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Amnesty#7: A Quiet Evening
Eliot, Leaf
Title:  A Quiet Evening
Author: the_aleator
Rating: G
Characters: Watson, Holmes & Lestrade
Verse: ACD/Granada
Word count: 489
A/N: Amnesty #7 - use K,C,S,E and the numbers 7 & 836 prompt.
Warnings:  Note - unbetaed and unedited & completely rushed.
Summary: A game of chess and a quiet evening between Watson and Holmes.

A Quiet Evening

“Check-mate.” Holmes drawled, letting his head sink back against the armchair. “I do believe that you hardly try when you play chess, Watson.” Watson simply began to stand his pieces up again, and cursed himself several times for a fool for playing the game of kings with Sherlock Holmes.

“We cannot all be geniuses, Holmes. Otherwise we should all be ordinary.” Watson reproved mildly, and moved his first piece.

“Nonetheless, seven losses in a row are poor even for you, my dear fellow.”

Watson bristled. Fortunately, the sound of the bell drew both their attentions from the game.

“A client?” Watson wondered, for Holmes’ grey eyes had wandered from ennui back to the board.

“The Inspector, I do believe.”

“They are occasionally synonymous, Holmes. He has consulted you on a number of cases, several where even you were challenged.”

“And some where even you have come to same conclusion that I have.” Holmes retorted, nostrils flaring as he placed one knuckle against the table edge, and keenly eyed the door.

“You cannot blame the man for wanting his duty done well.”

“Yet I might for his inability to do it himself.” Watson wondered at this, for he was quite certain that some of the cases that came before Holmes’ eyes via the Inspector were little more than gift cases for the detective, but did not think it prudent nor charitable to say so.

A rap came at the door, and Holmes’ voice echoed cleanly about their rooms as he called

“Come in, Inspector.”

A small dark head poked in as the lean body followed with alacrity, and Holmes quirked an eyebrow at the entrance, for he bore a package wrapped in brown paper before him, and set his hands at his armchair’s knobs.

“Keeping busy, I see, Lestrade.” Watson called, setting down his king with a small sigh, for Holmes should have had checkmate in two turns in any case.

“Oh here and there, Doctor. Still recovering from that bout with the James brothers, I’m afraid.” The Inspector said, almost apologetically, as he put the package on the side table, and flipped open his notebook. “I don’t suppose, Mr. Holmes, that you should be keeping up with the small case of the Robinson break-in?”

“Oh I have, Lestrade.” Holmes cried, sweeping his arm over the table, and beckoning the inspector closer. “But the question remains, do we know of the kin’s responsibility in all this?” The dark head shook as he flipped down to a page, and brown eyes looked up and fastened on Holmes and said

“The real question, Mr. Holmes, is why the number 836 was scrawled next to the body, and in blood no less. Is it an address, or a code perhaps?”

“Perhaps they meant three sixes.” Watson chuckled, and shushed at the expression on Holmes’ struck face.

“836, Lestrade.” Holmes mused, and held out his hand for a volume.

“M, if you please, Watson….”


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