Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
punchmeitssubtext) wrote2012-04-09 02:26 pm
punchmeitssubtext) wrote2012-04-09 02:26 pm
FIC POST: "Visit"
(Warning: man I wrote this in like an hour and also there's a Real Person in it but not in a creepy way.)
The second time John was driven to Buckingham Palace was somehow even more overwhelming than the first. Granted, most of that was because the car somehow seemed yawningly empty without Sherlock in it (or even the certainty that his phone might chime with a text at any moment)... but something about the entire invitation felt far more formal and thus more intimidating.
"I don't want to talk to Mycroft," he announced. It sounded terribly petulant, as if he were a little boy and he'd just decided everyone needed to know that he wouldn't eat his peas, but then again he felt a little entitled to be cranky. He hadn't heard a damn word from Mycroft in his late brother's defence, not a single comment to refute the accusations that still dogged Sherlock's memory--not even three months after that terrible day at Bart's. And if he thought he could just apologize now--
"Mr Holmes is in Greece at the moment."
It took a moment for the implication to sink in. It was a good thing the young woman sitting next to him didn't look up from her mobile: he might have died of embarrassment if she'd seen how suddenly he went from angry to gawping.
"Oh," he said, and shut up.
He stayed silent as he was let out of the car and ushered through several twisty corridors towards a room whose doorway was flanked by two very tall and intimidating-looking men in black suits and sunglasses.
"Your mobile," one of them demanded, holding out an enormous hand. Absently John wondered what kind of insulting deductions Sherlock might have directed at the man instead of giving up his phone. Probably something about how the state of his ginger hair and ridiculous beard reflected chronic impotence or webbed toes. The thought made him half-smile, just for a moment, as he switched off the phone and handed it over.
"Very good. Go on through."
He moved into the room, and his heart nearly stopped.
Of course he recognized the grey-haired woman standing not five feet away. Of course he knew her name, her age, what her voice would sound like. Most of the world would have known.
John found himself thinking of Roald Dahl. When he'd read The BFG, he'd been struck by the mental image of little Sophie sitting, small and purposeful and out of her depth, on the windowsill--and staring right at the same face that was burned into the nation's consciousness by coins and stamps and yearly addresses. This was no different.
"Your. Your Majesty," he managed, his brain kicking out the proper protocol from sheer panic. He saluted as smartly as he knew how. "Doctor John Watson--"
"--Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. We're honoured by your service. Please, have a seat."
Belatedly, something at the back of John's mind--that tiny, self-critical voice that always spoke in Sherlock's quiet baritone--pointed out, This is the same room. The room the ashtray came from, at the beginning of the Irene Adler case.
That brought up a sudden deluge of images. His friend next to him, letting out a rare and wonderful laugh. Producing an ashtray from the inside of his jacket. Pale, unmoving, staring sightlessly--
No. No, members of Her Majesty's Armed Forces did not start shaking in front of the Queen. He took a deep breath and made himself smile.
"Thank you, ma'am." Sitting. He could do that. Maybe if he focused on trying to observe his surroundings he'd feel better. Well. Less like taking a break to have a cry in the Palace bathroom.
She took a seat opposite him, and for an absurd moment John wondered what you could deduce about royalty at a first glance. He let himself look at her, really taking in the details: the white hair, the necklace of perfectly uniform pearls, the soft sheen on her skin that indicated a layer of makeup. Her suit was a sort of powder blue, and made of the kind of raw silk that caught and held light; there was some sort of a pin on her lapel, but John couldn't make out the writing and didn't dare lean closer.
The backs of her hands looked old--like a grandmother's, blue-veined and spotted. He found himself wondering whether anyone called her "Gran".
"How do you take your tea?" she asked pleasantly, smoothing her skirt.
"Oh, ah--cream, no sugar, thank you, ma'am." He hoped it sounded pleasant and not panicked. Oh God. Was the Queen going to pour him tea? Maybe this was all some sort of weird hallucination and a giant egg full of green foxes was going to come tumbling through the window at any moment.
There was a flicker of movement at the other end of the room. He looked up just in time to see someone disappearing behind a door--oh, of course, a servant. Okay. That was manageable. Still bizarre, but manageable.
What followed was perhaps the strangest half-hour he'd spent since... well, since leaving Baker Street. She told him she was sorry he'd stopped writing the blog, complimented a handful of his write-ups, asked after his sister's health. The conversation was the sort of gentle small talk he would have expected from an aunt or one of Mrs Hudson's friends.
It didn't feel right at all.
How many people got invited to Buckingham Palace for a cup of tea and a chat? None. Especially not a former blogger and otherwise ordinary doctor who'd spent several years hanging out with the man now known as London's greatest fraud. There was something else at work here, something bigger than himself, and it created a kind of cold lump in the pit of his stomach.
Maybe there was another Irene Adler, with a devious red smile and a phone full of incriminating videos. Maybe there was another phantom hound lurking in chemical clouds over Dartmoor.
Maybe she had taken Moriarty's story at face value.
"Ma'am," he blurted, unable to help himself. "I'm--I'm so sorry. I'm very grateful to be here. This is lovely, and I'm honoured. But... I just don't know why I'm here. If you need something--figured out, I'm sorry, I really don't think I can help. He was the detective, not me, and no matter what the newspapers say--"
"Doctor Watson."
John stopped. He'd expected steel in her tone, or at the very least a quiet command without emotion. Instead she'd spoken his name almost gently.
It was then, all at once, that the picture came together. The pin on her soft blue suit jacket, whose lettering he hadn't been able to read clearly. The selection of this particular room. The tea, the invitation, the faint warm smile he'd been seeing in flashes through the entire interview.
His vision blurred with tears. There was a sudden clenching in his chest, a clawing feeling in his throat as grief and gratitude and disbelief surged up through him. John felt his face crumpling, and reflexively put a hand over his eyes, as if that could keep her from seeing him cry. As if it could block out the words he knew were coming next.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes, too," the Queen said.
The second time John was driven to Buckingham Palace was somehow even more overwhelming than the first. Granted, most of that was because the car somehow seemed yawningly empty without Sherlock in it (or even the certainty that his phone might chime with a text at any moment)... but something about the entire invitation felt far more formal and thus more intimidating.
"I don't want to talk to Mycroft," he announced. It sounded terribly petulant, as if he were a little boy and he'd just decided everyone needed to know that he wouldn't eat his peas, but then again he felt a little entitled to be cranky. He hadn't heard a damn word from Mycroft in his late brother's defence, not a single comment to refute the accusations that still dogged Sherlock's memory--not even three months after that terrible day at Bart's. And if he thought he could just apologize now--
"Mr Holmes is in Greece at the moment."
It took a moment for the implication to sink in. It was a good thing the young woman sitting next to him didn't look up from her mobile: he might have died of embarrassment if she'd seen how suddenly he went from angry to gawping.
"Oh," he said, and shut up.
He stayed silent as he was let out of the car and ushered through several twisty corridors towards a room whose doorway was flanked by two very tall and intimidating-looking men in black suits and sunglasses.
"Your mobile," one of them demanded, holding out an enormous hand. Absently John wondered what kind of insulting deductions Sherlock might have directed at the man instead of giving up his phone. Probably something about how the state of his ginger hair and ridiculous beard reflected chronic impotence or webbed toes. The thought made him half-smile, just for a moment, as he switched off the phone and handed it over.
"Very good. Go on through."
He moved into the room, and his heart nearly stopped.
Of course he recognized the grey-haired woman standing not five feet away. Of course he knew her name, her age, what her voice would sound like. Most of the world would have known.
John found himself thinking of Roald Dahl. When he'd read The BFG, he'd been struck by the mental image of little Sophie sitting, small and purposeful and out of her depth, on the windowsill--and staring right at the same face that was burned into the nation's consciousness by coins and stamps and yearly addresses. This was no different.
"Your. Your Majesty," he managed, his brain kicking out the proper protocol from sheer panic. He saluted as smartly as he knew how. "Doctor John Watson--"
"--Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. We're honoured by your service. Please, have a seat."
Belatedly, something at the back of John's mind--that tiny, self-critical voice that always spoke in Sherlock's quiet baritone--pointed out, This is the same room. The room the ashtray came from, at the beginning of the Irene Adler case.
That brought up a sudden deluge of images. His friend next to him, letting out a rare and wonderful laugh. Producing an ashtray from the inside of his jacket. Pale, unmoving, staring sightlessly--
No. No, members of Her Majesty's Armed Forces did not start shaking in front of the Queen. He took a deep breath and made himself smile.
"Thank you, ma'am." Sitting. He could do that. Maybe if he focused on trying to observe his surroundings he'd feel better. Well. Less like taking a break to have a cry in the Palace bathroom.
She took a seat opposite him, and for an absurd moment John wondered what you could deduce about royalty at a first glance. He let himself look at her, really taking in the details: the white hair, the necklace of perfectly uniform pearls, the soft sheen on her skin that indicated a layer of makeup. Her suit was a sort of powder blue, and made of the kind of raw silk that caught and held light; there was some sort of a pin on her lapel, but John couldn't make out the writing and didn't dare lean closer.
The backs of her hands looked old--like a grandmother's, blue-veined and spotted. He found himself wondering whether anyone called her "Gran".
"How do you take your tea?" she asked pleasantly, smoothing her skirt.
"Oh, ah--cream, no sugar, thank you, ma'am." He hoped it sounded pleasant and not panicked. Oh God. Was the Queen going to pour him tea? Maybe this was all some sort of weird hallucination and a giant egg full of green foxes was going to come tumbling through the window at any moment.
There was a flicker of movement at the other end of the room. He looked up just in time to see someone disappearing behind a door--oh, of course, a servant. Okay. That was manageable. Still bizarre, but manageable.
What followed was perhaps the strangest half-hour he'd spent since... well, since leaving Baker Street. She told him she was sorry he'd stopped writing the blog, complimented a handful of his write-ups, asked after his sister's health. The conversation was the sort of gentle small talk he would have expected from an aunt or one of Mrs Hudson's friends.
It didn't feel right at all.
How many people got invited to Buckingham Palace for a cup of tea and a chat? None. Especially not a former blogger and otherwise ordinary doctor who'd spent several years hanging out with the man now known as London's greatest fraud. There was something else at work here, something bigger than himself, and it created a kind of cold lump in the pit of his stomach.
Maybe there was another Irene Adler, with a devious red smile and a phone full of incriminating videos. Maybe there was another phantom hound lurking in chemical clouds over Dartmoor.
Maybe she had taken Moriarty's story at face value.
"Ma'am," he blurted, unable to help himself. "I'm--I'm so sorry. I'm very grateful to be here. This is lovely, and I'm honoured. But... I just don't know why I'm here. If you need something--figured out, I'm sorry, I really don't think I can help. He was the detective, not me, and no matter what the newspapers say--"
"Doctor Watson."
John stopped. He'd expected steel in her tone, or at the very least a quiet command without emotion. Instead she'd spoken his name almost gently.
It was then, all at once, that the picture came together. The pin on her soft blue suit jacket, whose lettering he hadn't been able to read clearly. The selection of this particular room. The tea, the invitation, the faint warm smile he'd been seeing in flashes through the entire interview.
His vision blurred with tears. There was a sudden clenching in his chest, a clawing feeling in his throat as grief and gratitude and disbelief surged up through him. John felt his face crumpling, and reflexively put a hand over his eyes, as if that could keep her from seeing him cry. As if it could block out the words he knew were coming next.
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes, too," the Queen said.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
...through my TEARS
no subject
STAMFORD YOUR TITLE IS IN DANGER
no subject
no subject
no subject
SHUT UP SALLY THE SPRINKLER SYSTEM WENT ON OKAY
I JUST HAVE ALL THESE FEELINGS
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
It's not easy having allergies
allergies to ANGSTno subject
whenever somebody is too stupid
i go into
andersonphylactic shock
no subject
SNAP
no subject
no subject
EPILOGUE/ADDENDUM
"That's a first."
Ginger didn't reply. (What was his name again? Sigmund? Samson? God, it was taking forever to learn the newbies' names this round.) He seemed pretty absorbed in examining the doctor's mobile phone.
"Hey. You're not supposed to--"
"Relax. I'm not messing with anything." Ginger sort of twiddled the mobile briefly, long fingers fidgeting along its surface. "My girlfriend's looking to get an upgrade. Think she was talking about this model."
"Ah."
Several more minutes went by, during which the noises of misery from the other room grew briefly more intense before quieting. Poor bastard. Hard to imagine what could make a grown man break down in front of the Queen.
"Oh--I've just remembered. Blakeney said she wanted to talk to me, do you mind if--"
"Yeah, go ahead. I'll give him the phone back."
"Cheers."
Ginger handed him the mobile and disappeared down the hallway a half-second before Doctor Watson emerged from the sitting room.
"I--thank you, really, ma'am. Thank you so much," he said, his smile genuine if watery. Murray returned the phone and pretended not to notice how red the man's eyes were.
What he genuinely didn't notice was the mini-SD card that came to life half a second after John had turned the power back on.