The Address is 221B Baker Street - August
Jan. 28th, 2013 11:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impulsereader“Jesus! Did he have to make it life-sized?”
“Lestrade, watch that -,”
BLAM
“What are you boys doing up there? Was that my wall?”
“No, Mrs Hudson,” three male voices chorused untruthfully.
Their awkward struggle to haul the gargantuan packing crate up the stairs continued significantly more quietly, muffled grunts aside, until Sherlock was forced to quickly jerk one of the corners he was in charge of rather forcefully and completely unexpectedly in order to avoid bashing his knee with the corner in question.
“Ouch! Christ, that was my chin!”
“Better than my knee.”
“Heartless bastard, you are. I should drop this right now and let you haul your own bloody crate about. Why the fuck did you have it sent to my office anyway?”
“Temper, temper, Lestrade.”
“Oi! I’d like to point out that forward motion is our friend. Greg, if you abandon your post now I’ll set him on you; I’ll refuse to come along on any Met cases for the next six months. Punch him later if you like, but haul the bloody crate right now.”
Eventually, after another of John’s toes had been smashed and Sherlock had in fact got that same troublesome corner rammed into his gut, they made it. Panting and cursing, they collapsed onto the floor for several minutes to get their collective breath back.
“’m really gonna punch you, Sherlock, soon’s I can stand.”
“Me too.”
“What? Why?” squawked Sherlock indignantly, “I didn’t bash you in the chin!”
“I’m going to punch you as a stand-in for your mad uncle. What was he thinking making the damn thing so big?”
“Clearly you were very inspiring in all your shirtless glory.”
“What’s that now? Did you pose starkers, John?”
“Shirtless,” John hotly corrected.
This reminder – for Sherlock – and news – for Greg – inspired a miraculous recovery in the two men and they began dashing about the flat searching for the tools they would need to free John’s portrait from its crate.
“Pry bar, pry bar,” mused Sherlock, stopping dead to tap his finger to his pursed lips in a thoughtful manner. This method failing to provide the desired information caused him to call out, “John! Where did I last leave the pry bar?”
The party so queried groaned, still prone on the floor.
“I found a hammer in the biscuit tin,” Greg announced.
Sherlock dropped his head back dramatically and made a noise which sounded like, ‘guuuuuhhh’. “Stupid! Of course it’s in John’s laundry basket!” Gleefully, he took the stairs two at a time to fetch the pry bar from his flatmate’s bedroom.
Several splinters, lots and lots of profanity, and a flurry of straw (with all its attendant dust) later, the portrait had been loosed from the embrace of the devilish crate and its draped form was propped against the mantle. Impatiently, Sherlock shooed the other two onto the sofa and removed the drape with a flourish worthy of a long-thought-lost Stradivarius. “Ta dah!” he announced for good measure, then turned to look at the painting. Oh my, he thought, Claude had certainly outdone himself.
The painted figure of John lounged, at ease, upper back flat against the bark of a broad tree trunk; an oak for strength, Sherlock noted with approval. The leaves of the tree formed a dancing dome of worshipful autumnal colour over him. Dark denim trousers rode low on his hips, button undone; hands thrust into pockets caused the crisp red dress shirt to gape open, offering a very admirable view of his chest. His feet were bare in the green of the grass and nearby on the ground a snake curled itself round a stick to form a naturalistic Rod of Asclepius. John’s head was tipped to the side, and Sherlock imagined Claude had contemplated long and hard when deciding which expression to immortalize. That particular tip of the head could go one of only two ways. His uncle had decided against, ‘Right, come and get me then, because you’ll have to go through me,’ protective John in favour of, ‘Content, and almost dreamy with it, lazily smiling John.’ Sherlock approved the choice because this John came with a glint in his eyes born not of defensive combat but of merrily chasing through the streets of London and giggling at crime scenes; this meant that the part of John which had been born when he met Sherlock was well represented in his portrait, and also that it shone through brightly enough in real life for it to be a defining aspect of his character.
“Sexy. Dead sexy, in fact. Good show, John.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at this assessment.
John’s tone was thoughtful when he tentatively gave his opinion. “It’s – actually – not terrible, is it? I mean, of course Claude is very good, but – I’m not exactly – I wasn’t expecting to look -,”
“Impressive,” Sherlock purred. “The word you are looking for is impressive. Don’t worry, John, when you’re not standing next to me you always look quite impressive.”
“Berk.”
“Come along, as long as Lestrade is here we can rehearse the arrival scene; he can be Don Pedro to my Claudio.”
John perked up at this thought, they hadn’t had a chance to do the scene with Don Pedro and Claudio full on since he’d learned the lines. After some initial awkwardness he’d found that standing up and actually acting out the scenes with Sherlock helped a great deal, making him feel almost competent at this acting thing.
“Hang on, what are you on about my doing now? Isn’t it enough that you nearly killed me on those stairs?”
John cut in quickly, not wanting to chance their third being chased away by a tetchy Sherlockian response. “When we’ve finished I’ll take you down the pub and buy you a pint, Greg. It’s simple; all you have to do is read from the script and stand where Sherlock shoves you.”
Greg gave him a sceptical look in response, but sighed, reflecting that he didn’t exactly have anything better to do. “Fine.”
John beamed at him. “Thanks!”
So a moment later Greg found a copy of Much Ado About Nothing thrust into his hands as he was pulled from the sofa and stood in the corner of the sitting room.
“Do you want to do your opening bit, Sherlock?”
“Not necessary. We’ll skip to your entrance. Now remember, don’t get overly attached to the blocking. The important thing is to get used to moving about as you say the lines.”
“Yes, got it.”
“Lestrade, you will read Don Pedro’s part and prompt John if he asks for a line. Don’t give him the entire line, just jog his memory. We’re starting on page seven with your line, ‘I think this is your daughter.’ Have you got that?”
Startled, Greg fumbled for the page. There was a bit of an introduction and he had to turn through it, but yes, there was the page and the line. “Yes, got it.”
“Good. Now, we’re all good friends and we’re having a bit of a joke together in this first bit,” Sherlock instructed. “You’re in very good humour because you’ve just come victorious from battle. You are; however, also very definitely the superior officer in the conversation, so do bring some dignity to the role if you please.”
Greg blinked. “Erm – yeah, okay. Dignity and good humour; got it.”
“Remember, you’re the Prince,” instructed Sherlock firmly.
“Riiight, I’m the Prince,” he repeated, thinking these were words he had certainly never expected to hear from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. Vaguely he wondered if he could get him to say it again with a ‘Lestrade’ tacked on the end for surreptitious recording. ‘Accidentally’ forgetting he was the Prince could possibly provoke something along the lines of, ‘For god’s sake, Lestrade! You’re the Prince! Stop forgetting you’re Royalty for Christ’s sake!’ He then realised both John and Sherlock were staring at him expectantly. Since it was entirely possible Sherlock knew what he’d just been plotting, he slammed a poker face into place and asked, “What?” as innocently as he could.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed out in a manner which he very likely considered patient but really just screamed: Imbecile!, “We’re starting with your line, Lestrade. Do get better at this quite quickly.”
“Here now, who’s doing who a bloody favour by being the Prince?” He huffed out an irritated breath before looking down at his script and deliberately took his bloody time locating the line before reading out, “I think this is your daughter.” Then, remembering just in time that he was supposed to display dignity (and since he had so far failed miserably at the good humour part of his role), he fumbled the script into one hand so he could gesture grandly with the other.
Sherlock, his voice projecting as if on stage, informed him with confidence, “Her mother hath many times told me so.” He then slung an arm heartily around Greg’s shoulders and used the force of the gesture to haul him bodily a handful of steps toward the centre of the room.
Hey, he found himself thinking, hands off the Royalty! Before he could protest the manhandling aloud, though, John came in with, “Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?” He also spoke with his voice pitched for an audience and managed a quite creditable level of bonhomie and, well, a matey sort of feeling, with just a touch of ‘mock scandalized’.
Sherlock answered back, “Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.” And his other arm clamped over John’s shoulders so he himself was sandwiched between the other two and squeezing them to him in a brotherly way. John and Sherlock laughed, so Greg joined in, a bit less uproariously than his fellow actors, but definitely getting into the spirit of the thing.
When the laughter died away, he waited expectantly for what came next. It turned out that what came next was Sherlock poking him in the side rather unpleasantly; then John coughing politely; then Greg recalling that he was holding a script. “Oh, damn!” Apparently this wasn’t his next line, because Sherlock poked him again and glared at him.
Greg poked him back, irritated again. “Don’t poke the Prince, you git.” He found the right spot quickly this time but took a second to remind himself he wasn’t supposed to sound tetchy. “You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an honourable father.” About halfway through this he stopped understanding what he was saying, though each word remained familiar. He hoped the grandness he felt he had managed in the delivery disguised his basic incomprehension.
“If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is,” put in John, and Greg didn’t really know what that was supposed to mean either. But certainly a daughter wouldn’t want to look too like her father, so perhaps there was some sense to be gleaned from it upon closer study.
Suddenly, Sherlock took his arms from around his companions and swept around in a half circle so he was cheated toward John but at an angle to him. His posture was completely changed. A moment ago he had been the picture of open, brotherly camaraderie and now he was suddenly all sly angles. His eyes peeked coyly out from under demurely lowered lids, though that did nothing to disguise their fiery diamond-like flash. He had also, somehow, abruptly lost half a foot in height.
“I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.”
Greg blinked. It was Sherlock’s voice – but not. It was pitched to Alto rather than Baritone and the playfulness of his tone surprised with a cutting edge, but this was then spliced with a touch of bewitching breathiness.
John struck an annoyed pose of arms crossed over his chest and regarded his friend critically. He returned just as cuttingly, “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”
“Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?” Sherlock lobbed the annoyance back at him as if they were on the hallowed turf of Wimbledon. “Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.”
John emitted a sharp bark of laughter. “Then is courtesy a turncoat,” he declared. “But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.”
“A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor,” sniped Sherlock tetchily. He then arranged his face into his familiar ‘bored with life, the universe, everything, and the bloody forty-two’ expression. “I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”
“God keep your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.”
Ouch, Greg thought.
Sherlock began to circle John like a tiger lazily eyeing an easy meal. “Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.”
John pivoted so he could keep his wary gaze firmly upon the creature stalking him. Then, he baited it. “Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.”
The metaphorical claws practically materialized to rake John’s cheek when Sherlock swiped, “A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.”
With an amused tilt of his head and a low chuckle, John dispersed the massive paw back into its component thin air particles. “I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's name; I have done.” He laughed again, and turned to stride away.
The danger of the tiger leaping onto his back as he went was clear in Sherlock’s eyes. “You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.”
Greg found himself applauding.
Startled, Sherlock turned to him and then curtsied neatly. He turned to John. “That was very good, John, Lestrade is right. Well done.”
“Well, we’re getting better. Let’s go on, shall we?”
“Yes. Lestrade, you’re off stage when we start, so do listen for your cue.” He took the script from him and turned a few pages. “Right here, you can’t miss it, we refer to you by name. Now, Benedick and I are friends; you’re still the Prince and our commanding officer. I’m about to tell him that I’m in love and thinking about getting married, and he’s going to try and discourage me. You come along and take my side of the argument. Have you got it?”
“Don’t miss my cue, take your side.” At Sherlock’s expectantly raised eyebrow he rolled his eyes and added, “Not forgetting the good humour and dignity.” He was rewarded with a crisp nod and discovered he was suddenly nervous after the display he had just witnessed. Grand hand gestures no longer seemed adequate to the task.
And, indeed, to start off Sherlock yet again took on the persona of an entirely different character. His normal height was back but pointedly slouched and Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation. Well, if it wasn’t dead intimidating to watch a fellow actor simply become a different person right in front of you at the drop of a hat, he didn’t know what was.
“Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?” The expectant tone Sherlock adopted matched nicely with the hopeful look he threw his partner’s way.
John replied carelessly. “I noted her not; but I looked on her.”
“Is she not a modest young lady?” wheedled Sherlock.
Clearly catching the tone, John answered the question with another. “Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?”
Sherlock hesitated slightly, clearly conveying he was unsure if he sought an honest opinion or not. With a firm shake of his head, he seemed to come to a decision. “No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.”
John paused in thought; whether to call the girl in question to mind in order to formulate a response, or to consider how best to mock his friend was uncertain. “Why, in faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her.”
“Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her,” whinged Sherlock in response.
Clearly pleased that his teasing had hit the mark John asked, “Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?”
“Can the world buy such a jewel?” Sherlock clasped his hands together and batted his eyelashes, causing Greg to emit a snort of laughter.
As it did John. “Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow? Or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?”
With another bat of his eyelashes, Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and draped himself over the sofa as if his body had just been liquefied. “In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.”
John paused, and when he spoke it was in his normal tone, sans stage projection. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. “First rule, John!” he crowed.
He rolled his eyes. “Never break character, yeah, yeah, I know. But this is easier if you’re giving me something realistic to play off.”
Sherlock shrugged. “You said it yourself, Claudio is a sap; there is only so much which can be done with the character.”
He gave in with a sigh. “All right, fine, whatever you say.”
He paused for a moment and when he resumed he did so from the diaphragm once more. “I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter,” he announced airily, then he scowled mightily and gestured off to the side as he declared, “There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.” The scowl faded and he turned his attention back to the figure on the sofa. “But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?” he demanded.
Sherlock heaved another dramatic sigh. “I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.”
In response, John threw up his arms and complained, “Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?” He wagged a finger in Sherlock’s face threateningly, then strode away and back as he declaimed, “Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays.” He then turned to regard Greg and came to a standing position once more. “Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.”
Hastily, Greg took a step toward him. He fought the urge to clear his throat, and then read out in a clear voice, “What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's?”
John humphed indignantly. “I would your grace would constrain me to tell.”
“I charge thee on thy allegiance,” he returned sternly, very definitely the Detective Inspector if not quite the Prince.
John turned hastily toward the languishing Sherlock and insisted, “You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but, on my allegiance, mark you this,” he emphasized very definitely, “on my allegiance.” He swivelled back to Greg and with a distinct air of tattling to Father declared, “He is in love. With who? Now that is your grace's part. Mark how short his answer is;--With Hero, Leonato's short daughter.” He finished with a disgusted snort.
Dreamily from the sofa, Sherlock confirmed, “If this were so, so were it uttered.”
“Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor 'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.'” Greg blinked in response because he had no idea what that had boiled down to, but luckily the next line wasn’t his.
“If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise.” Well, whatever they were nattering on about, Sherlock’s character was reassuringly one-note.
Heartily, Greg asserted, “Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.” He decided this sort of thing was distinctly easier when you understood your line.
Sherlock leapt from the couch and threw his arms around Greg’s neck, hanging on him unpleasantly. “You speak this to fetch me in, my lord,” he complained in his best stroppy teenager.
Greg shook him off firmly and assured him through gritted teeth, “By my troth, I speak my thought.”
Picking himself up from the floor, Sherlock winced and returned, “And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.”
John snickered slightly and contributed, “And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.”
Recovering nicely, Sherlock emoted to the heavens, “That I love her, I feel.”
Greg declaimed, “That she is worthy, I know,” and threw in a grand hand gesture.
John threw his arms about and complained, “That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.”
“Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.” Greg was starting to feel he’d quite got the hang of this and he clapped John on the shoulder heartily.
“And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.”
“That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks.” After this first bit John’s line went a bit pear-shaped as far as Greg’s understanding of it, but to close, the good doctor walked up to him and thumped him on the chest to emphasize each word: “I (thump) will (thump) live (thump) a bachelor (thump).” So that boiled it down nicely.
In return, he thumped him back to emphasize the end of his own line. “I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale (thump) with (thump) love (thump).”
John shook his head firmly. “With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid.”
“Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.” He gave his head a rueful shake to counter John’s.
“If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam.” Greg blinked, and wondered who the hell put a cat in a bottle on a regular enough basis that it became a thing you referenced.
Warily, he replied, “Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.'”
“The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write 'Here is good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign 'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'” The visual danced right into Greg’s head of its own accord; John with horns on his forehead, covered in colourful paints and slumping drunkenly over his sign. He grinned, amused.
Sherlock giggled. “If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.”
“Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly,” warned Greg.
“I look for an earthquake too, then,” John snorted in response.
They seemed to be nearing the end of the scene, because Greg’s next line was meant to send John away rather than continue on with the banter and, indeed, after just a little more back and forth they were done. When each of the other men abruptly resumed his proper posture and they grinned at one another, Greg let himself go a bit limp as well; he found he’d been holding himself rather stiffly through all this. Perhaps stiffness made it easier to fancy oneself a Prince.
“That was very good, John, very good indeed. I do think you need a bit more exasperation throughout, really chew some scenery,” Sherlock encouraged, then shot a sidelong glance at Greg. “Care to go again, Lestrade?”
One look at John’s eager face decided him, god help him. He sighed heavily and began turning pages back. “Fine, but you’re buying me a bottle of whisky, John. This being the Prince bit isn’t easy, you know; and don’t forget that you nearly killed me on the stairs first.”
Later, down the pub, Greg sipped at his whisky worshipfully and regarded his friend with an amused eye. “Now what the bloody hell was all that about?”
John laughed. “What, you mean when we took a beating from a packing crate or the bit where we all three of us acted out Shakespeare in the living room?”
“Well, what I’d really like you to explain is why Sherlock broke into what I assume is an aria during the Shakespeare, but I’ll settle for an explanation for the acting and why you’re so keen on it. Is this a secret hobby of yours?”
“No, god no. I’m just keen not to look a complete and utter arse, and where acting is concerned Sherlock is the best bloody tutor you could ask for.”
“But what theatre cast you as Benedick? This isn’t the sort of thing that happens by accident, you know. You’d have to audition for starters.”
“Greg, you wouldn’t bloody believe me if I told you.”
Greg leaned back and challenged, “Try me.”
So John took a deep breath and told him. He told him about the sprawling house in the country and dressing for dinner; he told him about Grandmother, who was so very tiny but could move men with the power of her will alone; he told him about how Peter could get a wild deer to eat out of his hand, and how Richard was useful in a crisis, and how Not Anthea was both a lot of fun and a lot of trouble to be around; he told him about the painter and the composer who were quite cosy in their vine-covered cottage and merrily sniped at each other as they created beautiful things all day long; he told him about how Sherlock had magically tutored children into understanding how a bird’s wings work and how Mycroft was training up the next generation to rule the world. After a few more drinks he told him about Sherlock’s parents, and Greg’s eyes both lightened in understanding and gained a hard glint that was a twin to the one in his own; he told him that Sherlock and Mycroft had once agreed on something and that they’d had a puppy named Plutarch; and then he invited him to spend his Christmas with the Holmeses.
“You did what?”
John groaned. “Look, I’m sorry.” He rubbed circles on his temple with a thumb. “After half a bottle of whisky it somehow made sense.”
Sherlock snorted with laughter and placed a steaming mug of tea in front of his suffering flatmate. “It doesn’t matter to me, John. I’m not angry, but I can’t understand why you’re adding to your audience when you’re still so apprehensive about your skill as an actor; which is considerable and growing, by the way. I was really quite pleased with the outcome of yesterday’s work.”
The application of tea and the praise worked together quite effectively at improving John’s mood. He fished out the teabag and sipped at the still-too-hot liquid tentatively. “Well, I’m getting better,” he conceded. Secretly (though not really as there were never any secrets in the same room as Sherlock) he acknowledged that he was quite pleased with his own progress.
“Lestrade, watch that -,”
BLAM
“What are you boys doing up there? Was that my wall?”
“No, Mrs Hudson,” three male voices chorused untruthfully.
Their awkward struggle to haul the gargantuan packing crate up the stairs continued significantly more quietly, muffled grunts aside, until Sherlock was forced to quickly jerk one of the corners he was in charge of rather forcefully and completely unexpectedly in order to avoid bashing his knee with the corner in question.
“Ouch! Christ, that was my chin!”
“Better than my knee.”
“Heartless bastard, you are. I should drop this right now and let you haul your own bloody crate about. Why the fuck did you have it sent to my office anyway?”
“Temper, temper, Lestrade.”
“Oi! I’d like to point out that forward motion is our friend. Greg, if you abandon your post now I’ll set him on you; I’ll refuse to come along on any Met cases for the next six months. Punch him later if you like, but haul the bloody crate right now.”
Eventually, after another of John’s toes had been smashed and Sherlock had in fact got that same troublesome corner rammed into his gut, they made it. Panting and cursing, they collapsed onto the floor for several minutes to get their collective breath back.
“’m really gonna punch you, Sherlock, soon’s I can stand.”
“Me too.”
“What? Why?” squawked Sherlock indignantly, “I didn’t bash you in the chin!”
“I’m going to punch you as a stand-in for your mad uncle. What was he thinking making the damn thing so big?”
“Clearly you were very inspiring in all your shirtless glory.”
“What’s that now? Did you pose starkers, John?”
“Shirtless,” John hotly corrected.
This reminder – for Sherlock – and news – for Greg – inspired a miraculous recovery in the two men and they began dashing about the flat searching for the tools they would need to free John’s portrait from its crate.
“Pry bar, pry bar,” mused Sherlock, stopping dead to tap his finger to his pursed lips in a thoughtful manner. This method failing to provide the desired information caused him to call out, “John! Where did I last leave the pry bar?”
The party so queried groaned, still prone on the floor.
“I found a hammer in the biscuit tin,” Greg announced.
Sherlock dropped his head back dramatically and made a noise which sounded like, ‘guuuuuhhh’. “Stupid! Of course it’s in John’s laundry basket!” Gleefully, he took the stairs two at a time to fetch the pry bar from his flatmate’s bedroom.
Several splinters, lots and lots of profanity, and a flurry of straw (with all its attendant dust) later, the portrait had been loosed from the embrace of the devilish crate and its draped form was propped against the mantle. Impatiently, Sherlock shooed the other two onto the sofa and removed the drape with a flourish worthy of a long-thought-lost Stradivarius. “Ta dah!” he announced for good measure, then turned to look at the painting. Oh my, he thought, Claude had certainly outdone himself.
The painted figure of John lounged, at ease, upper back flat against the bark of a broad tree trunk; an oak for strength, Sherlock noted with approval. The leaves of the tree formed a dancing dome of worshipful autumnal colour over him. Dark denim trousers rode low on his hips, button undone; hands thrust into pockets caused the crisp red dress shirt to gape open, offering a very admirable view of his chest. His feet were bare in the green of the grass and nearby on the ground a snake curled itself round a stick to form a naturalistic Rod of Asclepius. John’s head was tipped to the side, and Sherlock imagined Claude had contemplated long and hard when deciding which expression to immortalize. That particular tip of the head could go one of only two ways. His uncle had decided against, ‘Right, come and get me then, because you’ll have to go through me,’ protective John in favour of, ‘Content, and almost dreamy with it, lazily smiling John.’ Sherlock approved the choice because this John came with a glint in his eyes born not of defensive combat but of merrily chasing through the streets of London and giggling at crime scenes; this meant that the part of John which had been born when he met Sherlock was well represented in his portrait, and also that it shone through brightly enough in real life for it to be a defining aspect of his character.
“Sexy. Dead sexy, in fact. Good show, John.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at this assessment.
John’s tone was thoughtful when he tentatively gave his opinion. “It’s – actually – not terrible, is it? I mean, of course Claude is very good, but – I’m not exactly – I wasn’t expecting to look -,”
“Impressive,” Sherlock purred. “The word you are looking for is impressive. Don’t worry, John, when you’re not standing next to me you always look quite impressive.”
“Berk.”
“Come along, as long as Lestrade is here we can rehearse the arrival scene; he can be Don Pedro to my Claudio.”
John perked up at this thought, they hadn’t had a chance to do the scene with Don Pedro and Claudio full on since he’d learned the lines. After some initial awkwardness he’d found that standing up and actually acting out the scenes with Sherlock helped a great deal, making him feel almost competent at this acting thing.
“Hang on, what are you on about my doing now? Isn’t it enough that you nearly killed me on those stairs?”
John cut in quickly, not wanting to chance their third being chased away by a tetchy Sherlockian response. “When we’ve finished I’ll take you down the pub and buy you a pint, Greg. It’s simple; all you have to do is read from the script and stand where Sherlock shoves you.”
Greg gave him a sceptical look in response, but sighed, reflecting that he didn’t exactly have anything better to do. “Fine.”
John beamed at him. “Thanks!”
So a moment later Greg found a copy of Much Ado About Nothing thrust into his hands as he was pulled from the sofa and stood in the corner of the sitting room.
“Do you want to do your opening bit, Sherlock?”
“Not necessary. We’ll skip to your entrance. Now remember, don’t get overly attached to the blocking. The important thing is to get used to moving about as you say the lines.”
“Yes, got it.”
“Lestrade, you will read Don Pedro’s part and prompt John if he asks for a line. Don’t give him the entire line, just jog his memory. We’re starting on page seven with your line, ‘I think this is your daughter.’ Have you got that?”
Startled, Greg fumbled for the page. There was a bit of an introduction and he had to turn through it, but yes, there was the page and the line. “Yes, got it.”
“Good. Now, we’re all good friends and we’re having a bit of a joke together in this first bit,” Sherlock instructed. “You’re in very good humour because you’ve just come victorious from battle. You are; however, also very definitely the superior officer in the conversation, so do bring some dignity to the role if you please.”
Greg blinked. “Erm – yeah, okay. Dignity and good humour; got it.”
“Remember, you’re the Prince,” instructed Sherlock firmly.
“Riiight, I’m the Prince,” he repeated, thinking these were words he had certainly never expected to hear from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. Vaguely he wondered if he could get him to say it again with a ‘Lestrade’ tacked on the end for surreptitious recording. ‘Accidentally’ forgetting he was the Prince could possibly provoke something along the lines of, ‘For god’s sake, Lestrade! You’re the Prince! Stop forgetting you’re Royalty for Christ’s sake!’ He then realised both John and Sherlock were staring at him expectantly. Since it was entirely possible Sherlock knew what he’d just been plotting, he slammed a poker face into place and asked, “What?” as innocently as he could.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed out in a manner which he very likely considered patient but really just screamed: Imbecile!, “We’re starting with your line, Lestrade. Do get better at this quite quickly.”
“Here now, who’s doing who a bloody favour by being the Prince?” He huffed out an irritated breath before looking down at his script and deliberately took his bloody time locating the line before reading out, “I think this is your daughter.” Then, remembering just in time that he was supposed to display dignity (and since he had so far failed miserably at the good humour part of his role), he fumbled the script into one hand so he could gesture grandly with the other.
Sherlock, his voice projecting as if on stage, informed him with confidence, “Her mother hath many times told me so.” He then slung an arm heartily around Greg’s shoulders and used the force of the gesture to haul him bodily a handful of steps toward the centre of the room.
Hey, he found himself thinking, hands off the Royalty! Before he could protest the manhandling aloud, though, John came in with, “Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?” He also spoke with his voice pitched for an audience and managed a quite creditable level of bonhomie and, well, a matey sort of feeling, with just a touch of ‘mock scandalized’.
Sherlock answered back, “Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.” And his other arm clamped over John’s shoulders so he himself was sandwiched between the other two and squeezing them to him in a brotherly way. John and Sherlock laughed, so Greg joined in, a bit less uproariously than his fellow actors, but definitely getting into the spirit of the thing.
When the laughter died away, he waited expectantly for what came next. It turned out that what came next was Sherlock poking him in the side rather unpleasantly; then John coughing politely; then Greg recalling that he was holding a script. “Oh, damn!” Apparently this wasn’t his next line, because Sherlock poked him again and glared at him.
Greg poked him back, irritated again. “Don’t poke the Prince, you git.” He found the right spot quickly this time but took a second to remind himself he wasn’t supposed to sound tetchy. “You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an honourable father.” About halfway through this he stopped understanding what he was saying, though each word remained familiar. He hoped the grandness he felt he had managed in the delivery disguised his basic incomprehension.
“If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is,” put in John, and Greg didn’t really know what that was supposed to mean either. But certainly a daughter wouldn’t want to look too like her father, so perhaps there was some sense to be gleaned from it upon closer study.
Suddenly, Sherlock took his arms from around his companions and swept around in a half circle so he was cheated toward John but at an angle to him. His posture was completely changed. A moment ago he had been the picture of open, brotherly camaraderie and now he was suddenly all sly angles. His eyes peeked coyly out from under demurely lowered lids, though that did nothing to disguise their fiery diamond-like flash. He had also, somehow, abruptly lost half a foot in height.
“I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.”
Greg blinked. It was Sherlock’s voice – but not. It was pitched to Alto rather than Baritone and the playfulness of his tone surprised with a cutting edge, but this was then spliced with a touch of bewitching breathiness.
John struck an annoyed pose of arms crossed over his chest and regarded his friend critically. He returned just as cuttingly, “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”
“Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?” Sherlock lobbed the annoyance back at him as if they were on the hallowed turf of Wimbledon. “Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.”
John emitted a sharp bark of laughter. “Then is courtesy a turncoat,” he declared. “But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.”
“A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor,” sniped Sherlock tetchily. He then arranged his face into his familiar ‘bored with life, the universe, everything, and the bloody forty-two’ expression. “I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”
“God keep your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.”
Ouch, Greg thought.
Sherlock began to circle John like a tiger lazily eyeing an easy meal. “Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.”
John pivoted so he could keep his wary gaze firmly upon the creature stalking him. Then, he baited it. “Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.”
The metaphorical claws practically materialized to rake John’s cheek when Sherlock swiped, “A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.”
With an amused tilt of his head and a low chuckle, John dispersed the massive paw back into its component thin air particles. “I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's name; I have done.” He laughed again, and turned to stride away.
The danger of the tiger leaping onto his back as he went was clear in Sherlock’s eyes. “You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.”
Greg found himself applauding.
Startled, Sherlock turned to him and then curtsied neatly. He turned to John. “That was very good, John, Lestrade is right. Well done.”
“Well, we’re getting better. Let’s go on, shall we?”
“Yes. Lestrade, you’re off stage when we start, so do listen for your cue.” He took the script from him and turned a few pages. “Right here, you can’t miss it, we refer to you by name. Now, Benedick and I are friends; you’re still the Prince and our commanding officer. I’m about to tell him that I’m in love and thinking about getting married, and he’s going to try and discourage me. You come along and take my side of the argument. Have you got it?”
“Don’t miss my cue, take your side.” At Sherlock’s expectantly raised eyebrow he rolled his eyes and added, “Not forgetting the good humour and dignity.” He was rewarded with a crisp nod and discovered he was suddenly nervous after the display he had just witnessed. Grand hand gestures no longer seemed adequate to the task.
And, indeed, to start off Sherlock yet again took on the persona of an entirely different character. His normal height was back but pointedly slouched and Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation. Well, if it wasn’t dead intimidating to watch a fellow actor simply become a different person right in front of you at the drop of a hat, he didn’t know what was.
“Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?” The expectant tone Sherlock adopted matched nicely with the hopeful look he threw his partner’s way.
John replied carelessly. “I noted her not; but I looked on her.”
“Is she not a modest young lady?” wheedled Sherlock.
Clearly catching the tone, John answered the question with another. “Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?”
Sherlock hesitated slightly, clearly conveying he was unsure if he sought an honest opinion or not. With a firm shake of his head, he seemed to come to a decision. “No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.”
John paused in thought; whether to call the girl in question to mind in order to formulate a response, or to consider how best to mock his friend was uncertain. “Why, in faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her.”
“Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her,” whinged Sherlock in response.
Clearly pleased that his teasing had hit the mark John asked, “Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?”
“Can the world buy such a jewel?” Sherlock clasped his hands together and batted his eyelashes, causing Greg to emit a snort of laughter.
As it did John. “Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow? Or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?”
With another bat of his eyelashes, Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and draped himself over the sofa as if his body had just been liquefied. “In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.”
John paused, and when he spoke it was in his normal tone, sans stage projection. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. “First rule, John!” he crowed.
He rolled his eyes. “Never break character, yeah, yeah, I know. But this is easier if you’re giving me something realistic to play off.”
Sherlock shrugged. “You said it yourself, Claudio is a sap; there is only so much which can be done with the character.”
He gave in with a sigh. “All right, fine, whatever you say.”
He paused for a moment and when he resumed he did so from the diaphragm once more. “I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter,” he announced airily, then he scowled mightily and gestured off to the side as he declared, “There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.” The scowl faded and he turned his attention back to the figure on the sofa. “But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?” he demanded.
Sherlock heaved another dramatic sigh. “I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.”
In response, John threw up his arms and complained, “Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?” He wagged a finger in Sherlock’s face threateningly, then strode away and back as he declaimed, “Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays.” He then turned to regard Greg and came to a standing position once more. “Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.”
Hastily, Greg took a step toward him. He fought the urge to clear his throat, and then read out in a clear voice, “What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's?”
John humphed indignantly. “I would your grace would constrain me to tell.”
“I charge thee on thy allegiance,” he returned sternly, very definitely the Detective Inspector if not quite the Prince.
John turned hastily toward the languishing Sherlock and insisted, “You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but, on my allegiance, mark you this,” he emphasized very definitely, “on my allegiance.” He swivelled back to Greg and with a distinct air of tattling to Father declared, “He is in love. With who? Now that is your grace's part. Mark how short his answer is;--With Hero, Leonato's short daughter.” He finished with a disgusted snort.
Dreamily from the sofa, Sherlock confirmed, “If this were so, so were it uttered.”
“Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor 'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.'” Greg blinked in response because he had no idea what that had boiled down to, but luckily the next line wasn’t his.
“If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise.” Well, whatever they were nattering on about, Sherlock’s character was reassuringly one-note.
Heartily, Greg asserted, “Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.” He decided this sort of thing was distinctly easier when you understood your line.
Sherlock leapt from the couch and threw his arms around Greg’s neck, hanging on him unpleasantly. “You speak this to fetch me in, my lord,” he complained in his best stroppy teenager.
Greg shook him off firmly and assured him through gritted teeth, “By my troth, I speak my thought.”
Picking himself up from the floor, Sherlock winced and returned, “And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.”
John snickered slightly and contributed, “And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.”
Recovering nicely, Sherlock emoted to the heavens, “That I love her, I feel.”
Greg declaimed, “That she is worthy, I know,” and threw in a grand hand gesture.
John threw his arms about and complained, “That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.”
“Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.” Greg was starting to feel he’d quite got the hang of this and he clapped John on the shoulder heartily.
“And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.”
“That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks.” After this first bit John’s line went a bit pear-shaped as far as Greg’s understanding of it, but to close, the good doctor walked up to him and thumped him on the chest to emphasize each word: “I (thump) will (thump) live (thump) a bachelor (thump).” So that boiled it down nicely.
In return, he thumped him back to emphasize the end of his own line. “I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale (thump) with (thump) love (thump).”
John shook his head firmly. “With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid.”
“Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.” He gave his head a rueful shake to counter John’s.
“If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam.” Greg blinked, and wondered who the hell put a cat in a bottle on a regular enough basis that it became a thing you referenced.
Warily, he replied, “Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.'”
“The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write 'Here is good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign 'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'” The visual danced right into Greg’s head of its own accord; John with horns on his forehead, covered in colourful paints and slumping drunkenly over his sign. He grinned, amused.
Sherlock giggled. “If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.”
“Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly,” warned Greg.
“I look for an earthquake too, then,” John snorted in response.
They seemed to be nearing the end of the scene, because Greg’s next line was meant to send John away rather than continue on with the banter and, indeed, after just a little more back and forth they were done. When each of the other men abruptly resumed his proper posture and they grinned at one another, Greg let himself go a bit limp as well; he found he’d been holding himself rather stiffly through all this. Perhaps stiffness made it easier to fancy oneself a Prince.
“That was very good, John, very good indeed. I do think you need a bit more exasperation throughout, really chew some scenery,” Sherlock encouraged, then shot a sidelong glance at Greg. “Care to go again, Lestrade?”
One look at John’s eager face decided him, god help him. He sighed heavily and began turning pages back. “Fine, but you’re buying me a bottle of whisky, John. This being the Prince bit isn’t easy, you know; and don’t forget that you nearly killed me on the stairs first.”
Later, down the pub, Greg sipped at his whisky worshipfully and regarded his friend with an amused eye. “Now what the bloody hell was all that about?”
John laughed. “What, you mean when we took a beating from a packing crate or the bit where we all three of us acted out Shakespeare in the living room?”
“Well, what I’d really like you to explain is why Sherlock broke into what I assume is an aria during the Shakespeare, but I’ll settle for an explanation for the acting and why you’re so keen on it. Is this a secret hobby of yours?”
“No, god no. I’m just keen not to look a complete and utter arse, and where acting is concerned Sherlock is the best bloody tutor you could ask for.”
“But what theatre cast you as Benedick? This isn’t the sort of thing that happens by accident, you know. You’d have to audition for starters.”
“Greg, you wouldn’t bloody believe me if I told you.”
Greg leaned back and challenged, “Try me.”
So John took a deep breath and told him. He told him about the sprawling house in the country and dressing for dinner; he told him about Grandmother, who was so very tiny but could move men with the power of her will alone; he told him about how Peter could get a wild deer to eat out of his hand, and how Richard was useful in a crisis, and how Not Anthea was both a lot of fun and a lot of trouble to be around; he told him about the painter and the composer who were quite cosy in their vine-covered cottage and merrily sniped at each other as they created beautiful things all day long; he told him about how Sherlock had magically tutored children into understanding how a bird’s wings work and how Mycroft was training up the next generation to rule the world. After a few more drinks he told him about Sherlock’s parents, and Greg’s eyes both lightened in understanding and gained a hard glint that was a twin to the one in his own; he told him that Sherlock and Mycroft had once agreed on something and that they’d had a puppy named Plutarch; and then he invited him to spend his Christmas with the Holmeses.
“You did what?”
John groaned. “Look, I’m sorry.” He rubbed circles on his temple with a thumb. “After half a bottle of whisky it somehow made sense.”
Sherlock snorted with laughter and placed a steaming mug of tea in front of his suffering flatmate. “It doesn’t matter to me, John. I’m not angry, but I can’t understand why you’re adding to your audience when you’re still so apprehensive about your skill as an actor; which is considerable and growing, by the way. I was really quite pleased with the outcome of yesterday’s work.”
The application of tea and the praise worked together quite effectively at improving John’s mood. He fished out the teabag and sipped at the still-too-hot liquid tentatively. “Well, I’m getting better,” he conceded. Secretly (though not really as there were never any secrets in the same room as Sherlock) he acknowledged that he was quite pleased with his own progress.
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Date: 2013-01-29 07:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 03:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-29 03:20 pm (UTC)And Claude finished the painting of John! Where are they going to put it, I wonder? The walls are already so full of stuff, and from the sound of it, it's quite large. (And I'm not entirely sure that John wants it on display, even if he does like it - bit odd to have to look at a sexy painting of yourself day after day.)
And you're moving rapidly to December again, for the actual play. I'm looking forward to that.
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Date: 2013-01-29 05:59 pm (UTC)I am also relieved we're progressing. This has been feeling a bit like The Neverending Story lately. Over the hump!
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Date: 2013-01-29 03:59 pm (UTC)Although the thought does occur to me . . . just where in 221B are they going to put a picture that huge? And John is going to be terribly embarrassed by it all of the rest of his days there, yes he will.
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Date: 2013-01-29 06:10 pm (UTC)Yes, the issue of where the portrait will live is going to be addressed. This chapter was supposed to be October but then I started writing the dance lesson and had to move it because Greg had to be told about what was going on earlier. Then I realized that since what I was writing was now happening after the portrait's arrival at Baker Street I had to have people noticing it because it is huge and, well, a portrait of a sexy John. People are going to notice it and he is going to blush - a lot.
Oh, by the way Ethnomusicologist on Retainer, would you please confirm for me the measure of the Overture where the beginning of the Cabin Pressure theme starts up? The sheet music is here: http://imslp.org/wiki/Ruslan_and_Lyudmila_%28Glinka,_Mikhail%29
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Date: 2013-01-29 06:34 pm (UTC)The Cabin Pressure theme starts on page 3 of your score, at measure 19. Since there don't appear to be measure numbers in this score, only rehearsal numbers, here's where it is: See the first five measures, where all but the strings are tacit, and the strings (bottom of the score) are finishing up one of their many insane runs? Measure 19 is where the full orchestra comes back in. 19 and 20 are the four-beat intro, and then the "Da bum-ba-DUM!" riff with the flutes, violins I and II, and the violas starts in measure 21.
The Cabin Pressure theme starts there, continues through pages 4 and 5, and fades out just as page 6 begins. It's not long at all. On this recording of the whole Overture, it occupies from 0:21 to 0:35.
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Date: 2013-01-30 09:48 pm (UTC)