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stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Stripes
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 800
For: my gen prompt bingo prompt B-5: Stripes. Inspired by this article about a death of a performer in a Russian opera.
Summary: Watson and Holmes reflect on a case that took them to Paris.
I didn’t need to be a detective to draw a conclusion from the sight of Holmes, before breakfast, in dressing gown, with violin and pencil in hand.
“A new composition?” I asked.
“Yes, I found myself inspired on yesterday’s return journey from Paris.”
“And here I thought you were sleeping on the train—restoring the vital tissues after our strenuous case.”
“That too,” he acknowledged with a twitch of his lips.
I looked over his shoulder and read the top of the page.
“How the Zebra Got its Stripes.”
“The animal stood half in and half out of the shade and allowed the shadowy stripes to fall upon its body,” explained Holmes. “It reminded me of the case.”
“The murderer.”
“Yes.”
“I think you feel pity for her.”
“Yes, I do. Like the zebra, she stood for so long half in and half out of her grief about the death of her lover that the shadowy stripes of revenge fell upon her and stained her without remedy.”
“That’s a very poetic way of putting it.”
“Here is another way of putting it.” Holmes dropped the pencil, took up his bow, and played a few bars of a melody exceedingly melancholic and beautiful.
“It’s tragic. And wonderful,” I said when Holmes had lowered his instrument. Then I sighed. “And makes me want to have only toast and tea on the breakfast table.”
“Oh, dear,” reproofed Holmes mildly. “You are so very susceptible to music, aren’t you?”
I stood, closed the distance between us, and squeezed his shoulder. “As are you. But I think I smell kippers on arrival, and despite my waning appetite, I shan’t do our landlady the discourtesy of rebuking her fine offerings.”
“A wise policy.”
Greetings and salutations were exchanged when Mrs. Hudson entered with the tray. Holmes continued to play and scribble as she bustled in and bustled out.
I dug into my toast and tea and kippers with subdued aplomb, appreciating my position as a voyeur to his composition. Then I thought about the case.
“The senior violinist suffering a fatal fall into the orchestra pit three years ago was an accident,” I said, ignoring the day’s news which was folded and stacked beside the teapot.
“Yes, I found no evidence of foul play,” said Holmes. “Kulesh, then part of the theatre crew, made a very unfortunate mistake with regard to the stage platform, and the senior violinist was lamentably intoxicated and unsteady on his feet when he returned to the theatre late that night to retrieve a lucky token which had fallen from his pocket during the final performance.”
“His lover nursed her grief for three years,” I commented.
“And it festered into something very ugly and very deadly. She must have been planning it for some time. She learned of Kulesh’s colorblindness and the tricks he used to disguise it from others. Kulesh went from being part of the theatre crew to a performer. She stayed in the pit and waited for an opportunity.”
“The performance of Sadkho.”
“Yes. During the intermission, she changed the stripes of adhesive used to designate the path beneath the stage. It was remarkably clever. One can’t help but wonder if she’d used her problem-solving acumen on something other than revenge, she might have made great strides in her field of choice.”
“And been happier,” I said, adding gloomily, “And not hang.”
“And not hang,” echoed Holmes. “So, she changed the tracks, their placement and their colour, which caused Kulesh to go in the wrong direction as the scenery was descending. He was crushed. It must have been a quick but horrible death. I daresay one might call Kulesh’s death operatic, even, but that might be in poor taste.”
I nodded solemnly, then brightened. “But, at least, your old friend Krebs can be reassured that his theatre is not cursed or haunted by anything other than human nature and its foibles.”
“Yes, ol’ Krebs can rest easy,” said Holmes with a fond smile. “Out of gratitude, he has offered us boxed seats for any future performance of our choice.”
“I think we should take him up on the offer.”
“I agree.”
Holmes lifted his violin to his chin. I forestalled him with a query.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
Holmes hummed. Then he carefully set violin and bow in the seat of his armchair and approached the breakfast table with an elegant waltz step. He helped himself to my tea, draining the cup entirely, then pinched my toast and waltzed back towards stand and instrument, looking over his shoulder and smirking at my display of mock affrontery.
“What?” he asked in soft protest. “Breakfast is a meal much better shared.”
“Is it the zebra or the tiger that cannot change its stripes?” I teased and reached for the teapot.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Length: 800
For: my gen prompt bingo prompt B-5: Stripes. Inspired by this article about a death of a performer in a Russian opera.
Summary: Watson and Holmes reflect on a case that took them to Paris.
I didn’t need to be a detective to draw a conclusion from the sight of Holmes, before breakfast, in dressing gown, with violin and pencil in hand.
“A new composition?” I asked.
“Yes, I found myself inspired on yesterday’s return journey from Paris.”
“And here I thought you were sleeping on the train—restoring the vital tissues after our strenuous case.”
“That too,” he acknowledged with a twitch of his lips.
I looked over his shoulder and read the top of the page.
“How the Zebra Got its Stripes.”
“The animal stood half in and half out of the shade and allowed the shadowy stripes to fall upon its body,” explained Holmes. “It reminded me of the case.”
“The murderer.”
“Yes.”
“I think you feel pity for her.”
“Yes, I do. Like the zebra, she stood for so long half in and half out of her grief about the death of her lover that the shadowy stripes of revenge fell upon her and stained her without remedy.”
“That’s a very poetic way of putting it.”
“Here is another way of putting it.” Holmes dropped the pencil, took up his bow, and played a few bars of a melody exceedingly melancholic and beautiful.
“It’s tragic. And wonderful,” I said when Holmes had lowered his instrument. Then I sighed. “And makes me want to have only toast and tea on the breakfast table.”
“Oh, dear,” reproofed Holmes mildly. “You are so very susceptible to music, aren’t you?”
I stood, closed the distance between us, and squeezed his shoulder. “As are you. But I think I smell kippers on arrival, and despite my waning appetite, I shan’t do our landlady the discourtesy of rebuking her fine offerings.”
“A wise policy.”
Greetings and salutations were exchanged when Mrs. Hudson entered with the tray. Holmes continued to play and scribble as she bustled in and bustled out.
I dug into my toast and tea and kippers with subdued aplomb, appreciating my position as a voyeur to his composition. Then I thought about the case.
“The senior violinist suffering a fatal fall into the orchestra pit three years ago was an accident,” I said, ignoring the day’s news which was folded and stacked beside the teapot.
“Yes, I found no evidence of foul play,” said Holmes. “Kulesh, then part of the theatre crew, made a very unfortunate mistake with regard to the stage platform, and the senior violinist was lamentably intoxicated and unsteady on his feet when he returned to the theatre late that night to retrieve a lucky token which had fallen from his pocket during the final performance.”
“His lover nursed her grief for three years,” I commented.
“And it festered into something very ugly and very deadly. She must have been planning it for some time. She learned of Kulesh’s colorblindness and the tricks he used to disguise it from others. Kulesh went from being part of the theatre crew to a performer. She stayed in the pit and waited for an opportunity.”
“The performance of Sadkho.”
“Yes. During the intermission, she changed the stripes of adhesive used to designate the path beneath the stage. It was remarkably clever. One can’t help but wonder if she’d used her problem-solving acumen on something other than revenge, she might have made great strides in her field of choice.”
“And been happier,” I said, adding gloomily, “And not hang.”
“And not hang,” echoed Holmes. “So, she changed the tracks, their placement and their colour, which caused Kulesh to go in the wrong direction as the scenery was descending. He was crushed. It must have been a quick but horrible death. I daresay one might call Kulesh’s death operatic, even, but that might be in poor taste.”
I nodded solemnly, then brightened. “But, at least, your old friend Krebs can be reassured that his theatre is not cursed or haunted by anything other than human nature and its foibles.”
“Yes, ol’ Krebs can rest easy,” said Holmes with a fond smile. “Out of gratitude, he has offered us boxed seats for any future performance of our choice.”
“I think we should take him up on the offer.”
“I agree.”
Holmes lifted his violin to his chin. I forestalled him with a query.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
Holmes hummed. Then he carefully set violin and bow in the seat of his armchair and approached the breakfast table with an elegant waltz step. He helped himself to my tea, draining the cup entirely, then pinched my toast and waltzed back towards stand and instrument, looking over his shoulder and smirking at my display of mock affrontery.
“What?” he asked in soft protest. “Breakfast is a meal much better shared.”
“Is it the zebra or the tiger that cannot change its stripes?” I teased and reached for the teapot.