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storypaint) wrote2014-11-06 07:52 pm
storypaint) wrote2014-11-06 07:52 pm
[A:TLA/Elementary] disguised by sobriety (Toph and Sherlock gen)
Title: disguised by sobriety
Fandom: A:TLA/Elementary
Length: 1117 words
Prompt: intoabar: Toph Bei Fong goes into a bar and meets... Sherlock Holmes (Elementary)!
Pairing: Toph and Sherlock gen
Other: Fusion fic: Toph in Sherlock's world.
Excerpt: "I'm older than I look," she says. "Do you want to play a game? First one's free."
She might be a little older than she looks, but she can't be twenty-one. Her build suggests later childhood, early puberty perhaps. She doesn't watch the cups as she moves them, which bothered him until he realized she was blind.
"No thanks," he says, adjusting his collar.
Sherlock Holmes does not like bars. Once upon a time they were a source of relief to him, a place where he could seek oblivion at the price of terrible beer. But now they are over-stimulating, full of people talking, fighting, preparing to have sex, possibly actually doing it in a bathroom somewhere. His eyes can't settle on any one person.
He should have told Joan he was coming here. He didn't, because she would have told him not to. He pushes his way through the crowd to the back of the bar and slides into a dirty booth.
A child is sitting there, or someone child-sized, and she has three Solo cups in front of her. Under one of those cups is a small ball. She doesn't look up when Sherlock sits down.
"I've heard that you might have some information for me," he says. The girl lifts a cup, flashes the ball at him, and then continues rearranging them. It is the simplest form of a cup game, but he knows it cannot be as simple as it looks. She is here in the bar and the staff are very carefully ignoring her. Not only that, but when she shifts in the booth he can hear the whisper of paper. She has been making some cash here, an appreciable amount, which is making her uncomfortable because she's stuffed it down her shirt.
"Information?" she says, playing innocence. His eyes follow the cups; he can't resist it. He wonders what she charges for one play. Sherlock is not a gambler. He prefers certainties, or he creates them. He doesn't want to play, exactly, so much as win.
He doesn't ask. Instead he says, "There was a domestic disturbance here around one last night, and this morning, one of those men was found dead. No one interviewed you about it because you're not technically a bar employee and shouldn't be here."
"I'm older than I look," she says. "Do you want to play a game? First one's free."
She might be a little older than she looks, but she can't be twenty-one. Her build suggests later childhood, early puberty perhaps. She doesn't watch the cups as she moves them, which bothered him until he realized she was blind.
"No thanks," he says, adjusting his collar.
"Why do you think I was here? Or paying attention? It's a big bar, lots of people fight in it," the girl says. She is still shifting the cups around, the dime sliding back and forth.
"Well," he says, lifting his eyebrow, "I was told you broke it up."
Teddy had been quite clear on that. He talked about Toph with some awe, which was hard to evoke in a cynical child like him. Sherlock had been intrigued.
She laughs. Her laugh is loud and brash and no one around them bothers to look at them. She offers a hand across the table. Her nails are dirty.
"I'm Toph Bei Fong," she says. "I was here last night, I may have yelled at some idiots, but I can't really give you a description of the guys. In case you haven't noticed." She lifts up her messy bangs and widens her eyes at him theatrically.
"Sherlock Holmes," he answers, taking her hand. She's probably given him a false name, but he doesn't demand real ones from his informants unless he can expect them to testify. He knows that if he says one word about visiting the police station she'll be gone. And that's even assuming the courts would consider the word of a blind street girl in their case, which they would not.
"Any details you can remember would be a help," he tells her. Her hands are on the cups and the ball again. She begins to slide them again, and this time he almost catches her sliding the ball off the table. He knows she has to do it at some point, but her hands are fast.
"They drank the cheapest stuff they have here. Lots of it. Got into a whisper-argument about one guy's sister. Started shoving each other. One was a lot taller than the other, heavier from the sounds of it. Stank like Axe cologne. He was wearing dress shoes, I remember thinking that was weird since I brushed him later and he wasn't wear a dress shirt."
Sherlock can follow the logic; a man in his work clothes might have more in his wallet. She can't live on taking money from people too stupid to understand a shell game. Again he wonders why the bartenders tolerate having her here. Maybe she cuts them in.
"I didn't get too close to the other guy. I think he was wearing boat shoes; he yelped pretty loudly when I accidentally stomped on his foot." She shrugs.
It's more than he expected and he tells her so. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two twenties, sliding them across the table. She takes them.
"Twenty," he says helpfully, and she scowls, although he isn't sure how she'd determine the denominations otherwise.
"If you're interested in something regular, I have an address on Baker Street. I often pay for information," he says, sliding back out of the booth.
"Please," she says, sarcastic. "I'm not looking for charity. I get along just fine."
He doesn't doubt it; this strange setup is proof enough. He turns to go.
"Italian for sure," Toph says, and he turns back to face her. "The short one. Maybe second generation but I doubt it."
"You're right," he tells her. This was the body that had been found this morning; he had been identified through police records. Italian male in his late thirties, Matteo Vito.
"Duh," she says. "I'm good. Now go away, you're scaring away my marks."
Sherlock leaves the bar without a drop of alcohol, the details Toph has shared with him swirling around his brain, searching for connections. He is so close to having something that it's mentally pushing at him. He walks off into the dark night, contemplating. By the time he arrives home, he has a theory.
"Watson!" he calls, unlocking the brownstone door and coming in. "Do we still have the business records?"
He doesn't realize until later, when Watson is paying for the Thai takeout, that Toph had lifted the rest of the cash in his pocket. He isn't even sure when she managed to do this. He doesn't mind too much -- a good informant is worth her weight in gold, and he's pretty sure that anyone who meets Toph has to play her game, and that game is rigged.
Next time, he's certain he'll come out ahead.
Fandom: A:TLA/Elementary
Length: 1117 words
Prompt: intoabar: Toph Bei Fong goes into a bar and meets... Sherlock Holmes (Elementary)!
Pairing: Toph and Sherlock gen
Other: Fusion fic: Toph in Sherlock's world.
Excerpt: "I'm older than I look," she says. "Do you want to play a game? First one's free."
She might be a little older than she looks, but she can't be twenty-one. Her build suggests later childhood, early puberty perhaps. She doesn't watch the cups as she moves them, which bothered him until he realized she was blind.
"No thanks," he says, adjusting his collar.
Sherlock Holmes does not like bars. Once upon a time they were a source of relief to him, a place where he could seek oblivion at the price of terrible beer. But now they are over-stimulating, full of people talking, fighting, preparing to have sex, possibly actually doing it in a bathroom somewhere. His eyes can't settle on any one person.
He should have told Joan he was coming here. He didn't, because she would have told him not to. He pushes his way through the crowd to the back of the bar and slides into a dirty booth.
A child is sitting there, or someone child-sized, and she has three Solo cups in front of her. Under one of those cups is a small ball. She doesn't look up when Sherlock sits down.
"I've heard that you might have some information for me," he says. The girl lifts a cup, flashes the ball at him, and then continues rearranging them. It is the simplest form of a cup game, but he knows it cannot be as simple as it looks. She is here in the bar and the staff are very carefully ignoring her. Not only that, but when she shifts in the booth he can hear the whisper of paper. She has been making some cash here, an appreciable amount, which is making her uncomfortable because she's stuffed it down her shirt.
"Information?" she says, playing innocence. His eyes follow the cups; he can't resist it. He wonders what she charges for one play. Sherlock is not a gambler. He prefers certainties, or he creates them. He doesn't want to play, exactly, so much as win.
He doesn't ask. Instead he says, "There was a domestic disturbance here around one last night, and this morning, one of those men was found dead. No one interviewed you about it because you're not technically a bar employee and shouldn't be here."
"I'm older than I look," she says. "Do you want to play a game? First one's free."
She might be a little older than she looks, but she can't be twenty-one. Her build suggests later childhood, early puberty perhaps. She doesn't watch the cups as she moves them, which bothered him until he realized she was blind.
"No thanks," he says, adjusting his collar.
"Why do you think I was here? Or paying attention? It's a big bar, lots of people fight in it," the girl says. She is still shifting the cups around, the dime sliding back and forth.
"Well," he says, lifting his eyebrow, "I was told you broke it up."
Teddy had been quite clear on that. He talked about Toph with some awe, which was hard to evoke in a cynical child like him. Sherlock had been intrigued.
She laughs. Her laugh is loud and brash and no one around them bothers to look at them. She offers a hand across the table. Her nails are dirty.
"I'm Toph Bei Fong," she says. "I was here last night, I may have yelled at some idiots, but I can't really give you a description of the guys. In case you haven't noticed." She lifts up her messy bangs and widens her eyes at him theatrically.
"Sherlock Holmes," he answers, taking her hand. She's probably given him a false name, but he doesn't demand real ones from his informants unless he can expect them to testify. He knows that if he says one word about visiting the police station she'll be gone. And that's even assuming the courts would consider the word of a blind street girl in their case, which they would not.
"Any details you can remember would be a help," he tells her. Her hands are on the cups and the ball again. She begins to slide them again, and this time he almost catches her sliding the ball off the table. He knows she has to do it at some point, but her hands are fast.
"They drank the cheapest stuff they have here. Lots of it. Got into a whisper-argument about one guy's sister. Started shoving each other. One was a lot taller than the other, heavier from the sounds of it. Stank like Axe cologne. He was wearing dress shoes, I remember thinking that was weird since I brushed him later and he wasn't wear a dress shirt."
Sherlock can follow the logic; a man in his work clothes might have more in his wallet. She can't live on taking money from people too stupid to understand a shell game. Again he wonders why the bartenders tolerate having her here. Maybe she cuts them in.
"I didn't get too close to the other guy. I think he was wearing boat shoes; he yelped pretty loudly when I accidentally stomped on his foot." She shrugs.
It's more than he expected and he tells her so. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two twenties, sliding them across the table. She takes them.
"Twenty," he says helpfully, and she scowls, although he isn't sure how she'd determine the denominations otherwise.
"If you're interested in something regular, I have an address on Baker Street. I often pay for information," he says, sliding back out of the booth.
"Please," she says, sarcastic. "I'm not looking for charity. I get along just fine."
He doesn't doubt it; this strange setup is proof enough. He turns to go.
"Italian for sure," Toph says, and he turns back to face her. "The short one. Maybe second generation but I doubt it."
"You're right," he tells her. This was the body that had been found this morning; he had been identified through police records. Italian male in his late thirties, Matteo Vito.
"Duh," she says. "I'm good. Now go away, you're scaring away my marks."
Sherlock leaves the bar without a drop of alcohol, the details Toph has shared with him swirling around his brain, searching for connections. He is so close to having something that it's mentally pushing at him. He walks off into the dark night, contemplating. By the time he arrives home, he has a theory.
"Watson!" he calls, unlocking the brownstone door and coming in. "Do we still have the business records?"
He doesn't realize until later, when Watson is paying for the Thai takeout, that Toph had lifted the rest of the cash in his pocket. He isn't even sure when she managed to do this. He doesn't mind too much -- a good informant is worth her weight in gold, and he's pretty sure that anyone who meets Toph has to play her game, and that game is rigged.
Next time, he's certain he'll come out ahead.