Bird of Paradise: Rating: Teen
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holmes_gendersTitle: Bird of Paradise
'Verse: ACD
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: Teen
Length: 800
Notes: Genderfluid Holmes; for the Monthly Prompt: birds
Summary: Holmes sings and dances while on a mission to recover stolen documents.
My first impression was that the little pot of delicate purple violets looked rather out of place in our sitting room, which, it must be said bore a decidedly masculine aesthetic, what with the dark wood, the dark leather, the tobacco smoke, the decanters and gasogene, the stacked books, the spilling papers, the chemicals, the discarded newspapers, and the general state of disregard for furnishings and domiciliary hygiene which is often the hallmark of confirmed bachelorhood.
Nevertheless, Holmes assiduously tended to the needs of the little plant for five days before confessing its purpose as, of all things, conversation starter.
“I miss her,” he said apropos of nothing. His eyes drifted to the plant.
Violet.
She was one of Holmes’s many characters but unlike Captain Basil or the nonconformist clergyman, I had always suspected she meant more to him than just a ruse for information gathering. And frankly she meant more to me than any of his other disguises, though I had not seen her for more than two years.
“Mycroft has made me aware of a little problem that might benefit from Violet’s assistance.”
“At the risk of flaunting the wisdom of the American stateman Benjamin Franklin who said, ‘Beware of endeavours requiring new clothes,’ do you think said assistance might benefit from new gloves?” I had given Violet Mohels five pairs of gloves during what might be described as our initial courtship.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “If she were to charge a pair to your tab at Avila’s, it would be a surprise for you. Would that be acceptable?”
How did he do it? How did he transform himself so entirely without moving so much as a muscle?
“Of course, my dear,” I replied in the time-honoured tradition of besotted lovers the world over.
“Hand in glove, hand in glove, you and I, together, just like hand in glove…”
She was a bird of paradise.
Beautiful. Rare. Sensual.
Her feathers were dark teal with gold trimmings, and I was happy to note, the gloves she wore matched exactly, dark teal velvet with thin gold fringe and embroidery.
She wore something, I hardly like to call it a dress, but it did its job which was to draw every eye in the dinghy hall to her as she sang on the little stage and twirled her fans.
Oh, yes, the fans, large, plumed.
She danced, then she stepped off the stage and wound her way through the sparse crowd, stopping to tease and flirt.
Of course, one of the patrons, the one most trying to hide his upper class bearing among the labourers, had to take certain liberties. He got a smack of the fan and ‘naughty boy’ which sent the place into hysterics of laughter.
Violet gave me a bit of her attention, but it was enough to pass me the key she’d just lifted from the old toff lecher’s pocket.
When the song ended, I made my exit according to plan.
I worked quickly. Within a half hour, stolen documents were in the hands of Mycroft Holmes and the key was on its way back to the thief by way of Violet, who, during her final song, accepted my little nosegay with theatrical alacrity, then returned its hidden addition to the toff.
The look of rapt infatuation on his face told me that he was none the wiser to Violet’s charade.
She ended her set to much applause and no few hoots and whistles.
I didn’t bother searching for Violet. I walked home adopting the leisurely pace of one who expects to be waylaid.
“John?”
“Violet.”
I followed her voice into the dark alley.
“I’ve missed you.”
And then she was in my arms, and our lips were locked.
“You were a bird of paradise,” I murmured, nuzzling at her neck.
“I believe you and our mark are perhaps to the only two who caught the ornithological reference in the costume.”
“Well, the rest can be forgiven. Your plumage is very distracting.”
“Would you care for a private performance?”
“I want nothing more.”
“The bolt hole is small.”
“It wouldn’t be a bolt hole if it were spacious. Plus, I am looking forward to what an intimate setting affords.”
“So am I.”
She pulled away and sliver of moon lit her eyelashes which reminded me of the plush fans.
What can I say?
She put her beautifully gloved hand in mine and led me by labyrinthine route to a snug nook.
Then she sang, she danced, she swayed into and out of my touch. I divested her of all that she wished to be rid of and made love to what remained until dawn.
And now whenever my gaze happens to rest on that little pot of violets, I smile.
It doesn’t look out of place at all.
'Verse: ACD
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: Teen
Length: 800
Notes: Genderfluid Holmes; for the Monthly Prompt: birds
Summary: Holmes sings and dances while on a mission to recover stolen documents.
My first impression was that the little pot of delicate purple violets looked rather out of place in our sitting room, which, it must be said bore a decidedly masculine aesthetic, what with the dark wood, the dark leather, the tobacco smoke, the decanters and gasogene, the stacked books, the spilling papers, the chemicals, the discarded newspapers, and the general state of disregard for furnishings and domiciliary hygiene which is often the hallmark of confirmed bachelorhood.
Nevertheless, Holmes assiduously tended to the needs of the little plant for five days before confessing its purpose as, of all things, conversation starter.
“I miss her,” he said apropos of nothing. His eyes drifted to the plant.
Violet.
She was one of Holmes’s many characters but unlike Captain Basil or the nonconformist clergyman, I had always suspected she meant more to him than just a ruse for information gathering. And frankly she meant more to me than any of his other disguises, though I had not seen her for more than two years.
“Mycroft has made me aware of a little problem that might benefit from Violet’s assistance.”
“At the risk of flaunting the wisdom of the American stateman Benjamin Franklin who said, ‘Beware of endeavours requiring new clothes,’ do you think said assistance might benefit from new gloves?” I had given Violet Mohels five pairs of gloves during what might be described as our initial courtship.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “If she were to charge a pair to your tab at Avila’s, it would be a surprise for you. Would that be acceptable?”
How did he do it? How did he transform himself so entirely without moving so much as a muscle?
“Of course, my dear,” I replied in the time-honoured tradition of besotted lovers the world over.
“Hand in glove, hand in glove, you and I, together, just like hand in glove…”
She was a bird of paradise.
Beautiful. Rare. Sensual.
Her feathers were dark teal with gold trimmings, and I was happy to note, the gloves she wore matched exactly, dark teal velvet with thin gold fringe and embroidery.
She wore something, I hardly like to call it a dress, but it did its job which was to draw every eye in the dinghy hall to her as she sang on the little stage and twirled her fans.
Oh, yes, the fans, large, plumed.
She danced, then she stepped off the stage and wound her way through the sparse crowd, stopping to tease and flirt.
Of course, one of the patrons, the one most trying to hide his upper class bearing among the labourers, had to take certain liberties. He got a smack of the fan and ‘naughty boy’ which sent the place into hysterics of laughter.
Violet gave me a bit of her attention, but it was enough to pass me the key she’d just lifted from the old toff lecher’s pocket.
When the song ended, I made my exit according to plan.
I worked quickly. Within a half hour, stolen documents were in the hands of Mycroft Holmes and the key was on its way back to the thief by way of Violet, who, during her final song, accepted my little nosegay with theatrical alacrity, then returned its hidden addition to the toff.
The look of rapt infatuation on his face told me that he was none the wiser to Violet’s charade.
She ended her set to much applause and no few hoots and whistles.
I didn’t bother searching for Violet. I walked home adopting the leisurely pace of one who expects to be waylaid.
“John?”
“Violet.”
I followed her voice into the dark alley.
“I’ve missed you.”
And then she was in my arms, and our lips were locked.
“You were a bird of paradise,” I murmured, nuzzling at her neck.
“I believe you and our mark are perhaps to the only two who caught the ornithological reference in the costume.”
“Well, the rest can be forgiven. Your plumage is very distracting.”
“Would you care for a private performance?”
“I want nothing more.”
“The bolt hole is small.”
“It wouldn’t be a bolt hole if it were spacious. Plus, I am looking forward to what an intimate setting affords.”
“So am I.”
She pulled away and sliver of moon lit her eyelashes which reminded me of the plush fans.
What can I say?
She put her beautifully gloved hand in mine and led me by labyrinthine route to a snug nook.
Then she sang, she danced, she swayed into and out of my touch. I divested her of all that she wished to be rid of and made love to what remained until dawn.
And now whenever my gaze happens to rest on that little pot of violets, I smile.
It doesn’t look out of place at all.
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