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OMG Unfinished and Unedited Sherley and John Fic |
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This was quite another case, but simple enough to solve. No pressure. It was simply just all the other cases, though he, Sherlock Holmes, has not chosen to solve this one for nothing. This was so fabulously unique and one of a kind. At least, as far as he has observed, and as we all know, he has observed many a thing. He was nearly finished with it. Nearly. He just needed to see this through. The great detective nodded at Wiggins, sitting back in his chair, with his elbows on the arms, fingers interlaced, hands set upon his chin conveniently. The little boy went out with a happy face, pocketing the money which he and his friends had much deserved. He wanted to treat the boys for their hard work. Dark, twinkling orbs then looked at Athelney Jones after the door was closed. “The sister was just so driven with anger, and therefore had killed the man seconds before her brother had gotten there, and in a flurry, had killed her brother herself. She had time to cry over him, for she loved her brother so dearly, hence the mix of water and salt on his corpse. It was nowhere near your suspicions of him having a sore throat.” The Scotland Yard detective had flushed in embarrassment at this. “But she recovered, and realizing her mistakes, she quickly made arrangements, and was on her way to America to escape her crimes before anybody had suspected it. She hid the evidence quite well, and is definitely an actress. She almost got me, what with placing a glass beside her brother, making it look like he was washing his throat as he came in the scene. She even made a solution of salt and water to cover her crying and splashed it around his body, and put some in his mouth. And, placed the gun she had used to kill both of them in his other hand, so that it would seem that he had killed the first corpse, then committed suicide, as you had predicted.” He cleared his throat as he flourished his pipe and lighted it. He remembers the late Irene Adler; both women so fast, resolute, and cunning, although this one had rather monstrous features compared to the woman. “Had my boys not informed you – or your guards, whomever –, she would’ve escaped completely. I trust she is secured now?” Jones nodded, taking off his hat and keeping it in his hands as he sat down on the couch. “However, I wonder why you were not there yourself; did you have something other than this case?” Holmes coughed, puffs of smoke coming out of his mouth. He feared Jones would ask that. “It’s rather unfortunate, really. I had wanted to go there, but my previous encounter with the miss has left me very wounded. She had her paid… servants.” He nearly hissed the last word. Jones’ eyes flickered down to Holmes’ knee, which was obviously badly injured. It was covered in bandages, while the pant of his leg was folded up to his knee. His leg was raised and put on another chair. “Is it from yesterday?” inquired he, curiosity in his orbs as he looked up to the brunette. “Yes. Where else, no?” answered Holmes. Of course, this was just an act. Yes, her men were huge brutes, but honestly, their moves were predictable. He could practically hear them thinking. So these bandages were definitely not the work of her prize-fighters that were to escort her everywhere she went to secure her arrangements. He just needed a cover. Jones had tried to not huff proudly at the fact that Holmes was injured, but it proved to be too much for him. “Well, the best of us get hurt, too.” Then he stood up and put his hat on, and around him there was an air of satisfaction. “I best be on my way; the boys in Scotland Yard and the press are waiting. This was the most notorious crime committed this year. A sister who shot her brother, and from a respected family at that! The press is raving about it. I hope you can attend the court trial, for your testimony will be of such help. You had also better get your knee healed.” And with that, the door was closed. Yes, yes. A cover from what, for what? What was so important that he had not gone to capture the suspect himself? Not for ‘what’, no. ‘Who’ is the more right term. Then, for who? Well, it was none other than the Doctor. He thought he was to come anytime soon now; his brother Mycroft had wired him telling him that he was sure that Watson was to be having his first baby with Mary. Knowing Watson, he would either send a telegraph or come here himself. He was hoping for the latter, but as time eagerly passed, that was getting more and more impossible, and he was now expecting the former. … Agh! What was he doing making theories anyway? Holmes tore the bandages from his knee with frustration, and then stood up to walk to his window, pipe in between his lips. It was the usual bustling street he viewed on any other afternoon. There was Athelney’s cabby driving away. Nothing unusual. Not even a single, heinous, hand-knitted scarf of a wife poking out of the dark colors. Brilliant. However, the telltale steps of a man with one knee truly injured made his way up to the stairs, he heard, and the knocking of the door with not a hand, but with a cane. A smile made its way to Holmes’ formerly sardonic face. He discovered again that he overanalysed too much when it came to his dear friend, and then some. “Holmes?” The muffled voice of John Watson rang in his ears, and it was one of the most glorious melodies he had not heard in such a long time. It was spring when he last visited, and it is nearing winter now. Oh, how marriage sucked everything from his dear Watson, and all it gave him was unnecessary weight, and perhaps a baby, which will suck more of his remaining vitality from him. It was not long before Watson would grow pompous. When the door opened, however, it seemed that Watson had even lost weight from the last time that he had seen him. Holmes, took his pipe from his mouth, and let smoke out from it, as he examined Watson. “You look exhausted, and it seems to me that you have lost ten pounds and a half.” observed he, concerned eyes looking over his friend. “And you have still not gotten rid of Mary Jane. I swear that she makes you look worse than you should.” Blue orbs moved towards the figure near the window and wearily looked back. He closed the door behind him, and sat himself down on the couch, exhaling tiredly. “I haven’t slept well for the past few months, that’s all. And I’ll take that ten pounds comment as a compliment. As for Mary Jane, my wife is giving her too many second chances. The girl is an actress!” Holmes, as Watson was assuring him he was alright, detected a slight nervousness in his body language. His friend was doing well in hiding it, though. He wondered what was in the mind of this man. “It’s perhaps because of the fact the little Watson is coming on over in five months.” There was a little twitch on his lips, indicating a smile, and a knowing twinkle came over his weary eyes. “And so you’ve heard of him. Word indeed gets around fast.” He sat back in the couch, and sighed again, satisfied that the usual softness was familiar on his back. Then he inhaled the aromas of the room, which were mainly coffee, tobacco, and cocaine leaves. As usual. “We’re expecting him in late March. Mrs. Hudson has told you?” Holmes shook his head, walking over to his armchair. “Mycroft has informed me. And it hurts me that my brother and even Mrs. Nanny had known this news before me.” He sat down, face genuinely pained, which he hid by grabbing the newspaper roll from the desk near them, which he had not yet read. It was delivered this morning, and on the front page, big, bold letters were printed, proclaiming: ‘MORNE FAMILY ISSUE ENDED: THE SISTER GUILTY’ “Your brother; I do not even know that your brother knows.” He sighed for the third time, and this time it told that he was exasperated. “I told Mary not to tell anyone anymore. I was assured by Mrs. Hudson that she will not tell you of this, but this just proves Mary is very excited, despite her morning sicknesses, which sometimes grow into afternoon sicknesses and then night sicknesses, and varying moods.” He paused, and Holmes opened the newspaper to read more of the story. Again, it was Athelney Jones who was given more of the credit. He could not find his own name anywhere. “I do hope you’re listening when I say this, because I’m certainly not going to repeat it again. I wanted to tell you myself.” Sherlock did not move his hands to fold the newspaper to be able to look at his friend, but he found it hard to read anymore words. “Do tell me more.” ‘Do convince me that I am not supposed to be waiting for an apology.’ He thought in his own mind, which was in shambles. Time and again, he finds himself overanalysing everything when it came to this man. He was sure that Watson had not put that stress on the last word because he wanted to; it was natural to an earnest man like him. He was also sure that it was also natural that Watson would apologize because he was a man of morals, not because Holmes was someone whom he was supposed to apologize to because he was someone he held so important, someone as important as his wife, someone even more important. He was also very, very, very sure that Watson was not anxious because he was going to tell him that he loved him more than he did his wife, which he did not really love at all, someone who struck him as beautiful and amiable, but only served as a social cover for he was gay for Sherlock Holmes, his long-time friend. But, no matter how sure he could be, he still wanted those to be true. At that moment, the detective pitied himself for falling in love with his friend. They would never happen. Holmes heard Watson inhale deeply, as if he was getting ready to tell him something huge, or long. “I’m sorry, Holmes, that you were the last to know of this. I wanted to go here earlier to deliver the news in person –” He coughed for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “But the missus’s health and mood swings had inconvenienced me. When I tell her that I will go to you tomorrow the night before I plan to make a visit, she’s all fine and dandy. Then when I get ready next morning, she screams at me then cries that I was going to leave her for another man, namely, you.” He chuckled a little bit, and fumbled with his cane. “
just call me butt · Sun May 13, 2012 @ 06:20am · 0 Comments |
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