![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanThe new Sherlock Holmes trailer has inspired some truly cracky fics, to which I now add my mite, inspired by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
janeturenne and Jude Law in that uniform thingie (see icon). Slashy, for them that minds... Silly, too.
Per Suit
The brown suit disappears out of the wardrobe on Tuesday, and when it turns up again, it is ensconced in Mrs. Hudson's mending basket where it will stay until she can find matches for the one remaining button.
The tweed he wears only in the country, so Holmes cannot understand why he might object to its being put to use for a disguise on Wednesday -- and Holmes's 'Scottish' accent is so outrageous that he cannot do much more than laugh in any case, despite the unexpected dunk in the Thames that sends both the tweed and his favorite blue suit down to await Monday and the laundry tub.
The white linen suit is hardly appropriate for the time of the year, and chances are on Thursday he wouldn't have noticed its absence if it weren't that the wardrobe has become distinctly less crowded. He doesn't know when it was borrowed, and while he cares, he can't very well raise a fuss with a client waiting in the sitting room and train tickets burning a hole in his tan suit pocket.
"Perhaps if I soak it in lemon water," Mrs. Hudson says mournfully of the tan suit Friday evening, when they crawl back in looking the worse for wear. It is some consolation that Holmes's suit has an even more outrageous pattern of stains of dubious origin. But only some.
The gray morning coat disappears that night. With the matching trousers.
Saturday morning finds John H. Watson fresh from his ablutions, standing in front of his mysteriously depleted wardrobe barefooted and bareheaded, with the mouse-colored dressing gown (which is too small for him but was the only one hanging in the bathroom) wrapped around his sodden form, wondering why the hell Sherlock Holmes has 'borrowed' his second to last clean shirt.
"I needed something respectable to wear," Holmes says, when asked, reaching past Watson for the formal black tailcoat and matching trousers hanging there. "Mycroft wants us both at the Diogenes for luncheon and from there we're to go on to discuss a matter with the Prime Minister."
"What happened to your ...." Watson begins, and then says, "oh," and blushes, because he knows perfectly well what happened to Holmes's formal outfit. "You'd think Mrs. Hudson would have mended those tears by now," he mutters.
"It isn't so much the mending," Holmes says with a sudden reminiscent smile. "But Mrs. Hudson is having considerable difficulty with the grass stains."
"Who'd know they'd show on black?" Watson defends himself. "And you're the one who thought under those rose bushes would be a good place to..."
"Speaking of Mrs. Hudson," Holmes interrupts quickly. "I hear her coming with our breakfast. You'd best get dressed, old fellow."
"In what? The only thing you've left me are knee britches and my formal uniform. Your brother isn't going to want to go fishing or golfing, and I can hardly parade around London in uniform."
"Oh, I don't think London will mind," Holmes says cheerfully, and heads out to the sitting room.
"I don't even know if I can still wear it after all this time!" Watson shouts after him, but there's no hope for it. He dresses quickly and follows his fellow-lodger, only to find himself pinned under the twin gazes of Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. "What?" he says, adjusting the black sleeves and looking himself over for torn barding or bits of fluff. "Doesn't it fit right?"
"Oh, yes..." Holmes says, his eyes dark with appreciation.
Mrs. Hudson sighs blissfully. "I do love a man in uniform."
Watson, appeased, and pinking up a bit at the praise, says gruffly, "Just as well. If it weren't for those knee britches and this uniform I'd have to spend tomorrow and the next day naked while I wait for the laundry to be done."
While he settles down to his kippers and eggs, Holmes escorts Mrs. Hudson over to the door. "Try not to do anything too desperate to that uniform," she whispers to the detective. "I've enough laundry conundrums for one week, and if you ruin it we'll never get him into it again."
"I'll take very good care of the uniform, whether he's in it or not," Holmes promises, drawing a fiver out of his pocket and tucking it into hers. "You just dispose of those knee britches. Today!"
janeturenne and Jude Law in that uniform thingie (see icon). Slashy, for them that minds... Silly, too.Per Suit
The brown suit disappears out of the wardrobe on Tuesday, and when it turns up again, it is ensconced in Mrs. Hudson's mending basket where it will stay until she can find matches for the one remaining button.
The tweed he wears only in the country, so Holmes cannot understand why he might object to its being put to use for a disguise on Wednesday -- and Holmes's 'Scottish' accent is so outrageous that he cannot do much more than laugh in any case, despite the unexpected dunk in the Thames that sends both the tweed and his favorite blue suit down to await Monday and the laundry tub.
The white linen suit is hardly appropriate for the time of the year, and chances are on Thursday he wouldn't have noticed its absence if it weren't that the wardrobe has become distinctly less crowded. He doesn't know when it was borrowed, and while he cares, he can't very well raise a fuss with a client waiting in the sitting room and train tickets burning a hole in his tan suit pocket.
"Perhaps if I soak it in lemon water," Mrs. Hudson says mournfully of the tan suit Friday evening, when they crawl back in looking the worse for wear. It is some consolation that Holmes's suit has an even more outrageous pattern of stains of dubious origin. But only some.
The gray morning coat disappears that night. With the matching trousers.
Saturday morning finds John H. Watson fresh from his ablutions, standing in front of his mysteriously depleted wardrobe barefooted and bareheaded, with the mouse-colored dressing gown (which is too small for him but was the only one hanging in the bathroom) wrapped around his sodden form, wondering why the hell Sherlock Holmes has 'borrowed' his second to last clean shirt.
"I needed something respectable to wear," Holmes says, when asked, reaching past Watson for the formal black tailcoat and matching trousers hanging there. "Mycroft wants us both at the Diogenes for luncheon and from there we're to go on to discuss a matter with the Prime Minister."
"What happened to your ...." Watson begins, and then says, "oh," and blushes, because he knows perfectly well what happened to Holmes's formal outfit. "You'd think Mrs. Hudson would have mended those tears by now," he mutters.
"It isn't so much the mending," Holmes says with a sudden reminiscent smile. "But Mrs. Hudson is having considerable difficulty with the grass stains."
"Who'd know they'd show on black?" Watson defends himself. "And you're the one who thought under those rose bushes would be a good place to..."
"Speaking of Mrs. Hudson," Holmes interrupts quickly. "I hear her coming with our breakfast. You'd best get dressed, old fellow."
"In what? The only thing you've left me are knee britches and my formal uniform. Your brother isn't going to want to go fishing or golfing, and I can hardly parade around London in uniform."
"Oh, I don't think London will mind," Holmes says cheerfully, and heads out to the sitting room.
"I don't even know if I can still wear it after all this time!" Watson shouts after him, but there's no hope for it. He dresses quickly and follows his fellow-lodger, only to find himself pinned under the twin gazes of Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. "What?" he says, adjusting the black sleeves and looking himself over for torn barding or bits of fluff. "Doesn't it fit right?"
"Oh, yes..." Holmes says, his eyes dark with appreciation.
Mrs. Hudson sighs blissfully. "I do love a man in uniform."
Watson, appeased, and pinking up a bit at the praise, says gruffly, "Just as well. If it weren't for those knee britches and this uniform I'd have to spend tomorrow and the next day naked while I wait for the laundry to be done."
While he settles down to his kippers and eggs, Holmes escorts Mrs. Hudson over to the door. "Try not to do anything too desperate to that uniform," she whispers to the detective. "I've enough laundry conundrums for one week, and if you ruin it we'll never get him into it again."
"I'll take very good care of the uniform, whether he's in it or not," Holmes promises, drawing a fiver out of his pocket and tucking it into hers. "You just dispose of those knee britches. Today!"
