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sereneOkay, this is as far as I got tonight. They're both going to be a lot longer, but I'm tired, and I want to post something for 3WFDW, so here they are for now, and I'll finish them tomorrow and put them up where they go. I actually kind of recommend that you wait and see what they become later, unless you like the making-sausage stage of fiction.
John & Sherlock
I knew the evening would be dull. Things like this always were. I would rather be anywhere but here. Well, not anywhere. Still, I straightened everything -- cuffs, tie, hair -- and walked toward the door of the theater.
I expected her to be waiting near the bar, and of course she was. Mary was never far from where the gin was, these days. Not that I could blame her. In the time I'd had to adjust to my own traumas -- the less said about the horrors of war, the better -- I had only grown more and more distant from her. With her mother and father both long dead (her mother in childbirth, the poor dear, and her father several years before we married), and no other family in England, Mary grew increasingly lonely and I increasingly distant until I wasn't sure there was a way to bridge the gap between us.
Oh, I loved her, certainly! We had a history and a familiarity that bespoke of how treasured we once were, each to the other. One did not simply cast that away when times were hard. Nevertheless, I knew that Mary missed her husband, and I felt incapable of fixing what was broken.
Mary had on two occasions wondered aloud why I was so keen for the company of Sherlock Holmes, and so reluctant to seek out my wife's companionship instead. On both occasions, I had been silent on the subject.
*~*~*
The play had indeed been dull. After seeing Mary up to her room, I sat in the drawing room for a whole eight minutes before deciding to head to 221B Baker Street and see what Sherlock was up to. I had gotten good at not asking myself why I would do a thing like that, so I just went.
Sherlock's flat was darkened, but not entirely without light. My old friend sat in the armchair opposite the door and gave a barely perceptible nod at my entrance.
"Watson. How was the play?"
"How in Heaven's name did you know I'd been to a play?"
"Oh, don't be stupid. Stupid is boring. Be exciting and brilliant. Can't you just be exciting and brilliant, just for tonight?"
I had learned to ignore the insults, and said again, "No, really, Sherlock, how did you know?"
"It doesn't matter. Boring. Doesn't matter."
Now this was unlike the great detective, to pass up a chance to show his superior intellect and deductive skills. I was intrigued.
Jeannie & Samantha
Sam had not expected this. It's not like calling Doctor Bombay had ever turned out exactly as planned, but this was outside even his normal chaotic results.
Sitting on the dark wood coffee table, scaring Samantha half to death, was a bottle.
A tall, dramatically tapered, pink-glass-and-gold bottle. With a stopper.
A bottle with a woman in it.
~*~*~
This morning, Samantha had felt like an ordinary mortal woman, with a husband and a carpool and an avocado-green refrigerator-freezer. Then havoc struck, as it usually did in the Stephens household, and that familiar refrain spilled from Sam's lips:
"Calling Doctor Bombay, calling Doctor Bombay! Emergency! Come right away!"
Sam could barely remember what had been so all-fired important. It seemed insignificant now, because she had -- on her coffee table, no less -- a little bottle with a woman in it. A badly hurt, but still breathing, woman.
Darren was out of town on business. Mother was on her annual Crones' Retreat and unreachable by incantation. And Doctor Bombay had only said "Keep an eye on her; I'll go for help!" before *poof*ing into nothingness, at least an hour prior.
Sam had been unsuccessful in finding a way to get the tiny woman out of the bottle. She tried rubbing, and twitching her nose, and every spell she could think of that might do the job. The closest she'd come was to make the bottle a little bigger for a while, but that had worn off, and it hadn't been enough to make pouring the little woman out onto the table a feasible option. Plus, because of several of the spells, she now had a small menagerie to find homes for.
"Oh, Doctor Bombay, when I get my hands on you!" she said. Fussing over the bottle wasn't doing any good. Cursing Doctor Bombay would only mean one less person to give her some greatly needed help. So she bent down to watch the woman sleep. At least she hoped the tiny thing was sleeping, and not dead.
~*~*~
It had been nearly three hours, and the tiny woman finally began to stir.
John & Sherlock
I knew the evening would be dull. Things like this always were. I would rather be anywhere but here. Well, not anywhere. Still, I straightened everything -- cuffs, tie, hair -- and walked toward the door of the theater.
I expected her to be waiting near the bar, and of course she was. Mary was never far from where the gin was, these days. Not that I could blame her. In the time I'd had to adjust to my own traumas -- the less said about the horrors of war, the better -- I had only grown more and more distant from her. With her mother and father both long dead (her mother in childbirth, the poor dear, and her father several years before we married), and no other family in England, Mary grew increasingly lonely and I increasingly distant until I wasn't sure there was a way to bridge the gap between us.
Oh, I loved her, certainly! We had a history and a familiarity that bespoke of how treasured we once were, each to the other. One did not simply cast that away when times were hard. Nevertheless, I knew that Mary missed her husband, and I felt incapable of fixing what was broken.
Mary had on two occasions wondered aloud why I was so keen for the company of Sherlock Holmes, and so reluctant to seek out my wife's companionship instead. On both occasions, I had been silent on the subject.
*~*~*
The play had indeed been dull. After seeing Mary up to her room, I sat in the drawing room for a whole eight minutes before deciding to head to 221B Baker Street and see what Sherlock was up to. I had gotten good at not asking myself why I would do a thing like that, so I just went.
Sherlock's flat was darkened, but not entirely without light. My old friend sat in the armchair opposite the door and gave a barely perceptible nod at my entrance.
"Watson. How was the play?"
"How in Heaven's name did you know I'd been to a play?"
"Oh, don't be stupid. Stupid is boring. Be exciting and brilliant. Can't you just be exciting and brilliant, just for tonight?"
I had learned to ignore the insults, and said again, "No, really, Sherlock, how did you know?"
"It doesn't matter. Boring. Doesn't matter."
Now this was unlike the great detective, to pass up a chance to show his superior intellect and deductive skills. I was intrigued.
Jeannie & Samantha
Sam had not expected this. It's not like calling Doctor Bombay had ever turned out exactly as planned, but this was outside even his normal chaotic results.
Sitting on the dark wood coffee table, scaring Samantha half to death, was a bottle.
A tall, dramatically tapered, pink-glass-and-gold bottle. With a stopper.
A bottle with a woman in it.
~*~*~
This morning, Samantha had felt like an ordinary mortal woman, with a husband and a carpool and an avocado-green refrigerator-freezer. Then havoc struck, as it usually did in the Stephens household, and that familiar refrain spilled from Sam's lips:
"Calling Doctor Bombay, calling Doctor Bombay! Emergency! Come right away!"
Sam could barely remember what had been so all-fired important. It seemed insignificant now, because she had -- on her coffee table, no less -- a little bottle with a woman in it. A badly hurt, but still breathing, woman.
Darren was out of town on business. Mother was on her annual Crones' Retreat and unreachable by incantation. And Doctor Bombay had only said "Keep an eye on her; I'll go for help!" before *poof*ing into nothingness, at least an hour prior.
Sam had been unsuccessful in finding a way to get the tiny woman out of the bottle. She tried rubbing, and twitching her nose, and every spell she could think of that might do the job. The closest she'd come was to make the bottle a little bigger for a while, but that had worn off, and it hadn't been enough to make pouring the little woman out onto the table a feasible option. Plus, because of several of the spells, she now had a small menagerie to find homes for.
"Oh, Doctor Bombay, when I get my hands on you!" she said. Fussing over the bottle wasn't doing any good. Cursing Doctor Bombay would only mean one less person to give her some greatly needed help. So she bent down to watch the woman sleep. At least she hoped the tiny thing was sleeping, and not dead.
~*~*~
It had been nearly three hours, and the tiny woman finally began to stir.