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holmesticeTitle: The Curious Case of the Coiffured Clue
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tazlet
Author:methylviolet10b
Pairings: Holmes/Watson, if you have your slash goggles on; safe enough to interpret as Holmes and Watson friendship if you don't
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, unless details of personal grooming and Victorian barbers disturb you
Details of prompt request: I'd like a parody of any of the Holmesian story tropes; a case fic;
It had been a long and incredibly frustrating fortnight. Lestrade had come to Holmes with what had appeared to be a relatively straightforward swindling case. A number of wealthy individuals - and two banks - had been fooled into investing considerable sums into what looked like sound, reasonable investments, only to discover after the initial outlay that the so-called 'sure thing' was anything but. The people and businesses vanished as if they had never been - except for the mocking letters sent to the victims after the fact.
Normally such a relatively humdrum affair would not have piqued Holmes' interest. Nor would Lestrade - who despite Holmes' frequent disparagements, was a seasoned and methodical investigator - usually bring something like this to my friend. But the sheer flamboyance of some of the schemes - and the malicious, mocking nature of the notes, which savoured of the possibility of future blackmail - kindled Holmes' curiosity, as well as his always-present sense of justice. Lestrade's appeal to his expertise also gratified my Holmes' ego. He agreed to assist Lestrade, all the while playing down the affair as a thoroughly trivial matter that would doubtless take but a few days to resolve.
The fact that it had not proven so simple a matter had both intrigued and frustrated Holmes. Several times we seemed to be close to a solution, only to discover that somehow the gang - for it was the work of several people, we were certain of that - had anticipated us, and either changed operations, avoided our traps, or concluded their business and moved out mere hours before we could trace them.
That was bad enough. But the last few days had brought further taunting messages, this time to 221B, addressed to Holmes himself. The gang was well aware that Holmes, and not just the Yard, was on its tracks, and mocked their efforts all alike. Mocked Holmes, in language as cutting as it was contemptuous.
Such open disregard for his talents, and the continuing success of the gang, infuriated Holmes. He did not show it to the Yard, but I saw his anger first-hand, in the privacy of our rooms. Indeed, I bore the brunt of his frustrations more than once. And while I knew there was nothing personal in it, I sometimes found it difficult not to smart under it all the same.
Today, Holmes had gone so far as to banish me from our rooms entirely. He insisted that he needed absolute solitude to think, and as always, I obeyed his commands, as little as they might agree with my own wishes. True, I was not sorry to escape the noxious atmosphere of our sitting-room, clouded as it was with temper and shag-smoke. But I was hardly inclined to venture out into the damp, chilly weather of a dismal London spring, either. Nor did I feel up to the casual bonhomie of my club, where I would doubtless be met with inquiries about Holmes as well as myself. My own mood was not up to the strain of socializing with my fellow-man; my old wounds were not up to staying out in the weather.
What, then, to do with myself?
A stiff breeze threatened to dislodge my bowler. I raised one hand to steady it, and realized that my hair had grown rather longer than usual. This latest case had come hard on the heels of several others, and I had not had time to make my usual trip to the barber shop. And while I had no appointment, it was likely that Montgomery would be able to fit me in. Both Holmes and I were valued and frequent customers.
The shop was only a few blocks from Baker Street. I set out with a will, and despite the weather, the exercise did my mood good. I was nearly my usual self by the time I walked through the well-known door and into the cosy confines of Montgomery's shop.
To my surprise, he was not the only barber working there that day. A younger man, with a decidedly foppish but meticulous hairstyle, was working alongside him.
“Ah, yes, that's my son-in-law, George,” Montgomery told me after greeting me. “He married Betsy, my eldest. You remember her of course?”
I assured him that I did. She had been one of my patients, as had most of the Montgomery family at one time or another.
“Yes, well, he's also in the trade, although he takes a slightly different line. Far more interested in the latest fashions than I am. But it's good to learn what's fashionable, isn't it? Just as it's good for him to be reminded of the basic craft, and what most gentlemen actually want. He'll give you as close a shave as any barber in London, for all that he's over-fond of perfumed pomades and artfully dishevelled locks.”
I had a brief but powerful surge of curiosity of what Holmes' reaction would be should I return to Baker Street with tousled waves instead of a newly-shortened haircut. Had he been in a sunnier temper, or languishing between cases, I might have tried the experiment, as it well could have provided entertaining - or exhilarating - results. But as things were, I tamped down the urge and simply requested a haircut, moustache-trim, and shave, all in my usual style.
George proved as skilful as his father-in-law claimed. I'd rarely had a better shave, and he trimmed my moustache into its usual military neatness with sure, swift movements. The haircut I received was equally impeccable, but I could not dissuade him from treating my hair with a different tonic, one that he assured me would provide a subtle gloss as well as keeping my hair neatly in order. The hair-cream was rather more heavily scented than I preferred, but I had to admit, upon inspection in the mirror, that the end result was everything that he'd claimed.
Pleased, I tipped him well, and after a further exchange of pleasantries, ventured back out onto the street. The earlier squall had passed, but it was still chilly with a pervasive drizzle. I promptly made my way to the bookseller's shop nearest Baker Street, and spent several comfortable hours there, browsing through the shelves and leafing through the pages of a seafaring adventure novel while ensconced in one of the many comfortable chairs scattered throughout the establishment for just such a purpose. In fact, I remained there, delaying my purchase and departure until the shopkeeper started closing the shutters.
“You've been at the bookseller's, I see,” Holmes' voice greeted me as I entered our sitting-room.
I waved a hand in front of my face, futilely trying to clear away the thick fog of smoke. “Good God, Holmes, I'm amazed you can see anything in this atmosphere.” I did not bother to remove my hat or coat, but I placed my paper-wrapped book onto the table by the door before making my way to the nearest window to open it.
“The smoke is inconsequential, Watson,” Holmes snapped. “What is hidden in its miasma is unimportant compared to what can be revealed in its consumption. You know I have solved some of my most difficult cases merely by sitting, smoking, and thinking over the facts.”
I hardly needed my years of experience with Holmes' moods to interpret this response, but I did my best to be encouraging. “And I'm certain you'll solve this one, Holmes.”
“I'm missing something, Watson.” Holmes' expression remained peevish despite my words. “I know it. There's something crucial, some connection I have not yet observed. I have turned over every fact in my mind, every scrap of evidence we have. I have deduced two likely next targets, strategized no less than five ploys that should result in the capture of the gang, and yet it is all useless. Until I determine exactly how we are being circumvented, it is all for naught.”
I would not have dared disagree with him even had I thought him wrong - and I knew he was right. I doffed my hat and removed my coat, hanging up both before I moved to stand next to his chair. “Whatever the source of their intelligence, it is not us, Holmes. We could act independently.”
“We could - if we could trust all the data. But much of what we know comes from sources we cannot trust, not fully. From the Yard. From the victims of these frauds, one or more of whom might actually be in collusion with the gang. From the - ” Holmes broke off. His grey eyes focused directly on me, and his eyebrows lifted. “You've been to the barber, but that's not quite your usual style, and that's definitely a different hair tonic. You've changed barbers?”
“No, Holmes. Montgomery had his son-in-law working at his shop today, that's all.” Holmes' gaze remained riveted on my face, and I felt my cheeks heat. Being the recipient of Holmes' full attention is a heady experience. “I was lucky to come away with merely a different tonic, and not a completely different hairstyle altogether. Young George has ambitions, and strives to be fashionable. I just wanted a haircut and a good shave. An extra expense, perhaps, but I suppose I've earned the indulgence after the week we've had.”
Holmes' eyes took on that faraway, dreamy expression I have only seen rarely: when he is exerting his full powers; when he is enraptured by a particular piece of music; when he is fully relaxed, in the heat of the Turkish bath or the heart of our chambers; when he is entirely transported. It is a look I love to see. Moments later, Holmes sprang from his chair and seized my face in between both his hands. He stared at me as if fascinated, almost as if he'd never seen me before. His fingers stroked lightly over my freshly-shaven skin.
“H - Holmes?” I could scarcely hear myself over the sudden thundering of my pulse. Pure surprise rendered me motionless; other emotions held me there.
“Shh.” Holmes silenced me with one long finger placed over my lips. His other fingers continued to trace delicate patterns over my cheeks. His grey eyes bored into mine, scant inches away. “I think… Ah! I have it!” He grinned, his entire countenance shining with delight. “My dear Watson, I cannot thank you enough.”
“For what?”
“For your entirely fortuitous decision to visit the barber today.” One last stroke of his fingers, and then he sprang away, shedding his dressing-gown. “You have a decided genius for being exactly where I need you to be, Watson, even when you don't know it.”
“You mean you wanted me to go to the barber's today?”
Holmes bestowed a fondly exasperated look in my direction as he slipped into his coat. “My dear Watson, always drawing the incorrect conclusion. If I had drawn enough of the correct inferences, I should not have needed you to go to the barber's at all. Now come! Put on your hat and coat, for we must be off!”
I did not bother to ask where. I did, however, take the precaution of slipping my revolver into my coat pocket before following Holmes down the stairs.
We have had many close shaves in our years together, Holmes and I; near escapes from assault, injury, and death. But this was the very first time that a literal close shave on my part helped solve a case. The immaculate state of my whiskers stirred a memory in Holmes' mind, of a police sergeant whose own carefully coiffured locks and smooth face bespoke personal grooming far above the usual range of the average policeman's salary. He had spent some of the money gained from his informing activities on trips to a fancy bath-house. His sudden turn to cleanliness was his downfall, as it was for the gang.
And afterwards, Holmes expressed due appreciation for my inadvertent assistance - through improved appearance - in a most satisfactory manner. We were, after all, both fond of the Turkish bath.
Recipient:
tazletAuthor:
methylviolet10bPairings: Holmes/Watson, if you have your slash goggles on; safe enough to interpret as Holmes and Watson friendship if you don't
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, unless details of personal grooming and Victorian barbers disturb you
Details of prompt request: I'd like a parody of any of the Holmesian story tropes; a case fic;
It had been a long and incredibly frustrating fortnight. Lestrade had come to Holmes with what had appeared to be a relatively straightforward swindling case. A number of wealthy individuals - and two banks - had been fooled into investing considerable sums into what looked like sound, reasonable investments, only to discover after the initial outlay that the so-called 'sure thing' was anything but. The people and businesses vanished as if they had never been - except for the mocking letters sent to the victims after the fact.
Normally such a relatively humdrum affair would not have piqued Holmes' interest. Nor would Lestrade - who despite Holmes' frequent disparagements, was a seasoned and methodical investigator - usually bring something like this to my friend. But the sheer flamboyance of some of the schemes - and the malicious, mocking nature of the notes, which savoured of the possibility of future blackmail - kindled Holmes' curiosity, as well as his always-present sense of justice. Lestrade's appeal to his expertise also gratified my Holmes' ego. He agreed to assist Lestrade, all the while playing down the affair as a thoroughly trivial matter that would doubtless take but a few days to resolve.
The fact that it had not proven so simple a matter had both intrigued and frustrated Holmes. Several times we seemed to be close to a solution, only to discover that somehow the gang - for it was the work of several people, we were certain of that - had anticipated us, and either changed operations, avoided our traps, or concluded their business and moved out mere hours before we could trace them.
That was bad enough. But the last few days had brought further taunting messages, this time to 221B, addressed to Holmes himself. The gang was well aware that Holmes, and not just the Yard, was on its tracks, and mocked their efforts all alike. Mocked Holmes, in language as cutting as it was contemptuous.
Such open disregard for his talents, and the continuing success of the gang, infuriated Holmes. He did not show it to the Yard, but I saw his anger first-hand, in the privacy of our rooms. Indeed, I bore the brunt of his frustrations more than once. And while I knew there was nothing personal in it, I sometimes found it difficult not to smart under it all the same.
Today, Holmes had gone so far as to banish me from our rooms entirely. He insisted that he needed absolute solitude to think, and as always, I obeyed his commands, as little as they might agree with my own wishes. True, I was not sorry to escape the noxious atmosphere of our sitting-room, clouded as it was with temper and shag-smoke. But I was hardly inclined to venture out into the damp, chilly weather of a dismal London spring, either. Nor did I feel up to the casual bonhomie of my club, where I would doubtless be met with inquiries about Holmes as well as myself. My own mood was not up to the strain of socializing with my fellow-man; my old wounds were not up to staying out in the weather.
What, then, to do with myself?
A stiff breeze threatened to dislodge my bowler. I raised one hand to steady it, and realized that my hair had grown rather longer than usual. This latest case had come hard on the heels of several others, and I had not had time to make my usual trip to the barber shop. And while I had no appointment, it was likely that Montgomery would be able to fit me in. Both Holmes and I were valued and frequent customers.
The shop was only a few blocks from Baker Street. I set out with a will, and despite the weather, the exercise did my mood good. I was nearly my usual self by the time I walked through the well-known door and into the cosy confines of Montgomery's shop.
To my surprise, he was not the only barber working there that day. A younger man, with a decidedly foppish but meticulous hairstyle, was working alongside him.
“Ah, yes, that's my son-in-law, George,” Montgomery told me after greeting me. “He married Betsy, my eldest. You remember her of course?”
I assured him that I did. She had been one of my patients, as had most of the Montgomery family at one time or another.
“Yes, well, he's also in the trade, although he takes a slightly different line. Far more interested in the latest fashions than I am. But it's good to learn what's fashionable, isn't it? Just as it's good for him to be reminded of the basic craft, and what most gentlemen actually want. He'll give you as close a shave as any barber in London, for all that he's over-fond of perfumed pomades and artfully dishevelled locks.”
I had a brief but powerful surge of curiosity of what Holmes' reaction would be should I return to Baker Street with tousled waves instead of a newly-shortened haircut. Had he been in a sunnier temper, or languishing between cases, I might have tried the experiment, as it well could have provided entertaining - or exhilarating - results. But as things were, I tamped down the urge and simply requested a haircut, moustache-trim, and shave, all in my usual style.
George proved as skilful as his father-in-law claimed. I'd rarely had a better shave, and he trimmed my moustache into its usual military neatness with sure, swift movements. The haircut I received was equally impeccable, but I could not dissuade him from treating my hair with a different tonic, one that he assured me would provide a subtle gloss as well as keeping my hair neatly in order. The hair-cream was rather more heavily scented than I preferred, but I had to admit, upon inspection in the mirror, that the end result was everything that he'd claimed.
Pleased, I tipped him well, and after a further exchange of pleasantries, ventured back out onto the street. The earlier squall had passed, but it was still chilly with a pervasive drizzle. I promptly made my way to the bookseller's shop nearest Baker Street, and spent several comfortable hours there, browsing through the shelves and leafing through the pages of a seafaring adventure novel while ensconced in one of the many comfortable chairs scattered throughout the establishment for just such a purpose. In fact, I remained there, delaying my purchase and departure until the shopkeeper started closing the shutters.
“You've been at the bookseller's, I see,” Holmes' voice greeted me as I entered our sitting-room.
I waved a hand in front of my face, futilely trying to clear away the thick fog of smoke. “Good God, Holmes, I'm amazed you can see anything in this atmosphere.” I did not bother to remove my hat or coat, but I placed my paper-wrapped book onto the table by the door before making my way to the nearest window to open it.
“The smoke is inconsequential, Watson,” Holmes snapped. “What is hidden in its miasma is unimportant compared to what can be revealed in its consumption. You know I have solved some of my most difficult cases merely by sitting, smoking, and thinking over the facts.”
I hardly needed my years of experience with Holmes' moods to interpret this response, but I did my best to be encouraging. “And I'm certain you'll solve this one, Holmes.”
“I'm missing something, Watson.” Holmes' expression remained peevish despite my words. “I know it. There's something crucial, some connection I have not yet observed. I have turned over every fact in my mind, every scrap of evidence we have. I have deduced two likely next targets, strategized no less than five ploys that should result in the capture of the gang, and yet it is all useless. Until I determine exactly how we are being circumvented, it is all for naught.”
I would not have dared disagree with him even had I thought him wrong - and I knew he was right. I doffed my hat and removed my coat, hanging up both before I moved to stand next to his chair. “Whatever the source of their intelligence, it is not us, Holmes. We could act independently.”
“We could - if we could trust all the data. But much of what we know comes from sources we cannot trust, not fully. From the Yard. From the victims of these frauds, one or more of whom might actually be in collusion with the gang. From the - ” Holmes broke off. His grey eyes focused directly on me, and his eyebrows lifted. “You've been to the barber, but that's not quite your usual style, and that's definitely a different hair tonic. You've changed barbers?”
“No, Holmes. Montgomery had his son-in-law working at his shop today, that's all.” Holmes' gaze remained riveted on my face, and I felt my cheeks heat. Being the recipient of Holmes' full attention is a heady experience. “I was lucky to come away with merely a different tonic, and not a completely different hairstyle altogether. Young George has ambitions, and strives to be fashionable. I just wanted a haircut and a good shave. An extra expense, perhaps, but I suppose I've earned the indulgence after the week we've had.”
Holmes' eyes took on that faraway, dreamy expression I have only seen rarely: when he is exerting his full powers; when he is enraptured by a particular piece of music; when he is fully relaxed, in the heat of the Turkish bath or the heart of our chambers; when he is entirely transported. It is a look I love to see. Moments later, Holmes sprang from his chair and seized my face in between both his hands. He stared at me as if fascinated, almost as if he'd never seen me before. His fingers stroked lightly over my freshly-shaven skin.
“H - Holmes?” I could scarcely hear myself over the sudden thundering of my pulse. Pure surprise rendered me motionless; other emotions held me there.
“Shh.” Holmes silenced me with one long finger placed over my lips. His other fingers continued to trace delicate patterns over my cheeks. His grey eyes bored into mine, scant inches away. “I think… Ah! I have it!” He grinned, his entire countenance shining with delight. “My dear Watson, I cannot thank you enough.”
“For what?”
“For your entirely fortuitous decision to visit the barber today.” One last stroke of his fingers, and then he sprang away, shedding his dressing-gown. “You have a decided genius for being exactly where I need you to be, Watson, even when you don't know it.”
“You mean you wanted me to go to the barber's today?”
Holmes bestowed a fondly exasperated look in my direction as he slipped into his coat. “My dear Watson, always drawing the incorrect conclusion. If I had drawn enough of the correct inferences, I should not have needed you to go to the barber's at all. Now come! Put on your hat and coat, for we must be off!”
I did not bother to ask where. I did, however, take the precaution of slipping my revolver into my coat pocket before following Holmes down the stairs.
We have had many close shaves in our years together, Holmes and I; near escapes from assault, injury, and death. But this was the very first time that a literal close shave on my part helped solve a case. The immaculate state of my whiskers stirred a memory in Holmes' mind, of a police sergeant whose own carefully coiffured locks and smooth face bespoke personal grooming far above the usual range of the average policeman's salary. He had spent some of the money gained from his informing activities on trips to a fancy bath-house. His sudden turn to cleanliness was his downfall, as it was for the gang.
And afterwards, Holmes expressed due appreciation for my inadvertent assistance - through improved appearance - in a most satisfactory manner. We were, after all, both fond of the Turkish bath.
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Date: 2012-06-01 09:21 pm (UTC)Very lovely story!
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