Hmmm. Well, you know me. That hiatus-era fic you never wrote in which Lestrade and Mary saved the day--at the cost, for her, of the case of pneumonia which took her life and, for him, of that twisted foot we hear about in BOSC (never mind that BOSC is pre-hiatus. Watson screwed up with his references)--will always live on in my heart. The extensive research that went into describing the obscure disease from which they were saving Watson, and the sinister figure of Moran lurking, glimpsed in shadows but never spoken of, behind the dastardly plot, made the whole thing so vividly real. But of course, it was the characterization that made it all so exquisite. This part, I'll never forget:
"I can't tell you not to worry, Mrs. Watson. I'm worried myself, if it comes to that. But I swear to you, I and the Yard will do everything we can. Your husband is one of us, and we never abandon our own."
She looked up at me then, as neat and proper and womanly as ever, but her lips were set and her eyes were hard.
"I appreciate your dedication to my husband, Inspector Lestrade; your sentiments are very kind. But if you suppose that I intend to remain here with hands folded while John wastes away, you have misjudged me sorely. I am a soldier's daughter and a soldier's wife, and I have no talent for sitting helpless and idle when I might be doing something useful."
She stood and smoothed her skirts. I recognized that look of hers. The piercing gaze that Dr. Watson had not managed to pick up in all the years of his friendship with Mr. Holmes, his wife seemed to have learned.
"Tell me everything you know."
It's a good thing Mary died in the end, really, or else you know I'd be begging you for a sequel!
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Hmmm. Well, you know me. That hiatus-era fic you
neverwrote in which Lestrade and Mary saved the day--at the cost, for her, of the case of pneumonia which took her life and, for him, of that twisted foot we hear about in BOSC (never mind that BOSC is pre-hiatus. Watson screwed up with his references)--will always live on in my heart. The extensive research that went into describing the obscure disease from which they were saving Watson, and the sinister figure of Moran lurking, glimpsed in shadows but never spoken of, behind the dastardly plot, made the whole thing so vividly real. But of course, it was the characterization that made it all so exquisite. This part, I'll never forget:"I can't tell you not to worry, Mrs. Watson. I'm worried myself, if it comes to that. But I swear to you, I and the Yard will do everything we can. Your husband is one of us, and we never abandon our own."
She looked up at me then, as neat and proper and womanly as ever, but her lips were set and her eyes were hard.
"I appreciate your dedication to my husband, Inspector Lestrade; your sentiments are very kind. But if you suppose that I intend to remain here with hands folded while John wastes away, you have misjudged me sorely. I am a soldier's daughter and a soldier's wife, and I have no talent for sitting helpless and idle when I might be doing something useful."
She stood and smoothed her skirts. I recognized that look of hers. The piercing gaze that Dr. Watson had not managed to pick up in all the years of his friendship with Mr. Holmes, his wife seemed to have learned.
"Tell me everything you know."
It's a good thing Mary died in the end, really, or else you know I'd be begging you for a sequel!