Fic for Elementary
Oct. 25th, 2014 12:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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land_deduction was to write a fic based on some seemingly random pictures we received. I tried to fashion mine into a partial story line. Emphasize partial. I did like the idea of Sherlock and Joan participating in a re-creation reality show.
The Red Queen
Fandom: Elementary
Words: 1005
“Good God, Watson. How in heaven’s name can you eat this…this…..?” Sherlock swept a broad gesture at the craft table where Joan stood munching happily. “And at this … “ he looked around at the darkish sky and shuddered, “…unHOLY hour, which which I have been happily unfamiliar except from around the other side.” He shuddered again and wrapped his coat around himself a little more tightly.
“It’s warm, it’s free, it’s salty, it’s 7 o’clock in the morning, and I’m starving.” Joan proclaimed as she took another bite of the steamy hot dog. “Besides,” she gestured with the bun in her hand, “They’re just now bringing out coffee.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he scampered toward the large containers being unloaded from the van. Joan continued to munch as she looked around with interest at the bustle of activity, seemingly chaotic yet increasingly centering on the marble stairs leading up to the huge oak doors of the library.
Strange how circumstances had brought her and Sherlock here to be filmed for this re-enactment of famous murder cases of the twentieth century. Well, “circumstances” and Mycroft’s connections, of course. Who knew how he was connected, something about old school mates with the producer. And it was kind of a cool concept—having present-day detectives trying to solve past crimes, with all the modern advantages, technological and otherwise, of their own time to bring into play.
What was really strange was that Sherlock would go along with the idea. “Publicity, Watson,” he had said airily. “It may be crass but it’s patently necessary to my—to our—vocation. Can’t be consulting detectives if no-one knows to consult us.”
Hah, she wasn’t fooled. They pretty much had as much work as they could handle, between the repeat customers, those that came from the website, and the NYPD cases. No, this uncharacteristic bid for media visibility had to have something to do with some twist in the relationship between the brothers. Eh. Hers not to question why (at least not this time); hers but to eat hot dogs for breakfast and await her cue.
******
Hours and hours later, Joan tugged at the strap on the kevlar vest and noted that her mood had shifted considerably with the angle of the sun, now blazing down on them, and the sheer tedium of the proceedings. Nearly mid-day and the closest they’d got to “examining” a body was watching the crew haul a disturbingly realistic facsimile up the stairs and into the building.
Like the contrarian he was (which he had frequently, and hotly, denied, stating, “Nonsense, Watson, ‘contrarian’ just isn’t in it. It would be irrational and idiotic to take a position on any matter only to be at odds with another stated position. It is merely that I am frequently bound to express a factual observation in direct contradiction to another position that is, quite simply, wrong”)—Sherlock seemed to be gaining energy and enthusiasm as the morning wore on. Now he was rubbing his hands together, saying avidly, “I feel quite toned up, Watson, and eager to see what this crime scene will present.”
Joan looked at him over the tops of her sunglasses. “Haven’t you figured it out already? Public library, hostage crisis? We know it’s going to turn out to be a murder, of some glamorous sort; that’s how the series works.”
“Yes, yes, of course I realize it’s the Case of the Red Queen, 1939,” Sherlock rejoined. “But there was so much mystery, nay secrecy, associated with this crime; I’m quite stimulated to see what we can uncover about it.”
*****
Joan slumped against the marble column, closed her eyes, and willed her nausea to subside. That’s what you get for eating a hot dog at…no, no, don’t think about that, deep breaths, deeeeep breaths.
Feeling slightly better, she pushed herself upright and—feeling tentative but not wanting to appear so—strode back to the knot of people where Sherlock hovered over the body—an elegantly-dressed and coiffed woman, lying on the white marble landing. Decidedly not a facsimile, much to the shock of everyone involved when they stormed up the steps, cameras rolling, to “discover” the “body”—only to discover it was an actual human body, very dead, and a new murder mystery.
So now the aimlessly purposeful hoards of camera operators, props teams, sound crews, and people trotting around with clapboards were replaced by purposefully aimless police officers, crime scene investigators, and a growing group of news cameras and journalists hovering around the edges.
Sherlock was by now kneeling by the side of the dramatically-positioned body, dabbing the fingertips of his right hand on the floor next to her. He briefly closed his eyes and slid his hand under the small of her back, pulling back and scraping up something from the floor. He looked up at the ME and made a gesture; she nodded and he gently reached under the body again, levering her up slightly.
“Just as I thought, Watson,” he proclaimed as Joan stepped up, “the bow at the back of her dress has scooped up an amalgam of dirt, leaves, and other detritus. Given our identification of the original crime, I am confirmed in my surmise that this poor soul was, like the titular Red Queen before her, murdered in Central Park!”
Joan looked closer at the scattering of debris under the body. “How can you possibly tell that from what’s there?” But Sherlock was already standing and rushing over to where Gregson and Marcus were examining a section of the staircase. He gesticulated and pointed for a bit, then, when Gregson nodded, began sweeping toward the exit, waving to Joan and calling out, “Come Watson! We must away to the Alice in Wonderland statue!” With one last compassionate look down at the dead woman, Joan turned to follow her partner out the big oak doors.
If there was one thing she knew, it was to trust Sherlock’s instincts. Even if it ended up leading them down a rabbit hole.
To Be Continued...maybe...
land_deduction was to write a fic based on some seemingly random pictures we received. I tried to fashion mine into a partial story line. Emphasize partial. I did like the idea of Sherlock and Joan participating in a re-creation reality show.
The Red Queen
Fandom: Elementary
Words: 1005
“Good God, Watson. How in heaven’s name can you eat this…this…..?” Sherlock swept a broad gesture at the craft table where Joan stood munching happily. “And at this … “ he looked around at the darkish sky and shuddered, “…unHOLY hour, which which I have been happily unfamiliar except from around the other side.” He shuddered again and wrapped his coat around himself a little more tightly.
“It’s warm, it’s free, it’s salty, it’s 7 o’clock in the morning, and I’m starving.” Joan proclaimed as she took another bite of the steamy hot dog. “Besides,” she gestured with the bun in her hand, “They’re just now bringing out coffee.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he scampered toward the large containers being unloaded from the van. Joan continued to munch as she looked around with interest at the bustle of activity, seemingly chaotic yet increasingly centering on the marble stairs leading up to the huge oak doors of the library.
Strange how circumstances had brought her and Sherlock here to be filmed for this re-enactment of famous murder cases of the twentieth century. Well, “circumstances” and Mycroft’s connections, of course. Who knew how he was connected, something about old school mates with the producer. And it was kind of a cool concept—having present-day detectives trying to solve past crimes, with all the modern advantages, technological and otherwise, of their own time to bring into play.
What was really strange was that Sherlock would go along with the idea. “Publicity, Watson,” he had said airily. “It may be crass but it’s patently necessary to my—to our—vocation. Can’t be consulting detectives if no-one knows to consult us.”
Hah, she wasn’t fooled. They pretty much had as much work as they could handle, between the repeat customers, those that came from the website, and the NYPD cases. No, this uncharacteristic bid for media visibility had to have something to do with some twist in the relationship between the brothers. Eh. Hers not to question why (at least not this time); hers but to eat hot dogs for breakfast and await her cue.
******
Hours and hours later, Joan tugged at the strap on the kevlar vest and noted that her mood had shifted considerably with the angle of the sun, now blazing down on them, and the sheer tedium of the proceedings. Nearly mid-day and the closest they’d got to “examining” a body was watching the crew haul a disturbingly realistic facsimile up the stairs and into the building.
Like the contrarian he was (which he had frequently, and hotly, denied, stating, “Nonsense, Watson, ‘contrarian’ just isn’t in it. It would be irrational and idiotic to take a position on any matter only to be at odds with another stated position. It is merely that I am frequently bound to express a factual observation in direct contradiction to another position that is, quite simply, wrong”)—Sherlock seemed to be gaining energy and enthusiasm as the morning wore on. Now he was rubbing his hands together, saying avidly, “I feel quite toned up, Watson, and eager to see what this crime scene will present.”
Joan looked at him over the tops of her sunglasses. “Haven’t you figured it out already? Public library, hostage crisis? We know it’s going to turn out to be a murder, of some glamorous sort; that’s how the series works.”
“Yes, yes, of course I realize it’s the Case of the Red Queen, 1939,” Sherlock rejoined. “But there was so much mystery, nay secrecy, associated with this crime; I’m quite stimulated to see what we can uncover about it.”
*****
Joan slumped against the marble column, closed her eyes, and willed her nausea to subside. That’s what you get for eating a hot dog at…no, no, don’t think about that, deep breaths, deeeeep breaths.
Feeling slightly better, she pushed herself upright and—feeling tentative but not wanting to appear so—strode back to the knot of people where Sherlock hovered over the body—an elegantly-dressed and coiffed woman, lying on the white marble landing. Decidedly not a facsimile, much to the shock of everyone involved when they stormed up the steps, cameras rolling, to “discover” the “body”—only to discover it was an actual human body, very dead, and a new murder mystery.
So now the aimlessly purposeful hoards of camera operators, props teams, sound crews, and people trotting around with clapboards were replaced by purposefully aimless police officers, crime scene investigators, and a growing group of news cameras and journalists hovering around the edges.
Sherlock was by now kneeling by the side of the dramatically-positioned body, dabbing the fingertips of his right hand on the floor next to her. He briefly closed his eyes and slid his hand under the small of her back, pulling back and scraping up something from the floor. He looked up at the ME and made a gesture; she nodded and he gently reached under the body again, levering her up slightly.
“Just as I thought, Watson,” he proclaimed as Joan stepped up, “the bow at the back of her dress has scooped up an amalgam of dirt, leaves, and other detritus. Given our identification of the original crime, I am confirmed in my surmise that this poor soul was, like the titular Red Queen before her, murdered in Central Park!”
Joan looked closer at the scattering of debris under the body. “How can you possibly tell that from what’s there?” But Sherlock was already standing and rushing over to where Gregson and Marcus were examining a section of the staircase. He gesticulated and pointed for a bit, then, when Gregson nodded, began sweeping toward the exit, waving to Joan and calling out, “Come Watson! We must away to the Alice in Wonderland statue!” With one last compassionate look down at the dead woman, Joan turned to follow her partner out the big oak doors.
If there was one thing she knew, it was to trust Sherlock’s instincts. Even if it ended up leading them down a rabbit hole.
To Be Continued...maybe...
