storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2015-02-16 09:32 am
storypaint) wrote2015-02-16 09:32 am
[Sherlock Holmes] all the pith is in the postscript (Sherlock/Watson)
Title: all the pith is in the postscript
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Length: 676 words
Prompt: fic_promptly: Author's choice, any, foreign correspondence
Pairing: Sherlock/Watson
Other: n/a
Excerpt: "Your wife has been communicating with that woman," he told me. "There is an entire life history there that I am nearly certain is false. I have kept track of her whenever possible and she has no children and certainly no little home in Italy."
Although I was well known for my habit of putting pen to paper, it must be said that it was the wives who kept up the most correspondence in the family. Even in the kind of marriage that I had, that of true and abiding friendship rather than passion, this was true. When patients sent me cards or thank-you letters, Mary often took it upon herself to respond with heartfelt correspondences that made her fast friends with nearly everyone who had ever taken to a sickbed in my presence.
I hadn't realized that the same was true for Sherlock Holmes's stranger friends until he called me into the sitting room one day and gave me a packet of letters with one of his dark and knowing looks.
"Your wife has been communicating with that woman," he told me. "There is an entire life history there that I am nearly certain is false. I have kept track of her whenever possible and she has no children and certainly no little home in Italy."
I was for a moment startled, and perhaps a little jealous, I will admit now in the privacy of this writing. I had no idea that he had kept track of Irene Adler, whom we had last met over ten years ago, and closely enough to know where she might be living. He seemed to have read it on my face and frowned impatiently.
"If she ever were to emerge onto the stage again I would need to know," he said. "No more than that. At least, that's what I thought until I found that your wife was her bosom friend."
"I think you're exaggerating, Holmes," I told him. He gestured at the letters still in my hand and walked a tight circle of frustration on the carpet. I pulled out the first and began to skim it.
It seemed like quite standard reading to me -- and how he had gotten it, I certainly wondered -- stories of daily life, relatives, illnesses, small updates. It was signed by Mary at the bottom. The next was much the same.
"They seem normal to me," I said, looking up at him.
"Every one has an update on us," Sherlock said, gliding across the room to pick up his violin, and then setting it back down. "She is keeping track of me!"
That made me laugh, and the spark of jealousy I had felt earlier completely withered. Sherlock Holmes simply couldn't stand someone as smart as he was unless they were related to him.
"Consider it a professional courtesy," I suggested. I put the rest of the letters on the mantel. He was sputtering and clearly in need of a distraction, so I set myself to it.
A few hours later, satisfied, he consented to let me have the letters, but requested that I ask Mary how she originally came to correspond with our former client. I agreed, and made myself go out into the winter cold alone, much as I disliked the idea.
As it turned out, it had been Mary who had reached out to Mrs. Godfrey Norton. After hearing her story from me, she had been intrigued and done a bit of detective work herself. She'd started with a Christmas card that first year, and Irene had written back without a hesitation.
"And I always let her know how you two are doing," she told me, "since this was the excuse for our friendship. Not like that, my dear. She receives the same careful reports as the rest of our friends."
If anyone were smart enough to know the true nature of Holmes's and my relationship from a few short lines, it would be Irene Adler, but as she chose to keep this truth to herself, it seemed only fair to extend her a similar courtesy of not exposing her own deceptions. So their pen friendship continued, unabated, and I tried to resist teasing Sherlock about the woman who got away.
It wasn't too hard, given that I was the one who stayed.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Length: 676 words
Prompt: fic_promptly: Author's choice, any, foreign correspondence
Pairing: Sherlock/Watson
Other: n/a
Excerpt: "Your wife has been communicating with that woman," he told me. "There is an entire life history there that I am nearly certain is false. I have kept track of her whenever possible and she has no children and certainly no little home in Italy."
Although I was well known for my habit of putting pen to paper, it must be said that it was the wives who kept up the most correspondence in the family. Even in the kind of marriage that I had, that of true and abiding friendship rather than passion, this was true. When patients sent me cards or thank-you letters, Mary often took it upon herself to respond with heartfelt correspondences that made her fast friends with nearly everyone who had ever taken to a sickbed in my presence.
I hadn't realized that the same was true for Sherlock Holmes's stranger friends until he called me into the sitting room one day and gave me a packet of letters with one of his dark and knowing looks.
"Your wife has been communicating with that woman," he told me. "There is an entire life history there that I am nearly certain is false. I have kept track of her whenever possible and she has no children and certainly no little home in Italy."
I was for a moment startled, and perhaps a little jealous, I will admit now in the privacy of this writing. I had no idea that he had kept track of Irene Adler, whom we had last met over ten years ago, and closely enough to know where she might be living. He seemed to have read it on my face and frowned impatiently.
"If she ever were to emerge onto the stage again I would need to know," he said. "No more than that. At least, that's what I thought until I found that your wife was her bosom friend."
"I think you're exaggerating, Holmes," I told him. He gestured at the letters still in my hand and walked a tight circle of frustration on the carpet. I pulled out the first and began to skim it.
It seemed like quite standard reading to me -- and how he had gotten it, I certainly wondered -- stories of daily life, relatives, illnesses, small updates. It was signed by Mary at the bottom. The next was much the same.
"They seem normal to me," I said, looking up at him.
"Every one has an update on us," Sherlock said, gliding across the room to pick up his violin, and then setting it back down. "She is keeping track of me!"
That made me laugh, and the spark of jealousy I had felt earlier completely withered. Sherlock Holmes simply couldn't stand someone as smart as he was unless they were related to him.
"Consider it a professional courtesy," I suggested. I put the rest of the letters on the mantel. He was sputtering and clearly in need of a distraction, so I set myself to it.
A few hours later, satisfied, he consented to let me have the letters, but requested that I ask Mary how she originally came to correspond with our former client. I agreed, and made myself go out into the winter cold alone, much as I disliked the idea.
As it turned out, it had been Mary who had reached out to Mrs. Godfrey Norton. After hearing her story from me, she had been intrigued and done a bit of detective work herself. She'd started with a Christmas card that first year, and Irene had written back without a hesitation.
"And I always let her know how you two are doing," she told me, "since this was the excuse for our friendship. Not like that, my dear. She receives the same careful reports as the rest of our friends."
If anyone were smart enough to know the true nature of Holmes's and my relationship from a few short lines, it would be Irene Adler, but as she chose to keep this truth to herself, it seemed only fair to extend her a similar courtesy of not exposing her own deceptions. So their pen friendship continued, unabated, and I tried to resist teasing Sherlock about the woman who got away.
It wasn't too hard, given that I was the one who stayed.