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Amnesty#5: It Starts with 'T'
Eliot, Leaf
the_aleator
Title: It Starts with 'T'
Author: the_aleator
Rating: PG
Characters: Watson, Holmes, mentions of Lestrade
Verse: ACD/Granada
Word count: 396
A/N: Amnesty #5: purple prose. Title taken from the 'Music Man'.
Warnings:  Note - unbetaed and unedited & completely rushed. Crack-ish.
Summary: Watson's stories get him into a little bit of unintended trouble.


It Starts with 'T'

“I simply cannot believe this!” Watson said, wafting the letter about himself agitatedly, as he paced the sitting room at Baker Street. Holmes looked lazily from his distillation, and pointed out coolly

“I did say that your purple prose was most unsuitable for my methods, Watson. Clearly, you are reaping what you have sown.”

“Attempting to put an elopement into Euclid’s fifth proposition is one thing, Holmes.” Watson sputtered, shoving the sheet of paper in front of his flat mate’s nose. “Being served with a suit for unfair defamation and scandalous suggestions about a woman’s character is another thing entirely.”

Holmes turned down his nose in a classic example of the great detective’s masterful arrogance, and sniffed.

“Perhaps describing her as a comely and buxom gentle lady was a step too far, in her opinion.” He replied airily, seizing upon his rubber policeman with a vicious hand. “The fairer sex is known for being chaste and retiring, as a rule.”

Watson resisted his more bellicose urges, but it was a near thing. The particular hangup in this circumstance was not that some of his stories were thinly veiled versions of real cases, but rather the opposite entirely.

“Holmes.” Watson huffed softly, settling into his chair with a plop. “The difficulty lies in my apparent under-generosity, not my over-generosity. The lady claims,” and here Watson’s voice dragged a little with disbelief “that I have misrepresented her beauty and slighted her character and reputation in the process.”

“In that case, I should hardly see what the fuss is about. Simply inform the woman of this, and if that should fail, invite the court to share your observances.”

Watson’s neck suddenly strangled under his starched collar. He sighed once, counted to ten in Latin, and sighed again.

“My dear Holmes, you know absolutely nothing about the fairer sex.”

“I never claimed to.” Holmes pointed reasonably, flapping away a cloud of greenish smoke. “The ladies, after all, are your department.” The detective turned intently to the Erlenmeyer flasks in front of him, and Watson felt as though he were a cadet just dismissed, and released a slow breath.

Five minutes later, he was walking for the nearest cab, to present his case before Inspector Lestrade, who should have much more practical advice.

The good Inspector, after all, was married, and exposure to the other species usually brought about familiarity.


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