Hello, peeps! Hare here, with this short, SHORT story. This fic is set
just after the Sign of Four, and answers the question, "What if Mary
Morstan DID get the Agra treasure?" This story serves two purposes.
Firstly, it responds to the challenge put forth by Ms. Neptune Holmes. And
secondly, this is my apology and peace offering to all of you long-
suffering readers who waited SO long for Chapter 13. Hope this makes up
for it!
Disclaimer: Don't own Holmes. Not making money. Damn.
Enjoy!
~~
Priceless
An Alternate Ending to "The Sign of Four"
By March Hare, the Mad
~~
"Your character or fortune is not at fault, Watson. It is she who possesses the flaws."
I sighed in long-suffering. "Yes, I know, but. . ." The evening paper fell slack in my hands. "Holmes," I cried, "you never cease to astound me! How have you intimated my inmost thoughts?"
Sherlock Holmes lay back in his armchair, pipe going steadily, the glint in his eye one of amusement. "Come now, Watson, you know my methods."
"I do," I acquiesced, "but I fail to uncover their applications."
Holmes pointed a thin finger as he enumerated his steps. "You were idly glancing over the society pages when an announcement caught your eye. Your gaze quickly darted to the bamboo blowgun we recently acquired in our troubles with Jonathan Small and his savage cohort. Thus, I concluded that the arresting article must be the banns posted for the newly-engaged Miss Mary Morstan, heiress to the fabulous Agra fortune of that case, and the politically prominent Lord Worthington-Smythe, Earl of Exeter. Your face waxed into melancholy as you examined your pocket watch, the only piece of precious metal in your possession, upon which you hastily turned the page of your paper. I surmised that you considered yourself flawed, either in some material or more intangible way, that rendered your proposal to Miss Morstan ineffectual. When I voiced my own opinion, I was proven correct."
I could not help but smile at the simplicity of it all, but my effort was a trifle bittersweet. "As always, Holmes. I am occasionally tempted to believe you infallible."
Holmes' own expression grew somber. "I am occasionally inclined to wish that I was," said he. "If I was without error, I would proclaim that Miss Mary Morstan is a foolish woman who mistakes wealth for worth. She will live for two years of selfish bliss, then settle down to raise three spoiled brats, grow gray and stooped under the weight of her jewels, and die a premature death in bed of chronic high society!"
"Why, Holmes," said I, astonished. "If I did not know better, I would say you are guessing!"
Holmes snorted in reply, rising from his chair to clear his pipe over the fireplace grate. "I never guess, Watson. When a woman rejects the finest specimen of a gentleman in England in exchange for a loutish, lazy and disgustingly wealthy lord, one cannot help but see her foolishness."
I could not help but be moved by this compliment, however indirect, from my closest friend, especially when such comments were far and few between. "And the rest?" I prompted.
Holmes' affronted disposition relaxed into amusement as he leaned against the mantle. "I fear that the rest was less concrete. Not a guess!" he objected to my raised brows. "More wishful thinking than otherwise."
"Holmes, we mustn't wish ill upon others, despite our inclinations," I rejoined.
He smiled in reply. "Good old Watson! Always the fixed and unchanging star in the careening heavens of degeneracy. I myself should be lost at sea without my steadfast anchor." Caught up in caprice, he turned to the corner and fetched his beloved Stradivarius. "Perhaps, Watson," said he, throwing himself into his chair and carelessly tuning the violin. "Perhaps I owe Miss Morstan a debt of gratitude. After all, one can hardly expect a married man to remain in bachelor quarters, and a good biographer is terribly hard to find these days." He tucked the instrument under his pointed chin and played a few experimental chords. "What say you, Watson?" he asked flippantly. "Any requests for this dark and foggy evening?"
Unsure of my voice, I said with emotion, "You know my preferences, Holmes."
"Indeed, I do," he replied solemnly. "It is one of the benefits of a long- standing and congenial partnership."
I silently but heartily agreed, allowing the Stradivarius to silence us both. If Fate had indeed sentenced me to a life of confirmed bachelorhood, I mused, I could think of no one better with which to share my prison cell.
~~
Well, that's it. Took me all of half an hour to write. It's fiendishly short, and I know that I made Mary Morstan a conniving fortune-hunter, but hey, it's MY alternate universe, so there! I still hope you liked it, and I'm getting right back to work on BST!
REVIEW!!
Disclaimer: Don't own Holmes. Not making money. Damn.
Enjoy!
~~
Priceless
An Alternate Ending to "The Sign of Four"
By March Hare, the Mad
~~
"Your character or fortune is not at fault, Watson. It is she who possesses the flaws."
I sighed in long-suffering. "Yes, I know, but. . ." The evening paper fell slack in my hands. "Holmes," I cried, "you never cease to astound me! How have you intimated my inmost thoughts?"
Sherlock Holmes lay back in his armchair, pipe going steadily, the glint in his eye one of amusement. "Come now, Watson, you know my methods."
"I do," I acquiesced, "but I fail to uncover their applications."
Holmes pointed a thin finger as he enumerated his steps. "You were idly glancing over the society pages when an announcement caught your eye. Your gaze quickly darted to the bamboo blowgun we recently acquired in our troubles with Jonathan Small and his savage cohort. Thus, I concluded that the arresting article must be the banns posted for the newly-engaged Miss Mary Morstan, heiress to the fabulous Agra fortune of that case, and the politically prominent Lord Worthington-Smythe, Earl of Exeter. Your face waxed into melancholy as you examined your pocket watch, the only piece of precious metal in your possession, upon which you hastily turned the page of your paper. I surmised that you considered yourself flawed, either in some material or more intangible way, that rendered your proposal to Miss Morstan ineffectual. When I voiced my own opinion, I was proven correct."
I could not help but smile at the simplicity of it all, but my effort was a trifle bittersweet. "As always, Holmes. I am occasionally tempted to believe you infallible."
Holmes' own expression grew somber. "I am occasionally inclined to wish that I was," said he. "If I was without error, I would proclaim that Miss Mary Morstan is a foolish woman who mistakes wealth for worth. She will live for two years of selfish bliss, then settle down to raise three spoiled brats, grow gray and stooped under the weight of her jewels, and die a premature death in bed of chronic high society!"
"Why, Holmes," said I, astonished. "If I did not know better, I would say you are guessing!"
Holmes snorted in reply, rising from his chair to clear his pipe over the fireplace grate. "I never guess, Watson. When a woman rejects the finest specimen of a gentleman in England in exchange for a loutish, lazy and disgustingly wealthy lord, one cannot help but see her foolishness."
I could not help but be moved by this compliment, however indirect, from my closest friend, especially when such comments were far and few between. "And the rest?" I prompted.
Holmes' affronted disposition relaxed into amusement as he leaned against the mantle. "I fear that the rest was less concrete. Not a guess!" he objected to my raised brows. "More wishful thinking than otherwise."
"Holmes, we mustn't wish ill upon others, despite our inclinations," I rejoined.
He smiled in reply. "Good old Watson! Always the fixed and unchanging star in the careening heavens of degeneracy. I myself should be lost at sea without my steadfast anchor." Caught up in caprice, he turned to the corner and fetched his beloved Stradivarius. "Perhaps, Watson," said he, throwing himself into his chair and carelessly tuning the violin. "Perhaps I owe Miss Morstan a debt of gratitude. After all, one can hardly expect a married man to remain in bachelor quarters, and a good biographer is terribly hard to find these days." He tucked the instrument under his pointed chin and played a few experimental chords. "What say you, Watson?" he asked flippantly. "Any requests for this dark and foggy evening?"
Unsure of my voice, I said with emotion, "You know my preferences, Holmes."
"Indeed, I do," he replied solemnly. "It is one of the benefits of a long- standing and congenial partnership."
I silently but heartily agreed, allowing the Stradivarius to silence us both. If Fate had indeed sentenced me to a life of confirmed bachelorhood, I mused, I could think of no one better with which to share my prison cell.
~~
Well, that's it. Took me all of half an hour to write. It's fiendishly short, and I know that I made Mary Morstan a conniving fortune-hunter, but hey, it's MY alternate universe, so there! I still hope you liked it, and I'm getting right back to work on BST!
REVIEW!!