Prompt: Love, Actually: That porn stunt double does not look like me AT ALL what are you on about
*I took a risk and did not follow the risqué prompt at all... but it did inspire this RDJ Holmes & Jude Law Watson tale (my first attempt). I went less for historical accuracy and more for Guy Ritchie's stylized approach. I hope it works. Trust me?*
Watson frowned as he checked the address on the hastily scribbled note. Only because he knew Holmes so well, and that the note was dictated in the coded shorthand they had long used for secret missives, did he not think this house of ill-repute to be a trap. Truth be told, he should have realized the nature of his destination when three different handsom drivers refused him.
Folding the note and carefully tucking it into the hidden pocket of his waistcoat, Watson squared his shoulders. "Coffee house. Of course." With a wary look of resignation on his face, and a deep gratitude that he'd thought to grab his walking stick with the hidden blade, Watson approached the door and knocked. Two short raps, pause, three long, pause, one short, pause, open palm slap. Just as Holmes had indicated.
Or was it three short, pause, then two...
Before Watson could retrieve the note, the heavy door swung open. Behind it stood a woman entirely too young for the life he knew she endured. He noted the handkerchief speckled with scarlet clenched tightly in one hand, the hollow of her cheeks not hidden by well applied rouge, and the glassy eyed look of fever.
One needn't be Sherlock Holmes to see the girl would be dead in a month's time.
Watson removed his hat and ducked his head. Her smile was world weary, and without a word she motioned for him to follow her.
They walked past doorways covered by heavy, ornate tapestries that scarcely muffled the sounds of unreciprocated lust and deviance concealed on the other side. His distaste evident on his face, Watson kept his gaze forward.
She led him past the gambling tables, and his eyes did wander briefly to the men raucously casting lots. When his hostess winked up at him, Watson cleared his throat and motioned for her to lead on.
They entered a large hall, overwhelmingly gaudy in its excessive opulence. The chandeliers and ornamentation mimicked those of Gothic design. There was a stage at the center, set with an extravagant scene. Tables set with garish elegance crowded the room, and every seat was occupied.
Save for one table, the nearest to the entrance. It was set for two, and stood empty. His hostess ushered Watson to it, and as he sat two gin and tonics were placed neatly in front of him. "Oh, no, I'm certain..." Watson's voice trailed off as music began and the cast of scandalously clad women took the stage.
Their production was an extravaganza to be certain. A bawdy burlesque lampooning the very same morality plays he'd seen school children reenact for Christmas mass just hours before. And there, in the center of it all... Watson required a large swallow of his cocktail before he would allow himself to accept what he saw...
Holmes. Dressed as a courtesan in daring purple, an obvious false hairpiece secured to his head, and a fluttering fan before his face. His falsetto was... impressive. His grace in the costume alarming. Watson finished his drink and was glad for the second.
When the scene was finished, the women in their elaborate gowns made their way down to flirt and tease. Watson lost sight of Holmes for only a moment when a feather light, though decidedly masculine, touch brushed across his nape.
"It would appear the stage has suffered a great loss," Watson raised his glass to Holmes. "And all those years wasted, rotting in the filth of your rooms. Pity."
"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players,*" Holmes executed a perfectly demure curtsy.
"And one man in his time plays many parts.* Even, on occasion, when he has the wrong parts." Watson nodded once to his friend's costume. "Does this particular disguise have a stage name?"
"Indeed," Holmes grinned. "You may call me Merry."
"Mary?" Narrowing his eyes, Watson growled. "Crass, and... And..."
"Not Mary, Merry. As in, God rest you merry, gentlemen," Holmes quirked an eyebrow up and cast a cocky glance around the room.
"You are... unstable." Watson shook his head. "Unwell at the very least. I certainly hope you haven't merrily rested with any of these... gentlemen."
The music started up once more, calling the performers back to the stage. "Finish your drink," Holmes urged.
"I'm sorry?" Watson leaned forward.
"Your drink. Finish it," Holmes hissed, casting an anxious look about.
"What has you on edge, with exception to the obvious?"
"Damn it, Watson. You're going to need it for what comes next. Just listen to me for once."
"Next? Why?" Watson nearly choked on his drink as Holmes held it to his lips and forced him to drink. "Damn you, Holmes!" Watson sputtered, brushing the spilled drink from his best tweed.
"You'll thank me momentarily," Holmes grinned deviously as he gathered his skirts up in a most ungentlemanly... ah, unladilike... fashion, revealing his stockings and garters, and sat in Watson's lap so that they were nearly chest to chest.
Watson remained stoic and still in his shock. Holmes waved another drink over and pressed it into his hand. "I... What..."
"A case. You sit. I'll do all the work." Holmes ran his hands up and down Watson's arms.
"Like bloody hell," Watson swallowed down his drink, stronger than the last two, and moved to shove Holmes away.
"Wait!" Holmes whispered, leaning near enough for his lips to almost touch Watson's ear. "It'll all be settled in a matter of moments. My suspect will arrive soon." Watson glared at him. "Soon. You'll be home in time for Christmas pudding with Mary."
"Mary!" Watson groaned. "How? How do I let you... I can't go back to her smelling of drink and with... with your rouge on my collar."
"I shall accompany you. Explain all." Holmes shrugged.
"Yes. You will." Watson jabbed Holmes in the chest with his finger. It was only then he truly took in Holmes' appearance. His shoulders were bare because of the cut of his dress. He'd done nothing to conceal the hair on his chest, nor the three day's growth on his face. "When was the last time you shaved? Or bathed for that matter?" Watson actually chuckled.
Keeping up the act, Holmes shifted from caressing Watson to running his fingers through his hair. He shrugged. "Unimportant. This club caters to every vice you can imagine. Take you for instance. I observe your rapid breath and dilated pupils. You are not aroused by the women here, you are happily married, disgustingly so, and faithful to a fault. You are definitely not aroused by my proximity..." Holmes paused and leaned in, staring deeply into Watson's eyes.
"Definitely not," Watson muttered through clenched teeth.
Holmes cleared his throat. "What that reveals is that you are uncomfortable here."
"Obviously."
"So uncomfortable, in fact, that when the young lady showed you in, you diagnosed her, but failed to notice the color of her dress, her auburn hair, the arresting green of her eyes, or the scarlet birthmark on her shoulder."
"The missing countess!" Watson gasped, glancing frantically around the room. Holmes stilled him, placing a hand on either side of his face.
"Mary is fortunate to have you, with your strong morals and lack of addiction."
"Holmes..."
"With just the one exception. Every time someone wins at the tables, you glance over there. Thrice you've felt your pocket for your wallet." Holmes held Watson's wallet up. When Watson reached for it, Holmes shoved it down the front of his dress. "You'll thank me later."
Watson swatted Holmes' hands away. "Enough. Who are we looking for?"
"He's entering now," Holmes leaned in and embraced Watson, pressing himself close. "Excellent, you've brought your revolver."
"Holmes..." Watson snarled.
"Prepare your blade, old man." Holmes leaned back, with Watson's revolver in hand.
"How?" Brows furrowed, Watson huffed in frustration.
With cunning eyes, Holmes tracked the movement of the criminal. He tugged up a sagging stocking, checked that his hair was secure, then gathered his skirts in one hand. "Come, friend Watson. The curtain rings up for the last act.**"
*"As You Like It," William Shakespeare, Act II, Scene ii
**"The Mystery of the Second Stain," Sir Arthur Conan Doyle