Author's Note:
Hmm, I have a bunch of stories in various stages of readiness, but I'm not sure about… well, a good half of them. Meh. I warn you, the future holds some strangeness for this little collection…
ANNOUNCEMENT:
Despite the paucity of active fans for this show, I'm starting a forum in the hopes that it will garner some discussion. I'd really like to be able to talk about SH22 with you guys, rather than rely solely this A/N & review exchange! So, you can find the forum in my profile: Eyes and Brains, My Dears. I don't have time just now to start a topic, but y'all are more than welcome to do so! Please, go check it out!
To my reviewers:
Elerrina Star: *snickers good-naturedly* Have you ever listened to the Complete Score for any of the LotR films? I have, and they're AWESOME. …Y'know, my cousin has told me that Jurassic Park's score was good, and he even gave me the CD… I'll have to listen to that, now. Anyway, yeees, you'll get more peaks (I think) at Lestrade's backstory in the future… and when I finally get up enough steam to do it, you'll actually see it firsthand in a future finale saga for the show. With what I have planned, it's reeeally important (and I'll even give you a little clue: it draws elements off of one of the previously-mentioned shows in fic 7). ^_-
bemj11: Muchas gracias! =D
Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, Stamford, and Lestrade are public domain. BLAN and LION are still the Doyle Estate's, here in the USA. Beth Lestrade, compudroid!Watson, and the whole 22nd Century thing are DiC's. Eileen and Helen Watson are mine.
==9. A Different Chronicle==
Rating: K+
Summary: Holmes tries his hand at chronicling the life of the best and wisest man he's ever known.
Pairing(s): possible H/L
Warnings: personal canon
Word Count: 878
He stared at the blank sheet of the word processor and wracked his mind for the proper introductory sentence. It was the first line that was always the toughest, wasn't it? How to introduce the subject, how to grab the reader's attention and make him want to read more.
Lestrade had kindly offered her "beta-reading" services, which would be less of a grammar edit and more of a listening ear, but he had to type something out for her to read before she could critique it.
He couldn't ask the compudroid to do it, either—read or edit. He cherished his new partner (not so new, anymore), but this was just something he could not involve Watson in. Considering the content matter? Absolutely not.
He bit his lip back and typed out the thought nagging at his mind, an adaptation of a line that had haunted him all the way to his death in his former life.
He was the best and wisest man I had ever known. His name was John Hamish Watson.
He licked his upper lip and sat back. Now what? Whatever he did, he had to avoid his style from "The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier" and "The Adventure of the Lion's Mane." The former was widely considered a flop by his own fans, and the latter did not garner much praise, either. Nor could he use the style in which he had written his monographs and Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. No, he had to do something different, something that would catch the eye of the rather capricious 22nd century reader.
He backspaced and started again.
On July 27th, 1880, amidst the tragic inferno of Maiwand, a young army surgeon was shot in the shoulder with a Jezail bullet. That bullet became a blessing in disguise, however, for
"Argh!" He pounded his forehead against the keyboard and looked up to see a jumble of random characters march across the formerly blank page. He pressed Ctrl+A, then Ctrl+X, leaned back in his seat, and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He picked up his early 1880s journal from the nearby stack of journals and leafed through until he found his own written account of his first meeting with Watson, written half a year after the fact. He smiled, a sad, fond smile, and began to type again.
"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
I looked from Michael Stamford to the quiet, browned fellow beside him and saw an army physician with a stern courage but a warm heart. Even worn and weary as the man was, he shone in a manner that I had seen few people shine. I surprised myself by instantly liking the man.
We shook hands, and I gripped the doctor's cheerfully—the first time in a long time that I had actually been pleased to meet someone. The strength of the man's hand startled me, for I would not have thought it just to look at him. Then again, people also thought that of myself.
His name, of course, was John Hamish Watson, and he remains the best and the wisest man I have ever known.
Sherlock Holmes smiled and nodded. Of course it needed work, but he knew that this was good.
John had always been the kind of man to deflect attention away from himself, allow someone else to stand in the spotlight. Few people had understood how intelligent, knowledgeable, and talented he had truly been. Possibly even fewer people in this day and age.
So Holmes was writing up a biography. John deserved that much, at least, and perhaps now people would know, would understand just how important and how amazing a man John had been.
Beth Lestrade accepted the first draft of the first three chapters with unguarded excitement. Despite being a diehard Sherlockian and the owner of Watson's journals, she had never actually read them, save the one time she had done so to find Watson's description of Moriarty. She once explained to Holmes that she considered those journals sacred ground, that she didn't feel comfortable with reading the man's deepest hopes and fears.
Holmes reminded himself to set her straight on that record as he handed her the print-out (he preferred having a printed copy, and she didn't mind). John would have wanted his descendants to know. Holmes knew that those journals had been meant to be passed on from generation to generation so that his future family would understand their lives with an intimacy that had never quite reached the pages of The Strand. Helen, John's firstborn by Eileen and the child most like himself, had been the one to possess the heirlooms after Watson's death—and Helen had married Geoffrey Lestrade's youngest son. It had come as no surprise to Holmes that the Lestrade family still held those journals.
Beth grinned at Holmes and said, "I can't wait to get home and get started. I'll get back with you tomorrow morning on them."
"There's no rush," Holmes smiled dryly.
"Pfft, there is in my book. Evening!"
Holmes shook his head as he watched her dash away. As incorrigible as both her great-etcetera-grandfathers, Watson and Lestrade. He smiled. He could think of no one better to carry on the family legacy.
Author's Note:
D'aw, they're so cute! *ducks tomatoes* Well, they aaare! ;D
Sherlock's third attempt is taken from one of the stories in my e-book, At the Mercy of the Mind: "90. Touch," Holmes & Watson's meeting as seen from Holmes's POV. Btw, I think it's grossly unfair that LION generally receives the same bashing that BLAN does. For one thing, BLAN isn't bad—it's just not up to par. For another, LION is much superior in overall storytelling—Holmes had obviously practiced. ;D
If you want more information on Eileen and Helen Watson, you can read my SH22 one-shot "Requiem for a Friend" or… You can read AMM, the e-book version. (Though the FF.N version has one story with them, the e-book has several, including one instance when Watson's two sons, ahem, "vandalized" Sherlock's sitting room in Sussex. ;D)
Also, it's just plain awesome that my personal canon regarding Watson, conceived months before I first watched SH22, fits incredibly well with the show. In SH22, the Lestrade family has possession of Watson's journals; in my personal canon, Watson's firstborn married Lestrade's youngest—thus, the journals really would have stayed with the Lestrade family. I mean, how cool is that?
Next Monday, another casual!Moriarty fic… ^_^ You'll see… (I can't resist: he's too much fun.) Stay tuned!
Please review!
