Disclaimer: If you recognize it then it belongs to either the folks over at Elementary, Sir. Arthur Conan Doyle, or Quentin Tarantino.
"I'm not going to talk to you while that half breed bitch is in the room." the crime boss sneered, his Hong Kong accent thick.
The men behind him laughed.
Sherlock turned to Watson, who had gone white pale, the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks burning like angry stars. If he had to guess, he would say she was angry, but the expression on her face indicated that she was effectively past that.
Sherlock blinked.
There was the soft padding sound of feet on the floor.
He opened his eyes in time to see Watson, who had mysteriously produced a short samurai sword, neatly slice off the crime boss's head.
The amount of blood and spray was considerable, leaving
For once in his life Sherlock found himself grasping for a handle on the situation, a feeling he disliked to say the least. He watched as she calmly turned to the sub bosses that stood behind the decapitated twitching bloody body of their leader. Shock and fear evident on their faces.
When she spoke her voice was calm and detached, "The price you pay for bringing up either my Chinese or American heritage as a negative is," she paused and inclined her head, her voice still controlled and dead-pan, "I collect your fucking head."
She extended her arm to hold up the still bleeding head, "Just like this fucker here."
Her voice changed slightly, her words thickening with a broadness that had never been in Watson's manner of speech. It was older, from when she was young, and the more it appeared the more she was losing control of the carefully constructed persona Sherlock knew.
Watson met the wide, shocked eyes of the men staring at her, her voice in a crescendo as she continued, "Now if any of you sons of bitches got anything else to say, now's the fucking time."
The room was silent, Sherlock could hear the labored breath of the under-bosses, and then the soft squish of the head as Watson dropped it on the floor.
"I didn't think so." She finished calmly.
Her sword, a Wakizashi if Sherlock was not mistaken, and he never was; was back in its hiding place. She turned gracefully to him and waited expectantly.
"Did you have something you needed to ask them?" She was back in control of her voice. The carefully schooled politeness a flawless disguise for the violence within.
Sherlock coughed once, unwilling to let even this ruffle him, and nodded, "We're looking for an assassin. You call her 'The Bride'."
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So, this drifted into my head today and it was too fun not to share. I hope you enjoyed it.
This isn't a fandom I normally write for, so, if I've overstepped and done something terrible please let me know won't you?
And if you have any querys about me or my work(s), hit me up on my tumblr, I'm inkandash over there.
Thanks for reading.