Prompt: A reunion between Stamford and the famous duo. Any time in their acquaintance, any location, and any genre.
A/N: At last! A computer! Apologies for the very late update, dear readers! I was hard pressed to find a computer that I could use for more than fifteen minutes.
This prompt released a huge assortment of bunnies! Among their number were the "Stamford had to Somehow Get Out of Rooming with Holmes" bunny, the "Stamford has a score to settle with Watson" bunny, the"Stamford Can't do Anything Right" bunny, and the "Stamford is Arthur Conan Doyle" bunny, but many of these were too complicated. I resorted to my tried and true method of coming up with a plot, i.e. staying up too late and writing down whatever my brain came up with. Hopefully this is more original than I'm starting to think it is...
Stamford was not an avid reader of the Strand.
He had not heard from his old acquaintance of Bart's since the day he'd stumbeld across him out of the blue. Watson had been looking for decent lodgings at a reasonable price, and said as much. The phrase had been used to Stamford earlier, which surprised him into mentioning the man who had said it. He'd introduced Watson to Sherlock Holmes, and they had decided to try lodging together. Stamford considered himself to be entirely responsible for bringing them together.
It had weighed quite heavily on his conscience ever since.
He had not meant to lead Watson to disaster like he had. It had just been a mistake--a slip of the tongue. He had made every effort to convince Watson that it was a bad idea without actually sounding rude. The man had been in Afghanistan, for the love of heaven, the last thing he needed was to share living quarters with Sherlock Holmes! Stamford had not heard from either of them for several years, but whenever he began remeniscing about the old days he recalled John Watson, and felt dreadfully guilty. He sometimes wondered how long it had lasted, and whether Watson, if he ever saw him again, would pick up the nearest heavy object and hurl it at him as a way of paying back what Stamford had done to him. In any case, Stamford did not expect to see either he nor Holmes ever again.
He was sitting in a bar one night, a bit less sober than was entirely becoming, waiting for it to stop raining. It was not the decent, heavy rainfall of a sturdy cloud that knows what it is doing, but the drizzling of a miserable day, just hard enough to be uncomfortable, but light enough that it was not entirely substantial. And there was fog everywhere. Stamford knew he should have been getting back soon, but he was loathe to go out in this weather. It would be wet and unpleasant out there, but where he was was dry and comfortable, and nothing would disturb him.
It came as rather a shock to him when the door was flung open, and even more of a shock when Watson walked in through it.
Well, not exactly walked. Ran, or scrambled, perhaps. Walking usually happens more slowly.
Stamford gaped at him as he tore towards the counter. "Watson?" he managed, after several long moments.
Watson had thrown himself on his knees and was hastily scrabbling at the panels along the counter. He glanced up at Stamford's voice. "Oh, hullo Stamford. Just a moment..."
He rushed round to the other side of the counter, much to the consternation of the bartender--"'Ere, you can't be--"
"Hah! Found it!" Watson swung a panel back, revealing a tunnel. The bartender gaped. Stamford gaped.
There was the sound of shots being fired, and the door to the bar crashed open once more, revealing the figure of Sherlock Holmes as he charged across the room. "You have it, Watson?" he shouted.
"Right here," the doctor responded, and Holmes leapt over the counter via a barstool and disappeared down the tunnel, Watson close at his heels.
A moment later four police officert escorted two handcuffed men into the room and brought them behind the counter. "Recognize this?" one of them asked. The man in his custody said nothing, and simply glared.
They waited for a couple minutes, and eventually voices echoed up from within the tunnel. Holmes and Watson resurfaced, covered in cobwebs and dust. Following them were half a dozen police officers, three handcuffed criminals, and a very agitated man in an expensive suit. "You devils!" he shouted. "You filthy devils! You slimy, fiendish devils!--"
"Thank you, Mr. Merrison, thank you," said Holmes calmly. "I think we can safely say that these men shall be jailed for a good long time for their crimes. Now please do calm yourself. I daresay you'll be wanting the music box as evidence, Inspector?"
"Indeed I shall, Mr. Holmes," said the small man with pointed features, "But I still cannot see how you knew itw as concealing the key! or how you knew where they were coming and going from!"
Holmes smiled knowingly. "I confess i was lucky on that last point, Lestrade," he said. "I was fortunate enough to have seen the source of the dust found at the original scene of the murder earlier that very day. However, the music box was simplicity itself. There were five--a collection of five music boxes, all similar in appearance, but all playing different songs. Your theory about the note was original, Lestrade, but entirely erroneous. None of the music boxes play pieces in Eb. And it was not the box itself that was valuable, but what it contained. I would advise sealing up that room, Mr. Merrison," he said, turning to the agitated gentleman. "Presumably you do not want its continued use--at least, not for its intended purpose?"
"Indeed not!"
"Now, Lestrade, I propose that you lock these men safely away for the time being. Come by Baker Street later and Watson and I will give you the details on this entire affair."
"Right." The inspector took hold of one of their prisoners. "You lot are in quite a bit of trouble..."
Watson came over and sat next to Stamford. "Hello there, Stamford," he said cheerfully. "Sorry about that--I was in a bit of a hurry. But that's all over now."
"Ah, Stamford," said Holmes, sitting on his other side. "You've done rather well for yourself--good to see that you have something to show for your late nights. I would advise a doctor for your wife's condition--it's certainly not serious, but it could save you both some discomfort."
Stamford looked back and forth from one to the other. "Hello Watson, Holmes." He tried to think of something else to say, but only one thing came to mind. "Er... you two are still sharing living quarters, then?"
"Oh yes," said Watson. "In fact, we have you to thank for that, don't we? It seems like a lifetime ago since we first came to Baker Street."
"Hah! It does indeed." Holmes smiled across at his friend and clapped Stamford on the back. "You've done us a greater service than you can imagine, Stamford, I daresay."
Stamford's head was spinning. He turned to Watson. "You're, er... doing all right?"
"Never better."
Stamford tried to adjust his mind to this new concept, which went against everything he'd supposed ever since that fateful day, and came to a quick conclusion.
"I think I might need another drink."
A/N: It's a bit generic, I'm afraid, but I enjoyed writing the conclusion-to-the-mystery scene so much that I couldn't bring myself to change it...