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stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Earl Grey
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes & Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Raymond West (Miss Marple's nephew)
Rating: Gen
Prompt: adaptable
Length: 500
Warning: Discussion of murder methods. Deus ex machina. Breaking the fourth wall.
Summary: Raymond West wants to murder his fiancée.
“It’s not cricket, of course,” said Raymond West.
“No,” agreed Sherlock Holmes.
“Not cricket, but croquet,” continued Raymond West. “That’s much different. One must be adaptable, after all. Adapt or perish. Or, in this case, adapt and perish.” The author looked thoughtful as if he wished he was possessed of a note-book and writing instrument with which to record these profound utterances.
The public house in which Sherlock Holmes and Raymond West was the same, but what lay before the two men had changed.
It was still tea, but now instead of strong black tea accompanied by simple bread and butter, there was a more sophisticated-looking teapot and an array of toothsome morsels, dainty cakes and the like. The table was covered in an embroidered cloth.
Sherlock Holmes cast his glance up to the window just above their heads and caught sight of the swishing hems of light-coloured frocks and even a tip of a folded parasol among the back-and-forth parade of shoes and boots.
“May I?” he asked his companion, inclining his head toward the teapot.
“By all means.”
Sherlock Holmes lifted the lid of the teapot and bent his beak-like instrument of discernment closer to the rising fragrant vapor.
“Bergamot. Citron. Earl Grey,” he pronounced. “It must be afternoon. Allow me.” He poured without waiting for permission.
“Now, where was I?” asked Raymond.
“Murdering your fiancée Joyce on the lawn,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “So that you could later marry a very similar artist named Joan.”
“With a croquet mallet,” added Raymond. “Murdering Joyce, that is, not marrying Joan. Marrying someone with a croquet mallet sounds a bit like wandering into Alice in Wonderland territory.”
“We’re all mad,” remarked Holmes dryly, but he partook of a watercress sandwich.
“Yes, well, I would remain hidden in the gazebo until Joyce neared the wicket.”
“A sticky one?” prompted Holmes, eyeing a honeycake with some interest.
“I don’t suppose it matters but have it your way. And then I would call her name. She would stop and face the sun in an attempt to locate the caller, then she would be forced to shield her hand with her eyes to block the glare, but that moment of blindness would be the moment I struck the fatal blow …” He pantomimed.
“But isn’t this meant to be the gazebo?” Holmes indicated the rose-coloured macaroon on the tablecloth. “And this the manor house,” he gestured to the butter dish, “and this, the doomed lady in question.” He pointed to a single sugared violet.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Then my dear man, you must change the appointed hour of your game of croquet. It must be an early morning contest because the sun can’t possibly be in her eyes in the afternoon. This is east.”
“Oh, blast. Who wants to play croquet in the morning? It might be easier to move the gazebo.”
“And what motive would you give for that?”
“Family curse. You can do anything if you call it a family curse.”
“Helpful, that.”
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes & Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Raymond West (Miss Marple's nephew)
Rating: Gen
Prompt: adaptable
Length: 500
Warning: Discussion of murder methods. Deus ex machina. Breaking the fourth wall.
Summary: Raymond West wants to murder his fiancée.
“It’s not cricket, of course,” said Raymond West.
“No,” agreed Sherlock Holmes.
“Not cricket, but croquet,” continued Raymond West. “That’s much different. One must be adaptable, after all. Adapt or perish. Or, in this case, adapt and perish.” The author looked thoughtful as if he wished he was possessed of a note-book and writing instrument with which to record these profound utterances.
The public house in which Sherlock Holmes and Raymond West was the same, but what lay before the two men had changed.
It was still tea, but now instead of strong black tea accompanied by simple bread and butter, there was a more sophisticated-looking teapot and an array of toothsome morsels, dainty cakes and the like. The table was covered in an embroidered cloth.
Sherlock Holmes cast his glance up to the window just above their heads and caught sight of the swishing hems of light-coloured frocks and even a tip of a folded parasol among the back-and-forth parade of shoes and boots.
“May I?” he asked his companion, inclining his head toward the teapot.
“By all means.”
Sherlock Holmes lifted the lid of the teapot and bent his beak-like instrument of discernment closer to the rising fragrant vapor.
“Bergamot. Citron. Earl Grey,” he pronounced. “It must be afternoon. Allow me.” He poured without waiting for permission.
“Now, where was I?” asked Raymond.
“Murdering your fiancée Joyce on the lawn,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “So that you could later marry a very similar artist named Joan.”
“With a croquet mallet,” added Raymond. “Murdering Joyce, that is, not marrying Joan. Marrying someone with a croquet mallet sounds a bit like wandering into Alice in Wonderland territory.”
“We’re all mad,” remarked Holmes dryly, but he partook of a watercress sandwich.
“Yes, well, I would remain hidden in the gazebo until Joyce neared the wicket.”
“A sticky one?” prompted Holmes, eyeing a honeycake with some interest.
“I don’t suppose it matters but have it your way. And then I would call her name. She would stop and face the sun in an attempt to locate the caller, then she would be forced to shield her hand with her eyes to block the glare, but that moment of blindness would be the moment I struck the fatal blow …” He pantomimed.
“But isn’t this meant to be the gazebo?” Holmes indicated the rose-coloured macaroon on the tablecloth. “And this the manor house,” he gestured to the butter dish, “and this, the doomed lady in question.” He pointed to a single sugared violet.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“Then my dear man, you must change the appointed hour of your game of croquet. It must be an early morning contest because the sun can’t possibly be in her eyes in the afternoon. This is east.”
“Oh, blast. Who wants to play croquet in the morning? It might be easier to move the gazebo.”
“And what motive would you give for that?”
“Family curse. You can do anything if you call it a family curse.”
“Helpful, that.”
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