(no subject)
May. 31st, 2012 06:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impulsereaderThe music stopped and a very short, neat-looking little woman appeared in the doorway. “Sherlock!” Her voice was only lightly tinted with the French accent which suffused Claude’s. She threw herself at Sherlock, and she was so small in comparison to his height that he couldn’t help the fact that he picked her up off her feet when he returned the embrace.
“Hello, Grandmere.”
She held onto him for a long while, two or three minutes. Then she sighed, and he carefully set her back on her feet. She looked up at him, placed her hands firmly on her hips, and began to speak at him in very rapid, very emphatic French in a tone which clearly conveyed the sort of extreme displeasure usually reserved for matters such as traffic snarls caused by Jeremy Clarkson; or, if you didn’t happen to live at 221B Baker Street, a head in the fridge. John caught lots of odieux, détestable, cruel, terrible; interpolated the odd méchant, peu gentil, haïssable, and effrayant; watched as, under this assault, Sherlock slowly wilted until he was a sad-looking sort of round-shouldered lump of misery. With one last scathing, ‘épouvantable!’ she turned on her heel and whirled back into the room from which she had appeared.
John took in the completely devastated Sherlock before him and looked after her in awe. “When you turned up back at the flat - I should have rung Mycroft and had him send a car for her.”
“Quite,” said the lump of misery.
“Hello, Grandmere.”
She held onto him for a long while, two or three minutes. Then she sighed, and he carefully set her back on her feet. She looked up at him, placed her hands firmly on her hips, and began to speak at him in very rapid, very emphatic French in a tone which clearly conveyed the sort of extreme displeasure usually reserved for matters such as traffic snarls caused by Jeremy Clarkson; or, if you didn’t happen to live at 221B Baker Street, a head in the fridge. John caught lots of odieux, détestable, cruel, terrible; interpolated the odd méchant, peu gentil, haïssable, and effrayant; watched as, under this assault, Sherlock slowly wilted until he was a sad-looking sort of round-shouldered lump of misery. With one last scathing, ‘épouvantable!’ she turned on her heel and whirled back into the room from which she had appeared.
John took in the completely devastated Sherlock before him and looked after her in awe. “When you turned up back at the flat - I should have rung Mycroft and had him send a car for her.”
“Quite,” said the lump of misery.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 05:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-01 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-01 12:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-01 01:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-01 01:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-01 01:57 am (UTC)Sorry. A bit. Not much really.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 05:08 pm (UTC)It strikes me that, assuming a mid-70s birthdate for Sherlock, Grandmere would have been a young woman during the late Depression and WWII. Maybe she was a war bride? In any event, probably a tough old lady.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-31 06:17 pm (UTC)The only real way I could do this in my head was make it completely bizarre and unrealistic and imagine this huge country home and just flood it with a cast of thousands - or about a hundred or so, as I have John pegging it. I have a group of core characters both made up and kidnapped from other places, and then there's just going to be a lot of faceless background noise.
My story Wrong features Sherlock and Mycroft being held hostage together...then there was some back and forth which I encapsulated here http://impulsereader.livejournal.com/15295.html Then, the fic grew - and grew - and grew. I've written 7000 words and I haven't even scratched the surface of the first Christmas let alone the second - and I'm still pondering putting some ACD storyline action into each of the seasons.