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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.