[Author's note: Hmm... guess FF.NET doesn't show html links. That LOTR
spoof site is pretty cute though! ^_^
Maybe I should take another chip of mysha's block and start a mailing list. Let me know if you think that's cool.
Thank you for reviewing!!!!!! He he:
NOOKA: man. a consistent reviewer. Yay! *Pat on head* Sigh. younger siblings... Can't live with 'em, can't live without . hmmm. *kick grass*
MYSHA: another *see above*! *Poke, poke* *bug, bug* (hey! My own version of "nudge, nudge" *gasp* I get to see Eric Idle's "Greedy Bastard Tour"! *Dance*)
CASEY: Eh heh. No! I didn't mean to stereotypi-cide (dumb word) those Alaskans! *Back away slowly* Hehe. Hope you like the cheery Alaskans in this chapter! Again, please don't be offended by my ... Idiotic-ness. Shit. And I forgot about their wacky time thing too. Pwahahaha Just wait and see how MY Alaska, in the 22nd century, is like. Hey, they messed with the moon; they can mess with the sun too! *Raspberry* You know I'm just kidding!!
*********************
Disclaimer: I'm not stereotyping anybody (Yes, that is a word I made up.), and let it be known to ppl everywhere, there are all types of people in all types of places. So there.
And now, on with the motley! (And I don't even start this ficcy with Holmes' name, either! Aren't you proud?)]
*********************
Lestrade wrinkled her nose as she entered the massage parlor. It smelled good. too good; like air freshener spilled on a rug. And all the people she passed were cheery and had white gloves on. Her hand tightened on her ionizer when suddenly someone tapped her on the back. Whirling around, gun ready, Lestrade came face to face with the cheeriest one of them all, who, of course, became a little less cheery when he looked down the fully charged barrel of a police ionizer.
"Oh dear me!" He cried with a hiccup. "I'm afraid we'll have to confiscate that gun of yours, ma'am!" Lestrade glared at him, and he cowered under her look, muttering that they'd give it back to her after she was done with her relaxing day. Squinting her eyes suspiciously, Lestrade handed over her gun slowly, and when she did, stomped angrily to the nearby locker room to change into the skimpy robe the man had exchanged her firearm for. At the sight of her back, the bald headed man released a sigh of relief.
*********************
Arriving at a convenience booth on the corner of a street, Holmes quickly punched in the number of the cab he had shoved his partner into. ("Partner"? You know you didn't mean that.) It was getting dark already, but the Alaskan's manmade solar beams were beginning to light up the place, so that it seemed like day still. They brought a little warmth back into the detective's hands as well, and he waited impatiently for the driver of the cab to answer the call he made. He was answered by a robotic voice that informed him of the location of the cab's last stop. It was a massage parlor not far from where Holmes stood, so he copied down the location and went on his way; smiling to every person he passed.
He took a deep breath before entering the parlor, walked up to the young lady at the counter, put on his most charming smile (hell yea.), and asked in a voice to match, "Excuse me, but could you tell me if a pretty young lady like yourself, about your height, your hair color, and wearing a Yardie uniform, just came in?"
Holmes had to keep himself from barfing when the young lady, obviously bored after a day of answering phone calls, gave him a coquettish smile. "Well now, I guess I could change for you if you'd like!" She checked the clock and turned back to him, "And I'll be on my break soon too." The girl winked at him, curling her hair with a manicured finger.
Holmes backed away as quickly as he could, remembering to bow his head so as to remain polite. Sitting himself down on the chair, Holmes resisted the urge to go back to the girl. She had been kind of pretty, but he had to stay.
He stopped himself. Stay loyal to what? Did he have to remain to his bachelorhood? He wasn't gay, and he didn't have a girlfriend, and he had heard someone say he was quite a turn on to young girls. And besides, Lestrade liked him didn't she? Perhaps it was high time he rethought his ideals of love. It was the twenty second century anyway.
Holmes stood up and was just about to head back to the counter and try out his skills of baiting women (hoo boy) when something caught his eye. Well, it's not hard to see a beat up construction worker with a black eye, but what interested Holmes more was the slimmer, sleazier one next to him. The sleazy one had dark sleazy hair and a pair of dark sleazy eyes. He was the very picture of crime!
Holmes had never seen him before in his life.
They made sure nobody was looking, and then slipped into the girl's side of the parlor. Nobody in the room noticed, and since no screams issued from inside, nobody outside the room noticed either. Unless they didn't have time to notice.
Concentrating his thoughts and trying (not very hardly, you can imagine) to ignore the coughs coming from the front desk, skillfully maneuvered toward his direction, Holmes began to get suspicious. The sleazy one HAD been carrying a small can of something under his jacket. And he HAD had an eerily famliar stagger in his step.
Sherlock changed courses. Even if Lestrade wasn't here, he needed to make sure no harm would come to the ladies. Just in case. Following the sleazy ones' example, Holmes made sure nobody was watching before, covering his eyes with a wary hand, Holmes entered the dressing room labeled in big red letters, "LADIES".
*********************
"Ah. This is the life." Lestrade lay on the soft mat, careful not to fall asleep. It was definitely the most relaxing day ever. And her masseuse hadn't even come yet. Grinning to herself (thinking about Greyson in his little office yelling his gray hair out made her laugh) as she removed her robe and wrapped a towel around her waist, Lestrade again set herself down on the mat, noticing delightfully how she'd rather be there relaxing then be with Holmes any day. Well, maybe not. Lestrade slapped herself. What was she thinking?
Before she had time to weigh one oppurtunity against the other, she heard the door to her little white room open. Soft steps approached her table, but when she felt the hands touch her skin, they were sticky and cold and ungraceful.
"Here's where the good day ends." Her thoughts chided. Luckily the masseuse wasn't a mindreader, since he went on prodding with his icky fingers. And to top it all off, the man was singing completely off key, and obviously had the flu. Lestrade groaned to herself and smacked her forehead onto the head support, arms limp off the table. At least she didn't have to pay for it all. She had almost charged it to Holmes' card. But then she realized she didn't want to be mean (she'd have to see his angry face for god knows how long. at least until the end of their trip.) and charged it to Greyson instead. The good thing about that was that the man was a billion miles away and wouldn't be able to reach her for at least a day.
Beth thanked the gods above when the masseuse finally stopped and stepped out. Not before, however, informing her in a singsong voice that'd he be back in a bit. "Zed." She groaned. "Why don't I just smack him and get it over with?" Deciding to do so just as the door opened again, Lestrade placed her head back into the head supporter, which was merely a hole through the matted table for her head to fit into. From there she could see the man enter again. Bracing herself for the touch of ice to her skin, Lestrade was surprised to find a new pair of hands had taken over. Phew! What a relief.
What a difference there was between the first man and this new substitute! The fingers danced lightly but firmly over her bare skin. They seemed to be everywhere at the same time: first her neck, then her shoulders, and now near her waists. Beth Lestrade let out an unrestrained sigh of comfort. Who knew she could feel so relaxed by just laying down and pushing a few muscles?
"I'll bet the girl next door isn't having this much fun." She thought to herself, glancing over to her right. She could see the translucent wall, and a slight color change or movement told her what was going on. Chuckling merrily to herself, she relaxed again and gave in to the skillful fingers of her captor.
Since she had nothing better to do, she imagined the body and the face that came along with the long skillful hands. He must be tall, since his fingers were so long. He had to be graceful, but not feminine. He had to be an intelligent man, but not a dork. Oh yea, and he had to have a big, hard, long-
Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by the masseuse himself. Soft lips inches away from her ear, he whispered softly, "Inspector, I think you've had enough of this, don't you agree?"
*********************
[Sheesh! How do you people get your chapters to be so long? It makes me feel guilty.]
Lestrade almost sat up straight, but remembered her state of cloth and stayed down. She knew that voice only too well.
Turning her head slowly toward the voice, Lestrade nearly sat up again when she saw the face of Sherlock Holmes. And he looked very pleased with himself, too.
"HOLMES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The smile widened. "Yes, Inspector?" A chortle escaped his throat (which Lestrade wanted to throttle), and he stretched his arms and fingers showingly. Laughing again, he removed his long masseuse coat and offered it to Lestrade. "You look cold, Inspector. And I have a funny feeling that this would be very useful to you." His blue eyes scanned her up and down as best as the eyes of a Victorian gentleman would allow. After he was sure that she would not make the sculptures of the Italian Renaissance look like nuns, he offered his arm to her politely. Lestrade just glared and asked harshly, "Why are you here again?"
Withdrawing his arm with a shrug, Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, "Relaxing you I suppose."
Lestrade crossed her arms crossly and tapped her foot. But then she stopped when she felt the towel get loose. Sherlock noticed to her embarassment, and (handed her his pants) led the way to the locker where she kept her clothes as he told her of his suspicions that Fenwick, the French henchman of his archenemy James Moriarty, was in the building. They reached the locker and Lestrade took out her stuff, motioning for Holmes to turn the other way as she dressed. Looking around (at all the other women in the locker room.) [A/N: no! the locker room was empty! Miraculously!] everywhere except there, Sherlock whistled nonchalantly, as if Lestrade was merely examining some evidence he had already seen.
When she finally cleared her throat to let him know she was decent, he turned back round and held the door open for her. They walked down the white halls in silence, their footsteps echoing sharply back at them. But then came to their ears, another set of footsteps. Running footsteps.
"STOP, THEIF!"
[A/N: Merriam Webster's entry: Main Entry: massage parlor
Function: noun
Date: 1913: an establishment that provides massage treatments; also: one offering sexual services in addition to or in lieu of massage No kidding, huh?
Sneak preview for next chapter (as it is very likely it will not come soon): Yardie uniforms, although made of Spandex, are not very warm and do not withstand icy cold waters very well. Enjoy the cliffy and leave a long, interesting, and tip-giving review.]
Maybe I should take another chip of mysha's block and start a mailing list. Let me know if you think that's cool.
Thank you for reviewing!!!!!! He he:
NOOKA: man. a consistent reviewer. Yay! *Pat on head* Sigh. younger siblings... Can't live with 'em, can't live without . hmmm. *kick grass*
MYSHA: another *see above*! *Poke, poke* *bug, bug* (hey! My own version of "nudge, nudge" *gasp* I get to see Eric Idle's "Greedy Bastard Tour"! *Dance*)
CASEY: Eh heh. No! I didn't mean to stereotypi-cide (dumb word) those Alaskans! *Back away slowly* Hehe. Hope you like the cheery Alaskans in this chapter! Again, please don't be offended by my ... Idiotic-ness. Shit. And I forgot about their wacky time thing too. Pwahahaha Just wait and see how MY Alaska, in the 22nd century, is like. Hey, they messed with the moon; they can mess with the sun too! *Raspberry* You know I'm just kidding!!
*********************
Disclaimer: I'm not stereotyping anybody (Yes, that is a word I made up.), and let it be known to ppl everywhere, there are all types of people in all types of places. So there.
And now, on with the motley! (And I don't even start this ficcy with Holmes' name, either! Aren't you proud?)]
*********************
Lestrade wrinkled her nose as she entered the massage parlor. It smelled good. too good; like air freshener spilled on a rug. And all the people she passed were cheery and had white gloves on. Her hand tightened on her ionizer when suddenly someone tapped her on the back. Whirling around, gun ready, Lestrade came face to face with the cheeriest one of them all, who, of course, became a little less cheery when he looked down the fully charged barrel of a police ionizer.
"Oh dear me!" He cried with a hiccup. "I'm afraid we'll have to confiscate that gun of yours, ma'am!" Lestrade glared at him, and he cowered under her look, muttering that they'd give it back to her after she was done with her relaxing day. Squinting her eyes suspiciously, Lestrade handed over her gun slowly, and when she did, stomped angrily to the nearby locker room to change into the skimpy robe the man had exchanged her firearm for. At the sight of her back, the bald headed man released a sigh of relief.
*********************
Arriving at a convenience booth on the corner of a street, Holmes quickly punched in the number of the cab he had shoved his partner into. ("Partner"? You know you didn't mean that.) It was getting dark already, but the Alaskan's manmade solar beams were beginning to light up the place, so that it seemed like day still. They brought a little warmth back into the detective's hands as well, and he waited impatiently for the driver of the cab to answer the call he made. He was answered by a robotic voice that informed him of the location of the cab's last stop. It was a massage parlor not far from where Holmes stood, so he copied down the location and went on his way; smiling to every person he passed.
He took a deep breath before entering the parlor, walked up to the young lady at the counter, put on his most charming smile (hell yea.), and asked in a voice to match, "Excuse me, but could you tell me if a pretty young lady like yourself, about your height, your hair color, and wearing a Yardie uniform, just came in?"
Holmes had to keep himself from barfing when the young lady, obviously bored after a day of answering phone calls, gave him a coquettish smile. "Well now, I guess I could change for you if you'd like!" She checked the clock and turned back to him, "And I'll be on my break soon too." The girl winked at him, curling her hair with a manicured finger.
Holmes backed away as quickly as he could, remembering to bow his head so as to remain polite. Sitting himself down on the chair, Holmes resisted the urge to go back to the girl. She had been kind of pretty, but he had to stay.
He stopped himself. Stay loyal to what? Did he have to remain to his bachelorhood? He wasn't gay, and he didn't have a girlfriend, and he had heard someone say he was quite a turn on to young girls. And besides, Lestrade liked him didn't she? Perhaps it was high time he rethought his ideals of love. It was the twenty second century anyway.
Holmes stood up and was just about to head back to the counter and try out his skills of baiting women (hoo boy) when something caught his eye. Well, it's not hard to see a beat up construction worker with a black eye, but what interested Holmes more was the slimmer, sleazier one next to him. The sleazy one had dark sleazy hair and a pair of dark sleazy eyes. He was the very picture of crime!
Holmes had never seen him before in his life.
They made sure nobody was looking, and then slipped into the girl's side of the parlor. Nobody in the room noticed, and since no screams issued from inside, nobody outside the room noticed either. Unless they didn't have time to notice.
Concentrating his thoughts and trying (not very hardly, you can imagine) to ignore the coughs coming from the front desk, skillfully maneuvered toward his direction, Holmes began to get suspicious. The sleazy one HAD been carrying a small can of something under his jacket. And he HAD had an eerily famliar stagger in his step.
Sherlock changed courses. Even if Lestrade wasn't here, he needed to make sure no harm would come to the ladies. Just in case. Following the sleazy ones' example, Holmes made sure nobody was watching before, covering his eyes with a wary hand, Holmes entered the dressing room labeled in big red letters, "LADIES".
*********************
"Ah. This is the life." Lestrade lay on the soft mat, careful not to fall asleep. It was definitely the most relaxing day ever. And her masseuse hadn't even come yet. Grinning to herself (thinking about Greyson in his little office yelling his gray hair out made her laugh) as she removed her robe and wrapped a towel around her waist, Lestrade again set herself down on the mat, noticing delightfully how she'd rather be there relaxing then be with Holmes any day. Well, maybe not. Lestrade slapped herself. What was she thinking?
Before she had time to weigh one oppurtunity against the other, she heard the door to her little white room open. Soft steps approached her table, but when she felt the hands touch her skin, they were sticky and cold and ungraceful.
"Here's where the good day ends." Her thoughts chided. Luckily the masseuse wasn't a mindreader, since he went on prodding with his icky fingers. And to top it all off, the man was singing completely off key, and obviously had the flu. Lestrade groaned to herself and smacked her forehead onto the head support, arms limp off the table. At least she didn't have to pay for it all. She had almost charged it to Holmes' card. But then she realized she didn't want to be mean (she'd have to see his angry face for god knows how long. at least until the end of their trip.) and charged it to Greyson instead. The good thing about that was that the man was a billion miles away and wouldn't be able to reach her for at least a day.
Beth thanked the gods above when the masseuse finally stopped and stepped out. Not before, however, informing her in a singsong voice that'd he be back in a bit. "Zed." She groaned. "Why don't I just smack him and get it over with?" Deciding to do so just as the door opened again, Lestrade placed her head back into the head supporter, which was merely a hole through the matted table for her head to fit into. From there she could see the man enter again. Bracing herself for the touch of ice to her skin, Lestrade was surprised to find a new pair of hands had taken over. Phew! What a relief.
What a difference there was between the first man and this new substitute! The fingers danced lightly but firmly over her bare skin. They seemed to be everywhere at the same time: first her neck, then her shoulders, and now near her waists. Beth Lestrade let out an unrestrained sigh of comfort. Who knew she could feel so relaxed by just laying down and pushing a few muscles?
"I'll bet the girl next door isn't having this much fun." She thought to herself, glancing over to her right. She could see the translucent wall, and a slight color change or movement told her what was going on. Chuckling merrily to herself, she relaxed again and gave in to the skillful fingers of her captor.
Since she had nothing better to do, she imagined the body and the face that came along with the long skillful hands. He must be tall, since his fingers were so long. He had to be graceful, but not feminine. He had to be an intelligent man, but not a dork. Oh yea, and he had to have a big, hard, long-
Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by the masseuse himself. Soft lips inches away from her ear, he whispered softly, "Inspector, I think you've had enough of this, don't you agree?"
*********************
[Sheesh! How do you people get your chapters to be so long? It makes me feel guilty.]
Lestrade almost sat up straight, but remembered her state of cloth and stayed down. She knew that voice only too well.
Turning her head slowly toward the voice, Lestrade nearly sat up again when she saw the face of Sherlock Holmes. And he looked very pleased with himself, too.
"HOLMES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The smile widened. "Yes, Inspector?" A chortle escaped his throat (which Lestrade wanted to throttle), and he stretched his arms and fingers showingly. Laughing again, he removed his long masseuse coat and offered it to Lestrade. "You look cold, Inspector. And I have a funny feeling that this would be very useful to you." His blue eyes scanned her up and down as best as the eyes of a Victorian gentleman would allow. After he was sure that she would not make the sculptures of the Italian Renaissance look like nuns, he offered his arm to her politely. Lestrade just glared and asked harshly, "Why are you here again?"
Withdrawing his arm with a shrug, Sherlock answered matter-of-factly, "Relaxing you I suppose."
Lestrade crossed her arms crossly and tapped her foot. But then she stopped when she felt the towel get loose. Sherlock noticed to her embarassment, and (handed her his pants) led the way to the locker where she kept her clothes as he told her of his suspicions that Fenwick, the French henchman of his archenemy James Moriarty, was in the building. They reached the locker and Lestrade took out her stuff, motioning for Holmes to turn the other way as she dressed. Looking around (at all the other women in the locker room.) [A/N: no! the locker room was empty! Miraculously!] everywhere except there, Sherlock whistled nonchalantly, as if Lestrade was merely examining some evidence he had already seen.
When she finally cleared her throat to let him know she was decent, he turned back round and held the door open for her. They walked down the white halls in silence, their footsteps echoing sharply back at them. But then came to their ears, another set of footsteps. Running footsteps.
"STOP, THEIF!"
[A/N: Merriam Webster's entry: Main Entry: massage parlor
Function: noun
Date: 1913: an establishment that provides massage treatments; also: one offering sexual services in addition to or in lieu of massage No kidding, huh?
Sneak preview for next chapter (as it is very likely it will not come soon): Yardie uniforms, although made of Spandex, are not very warm and do not withstand icy cold waters very well. Enjoy the cliffy and leave a long, interesting, and tip-giving review.]