”
~~~
M.HOLMES -
Irene has gone to inform my brother’s employee that he is invited to the wedding.
I should be jealous. I should be uncertain and uneasy. John Watson and my affianced enjoy one another’s company and both are well at ease in the presence of one another. Any man would count himself justified in being suspicious of their affairs, John Watson included.
It is not that I am trustful. It is that I know both individuals minutely. There is a difference.
She is Irene Adler. Watson and I are in full agreement as to how intelligent she is. For a time, I wondered if Sherlock would pursue the half-report half-rumors that are all which trail behind her; his loss that he did not, yet I suspect part of Sherlock’s recent attitude towards me pertains to my relationship with Miss Adler.
She was my employee.
For a time.
As fan boys and the religiously-minded are wont to say, to all things there is a season, and all things end. Sometimes in fire.
She of the blazing intellect. Had she been so inclined, she could have destroyed Moriarty. Could have brought us all to our knees.
We should be thankful she has no desire to dominate anyone. Or to acquire power or political connections or wealth.
And yet she agreed to marry me. A man with far more than a passing aquataince with all of the above. I also have a great deal of love for her…yet I have no clue why Irene has agreed to marry me.
And now she is informing Mr. Watson of that fact. The fact of the marriage, though perhaps he will be privy to the why of it.
When Irene first met Watson was a full day and a half after I persuaded her to come and work for me. On the day of their meeting, she had applied nail polish to her right index finger. Made no explanation nor provided one. While I am not the social failure my brother is, I could not grasp the meaning of it.
It took me a full week to ascertain the actual reason behind it. A gang of enemies she had made over the course of years, attempted to end her with great finality; to no avail. Irene terminated every one of them, emerging from the ruckus winded and with only one bruise on her person. On that finger. So she applied polish to it.
Describing her does make her sound slightly Mary Sue-ish, I realize. Perhaps my vision is ever-so-slightly rose-tinted in her direction.
Between Sherlock, John, Irene, and my job…
Let MI-5 have their tv series. My life is quite enough for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The end