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wiseheartPosted here in case my fellow ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
picowrimo fighters wanted to see today's snippet in context.
September 6th 2014
“All right, that is one story you never told me,” Mary Watson (née Morstan) said, sitting down with her other half to the kitchen table for a shared breakfast on the next day.
John gave her a wry smile. “You can read it up in my blog, you know.”
“I have,” Mary poured tea into both cups – in her opinion mugs were something for coffee; tea ought to be served in proper cups. She’d even brought a nice old Worchester set into the marriage, just so that she could enforce the new rule. John didn’t mind, either way. “I prefer to hear it from you.”
“All right,” John had learned not to argue with his wife in such things; besides, he liked the way she listened to his stories with wide-eyed excitement. It was quite the ego boost, and he could use that. “As you know, it all started with an e-mail Sherlock got from an old schoolmate of his.”
“That slimy floor manager guy from the Shad Sanderson Bank you introduced me last month, right?” Mary asked with a disgusted grimace. “Was this the day when you had that row with the chip and pin machine at Tesco’s and decided to get a job?”
John stared at her with a frown. “You know about that, too?”
“I told you: I’ve read every single entry in your blog,” she replied. “I wanted to learn who you are; what makes you tick. By the way, that rant about the chip and pin machine? It was hilarious. So were the comments.”
“Well, yeah, they installed the bloody machines while I was off to Afghanistan,” John said, a bit defensively. “I still don’t see what they could possibly be good for – if anything.”
“Nobody does, love,” Mary patted his arm in an encouraging way. “The only purpose I can see is that they enable some shady government agency to keep tab on our shopping habits.”
John laughed at that. “I’d never have taken you for one of those paranoid conspiracy theorists.”
“I wasn’t,” Mary assured him. “But then you introduced me to Mycroft Holmes. Since then, I search the flat for surveillance cameras every day.”
“Ever found any?” John grinned, his admiration for his wife getting up another notch or two.
“At first, yeah,” Mary grinned back at her. “After I’d made rude gestures at whoever might have been watching and destroyed a few of them with a sledgehammer, though, they seemed to disappear. Either he gave up, or his minions actually learned their job. Nonetheless, I still check the most obvious places each day. Better safe than sorry.”
“Why the obvious places? You say yourself that they’re… well, obvious.”
“Yeah, but they’re also within easy reach,” Mary explained. “They are the places where a patient – or somebody disguised as a patient, or a plumber, or a gas worker or whatnot – can quickly and easily plant such things.”
“True,” John allowed. “That still leaves the other places. They can get into the flat while we’re both away and work undisturbed.”
“But those places won’t give them half as good a view as the obvious ones,” Mary pointed out practically. “And I check those places, too, once a week, just in case.”
John shook his head, laughing. “That’s it, no more James Bond marathons for you, Mrs Watson. They make you grossly paranoid.”
“That’s Doctor Watson for you, Captain,” Mary said sternly.
“Nope, Doctor Watson is me,” John replied. “You’re Doctor Morstan.”
“Then call me that, will you?”
“I could; but I kinda like the sound of Mrs Watson. It means that you’re mine. And vice versa.”
“Sap,” Mary tossed the bag of scones, freshly bought from the bakery on the corner, in his direction; aside from the china cups for tea, they didn’t stand on ceremony when it was just the two of them. “Well, eat up already and tell me the story. I want to know all about it, even the things that aren’t in your blog. Especially the things that aren’t in your blog.”
“I thought Sarah has told you the story long ago,” John stuffed a buttered scone, generously slathered with his favourite strawberry jam, into his face and allowed himself a moment of pure, unspoiled pleasure.
Wedded bliss had many forms, and he appreciated each and every one separately.
“She told me about you falling asleep on your first day in the job,” Mary followed suit, though with decidedly more elegance. “And how Sherlock kept interfering with your dates. And how she got kidnapped and nearly killed by the Chinese mafia because those idiots thought you were Sherlock.”
“Yeah, flattery isn’t all what people pretend it would be,” John agreed. “Hence the entry with both our photos on the blog. For further reference.”
“Flattery?” Mary raised a finely groomed eyebrow. “Let me tell you a secret, love: not every woman falls for tall, dark and bad-mannered. Some of us actually like the good things to come in small packages,” she leaned over the table and kissed him, licking the spot of jam off the corner of his mouth in the process. “In small… brave… cuddly packages,” she added, punctuating each word with quick little kisses.
“Keep this up and there won’t be any story today,” John warned. “Not that I’d mind, under normal circumstances, but I’ll have to make a trip to the National Antiques Museum after work, and that can take some time.”
“Why would you go there?”
“To talk to the director about ancient Chinese pottery,” John considered things for a moment, and then he grinned at his wife in his most winning manner; which, considering the fabled Watson charm, was quite the feat. “Fancy coming with me? I’ll tell you the story on the way; can even show you some of the crime scenes.”
picowrimo fighters wanted to see today's snippet in context.September 6th 2014
“All right, that is one story you never told me,” Mary Watson (née Morstan) said, sitting down with her other half to the kitchen table for a shared breakfast on the next day.
John gave her a wry smile. “You can read it up in my blog, you know.”
“I have,” Mary poured tea into both cups – in her opinion mugs were something for coffee; tea ought to be served in proper cups. She’d even brought a nice old Worchester set into the marriage, just so that she could enforce the new rule. John didn’t mind, either way. “I prefer to hear it from you.”
“All right,” John had learned not to argue with his wife in such things; besides, he liked the way she listened to his stories with wide-eyed excitement. It was quite the ego boost, and he could use that. “As you know, it all started with an e-mail Sherlock got from an old schoolmate of his.”
“That slimy floor manager guy from the Shad Sanderson Bank you introduced me last month, right?” Mary asked with a disgusted grimace. “Was this the day when you had that row with the chip and pin machine at Tesco’s and decided to get a job?”
John stared at her with a frown. “You know about that, too?”
“I told you: I’ve read every single entry in your blog,” she replied. “I wanted to learn who you are; what makes you tick. By the way, that rant about the chip and pin machine? It was hilarious. So were the comments.”
“Well, yeah, they installed the bloody machines while I was off to Afghanistan,” John said, a bit defensively. “I still don’t see what they could possibly be good for – if anything.”
“Nobody does, love,” Mary patted his arm in an encouraging way. “The only purpose I can see is that they enable some shady government agency to keep tab on our shopping habits.”
John laughed at that. “I’d never have taken you for one of those paranoid conspiracy theorists.”
“I wasn’t,” Mary assured him. “But then you introduced me to Mycroft Holmes. Since then, I search the flat for surveillance cameras every day.”
“Ever found any?” John grinned, his admiration for his wife getting up another notch or two.
“At first, yeah,” Mary grinned back at her. “After I’d made rude gestures at whoever might have been watching and destroyed a few of them with a sledgehammer, though, they seemed to disappear. Either he gave up, or his minions actually learned their job. Nonetheless, I still check the most obvious places each day. Better safe than sorry.”
“Why the obvious places? You say yourself that they’re… well, obvious.”
“Yeah, but they’re also within easy reach,” Mary explained. “They are the places where a patient – or somebody disguised as a patient, or a plumber, or a gas worker or whatnot – can quickly and easily plant such things.”
“True,” John allowed. “That still leaves the other places. They can get into the flat while we’re both away and work undisturbed.”
“But those places won’t give them half as good a view as the obvious ones,” Mary pointed out practically. “And I check those places, too, once a week, just in case.”
John shook his head, laughing. “That’s it, no more James Bond marathons for you, Mrs Watson. They make you grossly paranoid.”
“That’s Doctor Watson for you, Captain,” Mary said sternly.
“Nope, Doctor Watson is me,” John replied. “You’re Doctor Morstan.”
“Then call me that, will you?”
“I could; but I kinda like the sound of Mrs Watson. It means that you’re mine. And vice versa.”
“Sap,” Mary tossed the bag of scones, freshly bought from the bakery on the corner, in his direction; aside from the china cups for tea, they didn’t stand on ceremony when it was just the two of them. “Well, eat up already and tell me the story. I want to know all about it, even the things that aren’t in your blog. Especially the things that aren’t in your blog.”
“I thought Sarah has told you the story long ago,” John stuffed a buttered scone, generously slathered with his favourite strawberry jam, into his face and allowed himself a moment of pure, unspoiled pleasure.
Wedded bliss had many forms, and he appreciated each and every one separately.
“She told me about you falling asleep on your first day in the job,” Mary followed suit, though with decidedly more elegance. “And how Sherlock kept interfering with your dates. And how she got kidnapped and nearly killed by the Chinese mafia because those idiots thought you were Sherlock.”
“Yeah, flattery isn’t all what people pretend it would be,” John agreed. “Hence the entry with both our photos on the blog. For further reference.”
“Flattery?” Mary raised a finely groomed eyebrow. “Let me tell you a secret, love: not every woman falls for tall, dark and bad-mannered. Some of us actually like the good things to come in small packages,” she leaned over the table and kissed him, licking the spot of jam off the corner of his mouth in the process. “In small… brave… cuddly packages,” she added, punctuating each word with quick little kisses.
“Keep this up and there won’t be any story today,” John warned. “Not that I’d mind, under normal circumstances, but I’ll have to make a trip to the National Antiques Museum after work, and that can take some time.”
“Why would you go there?”
“To talk to the director about ancient Chinese pottery,” John considered things for a moment, and then he grinned at his wife in his most winning manner; which, considering the fabled Watson charm, was quite the feat. “Fancy coming with me? I’ll tell you the story on the way; can even show you some of the crime scenes.”
(no subject)
Date: 2013-07-22 07:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-07-22 08:18 pm (UTC)