Snippets of fic
Jan. 1st, 2010 04:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mymetalphantomYeah, so as you all know, I have been disgustingly busy with RL stuff recently. This annoys me no end as it hasn't really been anything fun and has left me no time to write fic. This has left me with a wealth of WIPs sitting there on my hard drive, looking rather sad and neglected (poor little darlings) waiting for me to return.
Anywho, I thought as I don't really know when I'm going to be able to finish these that I would post some little snippets, you know, just to show that I'm not a lost cause ;)
They are all Holmes related. I have a HoC fic that is significantly closer to being finished than any of these, but to post any snippets would sort of spoil it for you...so I won't.
Some random bits from my (hopefully) longer, plottly H/L story:
Lestrade found himself at Scotland Yard by half past seven. He climbed to the stairs that led to his office, Constable Pearce’s bloodstained boots in hand. He strode quickly and with purpose, wanting nothing more than to get to his office without delay where he could sit in peace and quiet and give time for his headache to dissipate before he went off to Wood Street Station to interview the suspect. He had already run the gauntlet of young police officers eager to hear all about the new murder case, and he had almost made it to his office before Tobias Gregson swooped down upon him.
Gregson; big in stature and personality stood an imposing five inches above Lestrade and had an annoying habit of rocking forward on his tip-toes just to add an extra couple of inches. It used to bother Lestrade back when they were on the beat, having Gregson loom over him like that, often getting far too close for comfort. Lestrade tried not to dwell on any emotions as far as his esteemed colleague was concerned.
“Morning!” he boomed, perhaps sensing Lestrade’s fragile state. “Heard you copped the Fenchurch body.”
“That’s right,” Lestrade confirmed without stopping. He had neither the desire nor the required strength to talk to Gregson at that point, especially as the other man was clearly in the mood to bait him.
“Got a surprise for you,” Gregson announced and Lestrade stopped in his tracks and turned back to him, secretly hating himself for listening.
Ignore him. Just walk away, just walk away...
“Oh?”
Idiot, I told you to walk away!
Gregson’s face broke out into a sly grin, as he clearly changed his mind about whatever he had been about to say. “Someone’s waiting for you in your office. Been waiting about an hour.” There was an unnerving glint in Gregson’s grey eyes that signalled he was having a little fun at Lestrade’s expense. “Good morning,” he bid then walked away, a smug smile still fixed on his face. Lestrade could have sworn that he heard a faint chuckle and saw that tell-tale shake of the shoulders.
Curious but painfully aware of the continuing ache in his temples Lestrade entered his office. And was confronted by the tall, gaunt figure of Sherlock Holmes.
Oh Lord, not today, he silently groaned to himself, shutting the door to his office.
*****
They were shown into the hallway, which was about as big as Lestrade’s rooms and Holmes’ Baker Street rooms put together. The floor was marble as was the sweeping staircase that lay ahead of them, white with delicate swirls of light grey, the surface shiny and polished. Everything was polished, clean and tidy with not a single thing out of place. Lestrade was not a man for clutter, preferring to keep everything in his life uncomplicated, but even he felt that there was something sparse and soulless about this house.
“How the other half live, eh?” he said to Holmes. He was in awe that a person could afford so lavish a home, but found that he couldn’t actually imagine living somewhere so...spartan.
He turned to see Holmes intently scrutinizing everything before him. Lestrade knew from experience that Sherlock Holmes’ attention to detail bordered on total recall and he too found himself studying everything a little bit closer than he usually would have, just in case Holmes took it upon himself to quiz him later.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” came a voice from the top of the staircase. It was a smooth, deep voice, one that was very pleasing to hear.
Holmes and Lestrade looked up and were confronted by perhaps the most handsome man that either of them had set eyes upon. Lestrade had often heard the word ‘chiselled’ when referring to some good looking gentleman but had never appreciated the word until that moment. He had a strong square jaw and high cheekbones, but there was no bony, sharpness in his features at all. His hair was dark blond and thick, swept back neatly away from his face, not a single strand of it out of place and it seemed to glow as the sunlight from the window behind shone on it.
Lestrade felt his jaw drop momentarily before he schooled his expression once more. He felt his face grow warm and he hoped that the man and, more importantly, Holmes hadn’t seen his brief loss of composure.
*****
Lestrade’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to swallow the toxic mixture of guilt, anger and grief. He went to say something but his throat felt so dry and any words he may have uttered refused to form in his mind. What could he say without betraying himself?
“Were you lovers?” Holmes said, cutting through any pretence that the two of them might have found comfort in. No, this was no time for him to be coy. If he was ever to get to the bottom of the mystery that was Inspector Lestrade, he wouldn’t be able to indulge in any false courtesy.
Lestrade reeled back as though he had been slapped across the face and he rose to his feet in a flurry and headed for the door. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you ask that, Mr Holmes.” His voice was monotonous; a well rehearsed denial.
Holmes took to his feet as well and, thankful to his advanced height, he beat Lestrade to the door with two lengthy strides and stood blocking the way. Lestrade’s expressive eyes seemed to blaze hot with anger, looking very much like a cornered animal that was willing to claw its way out.
“Stand aside, Mr Holmes,” he said in a snarl.
“Not until you tell me the truth,” Holmes countered, enjoying this game almost too much. There was something dangerous about it, trapping Lestrade there while he debated with himself whether to play his hand now. “I want to know if it’s true...what I’ve always suspected about you.”
That caused Lestrade to take a step back away from Holmes and his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He worked it a few times, trying to find words, but they once again refused to come. His head was spinning as his heart pounded furiously in his chest. He could hear the rushing blood in his ears as they both stood there in silence.
“It’s all right, Lestrade,” he said in a voice so soft that, had he not heard it for himself, Lestrade would never have attributed to Holmes. Holmes reached out a hand, a long elegant hand, alabaster white with acid stains. Hands from a hundred fantasies that Lestrade had resolutely ignored. Now touching his face with such tenderness that his thumping heart seemed to stop dead. “You don’t need to deny what you are. Not to me.”
*****
From a little H/L ficlet. I'm not sure where I'm going with this one yet XD
Halting his pacing for a second Lestrade tried the metal door handle for the fiftieth time that hour. He knew it was hopeless but there is a small and irrationally hopeful element to human nature that prompts such redundant actions. After pushing down on the handle a few times he stood back and sighed.
“Did you really think that the door would be a little less locked that time?” said Sherlock Holmes, his tone reminiscent of the way an adult would patronise a young child. Lestrade had to admit to growing weary of being talked down to by a man roughly ten years his junior. He often wondered why he kept returning, putting himself in the firing line over and over again. Yet the pros of his relationship with Mr Holmes; the knowledge he gained, the help he received and the dubious pleasure of his company, far outweighed the cons. He simply had to sigh as he resigned himself to the fact that, for whatever reason, his life would inevitably include Sherlock Holmes.
Lestrade turned to find Holmes’s keen grey eyes focused on the same offending door handle. “And what are you doing?” Lestrade countered, determined to at least give as good as he got. “Trying to stare it into submission?”
“I’m thinking,” said Holmes with sharp impatience. “Try not to be so distracting.”
Lestrade let out a short, soft laugh and rolled his eyes. “That mind of yours is a juggernaut,” he said. “I’d like to hear you name one thing that could stop it.”
Holmes let out a snarl of annoyance and tore his eyes away from the door handle to level his gaze at Lestrade. “How about witless prattling?” he snapped. The look of contempt softened slightly after a few seconds as he took in Lestrade’s hurt expression. It was a subtle look, but Holmes could recognise the vaguest of emotions in a single raised eyebrow.
There was an awkward silence, which could only have lasted a few seconds but seemed to stretch on and on painfully.
*****
H/W ficlet. Some introspection from our favourite amateur detective.
We sit side by side in deckchairs on the pebbled beach in Brighton, looking out to sea. The hot sun burns our faces but the cool breeze coming in from the Channel cools them again. The air is fresh and salty. So fresh in fact that it makes me cough until I am weary and sore and when the choking finally subsides I groan in annoyance.
“This fresh air will kill me,” I grumble. “My chest hurts.”
Watson smiles, clearly in too good a mood to rise to the bait. Oh well, it was worth a try.
“If you didn’t smoke so much your chest wouldn’t hurt,” he lectures but only in a half-hearted fashion, leaning back in the deckchair, eyes closed, enjoying the warm rays of the sun. “Besides, fresh air never killed anyone.”
“Are you willing to stake your reputation on that?”
“Yes.”
And with that we fall back into comfortable silence.
I am often amazed at how comfortable I feel with Watson. I am by nature a solitary creature who has never actively sought the company others and if I am brutally honest with myself, I am not the type of man most people would chose to spend time with. Yet good old Watson seems content in my company, even during my worst moments when I can’t even stand to be with myself. Perhaps that just makes him a better man than me. Or maybe it makes him a lunatic.
*****
Another H/W ficlet. I have a rough idea where I'm going with this one. A night out, and Holmes and Watson find themselves not getting on so well. What is behind the tension?.
Holmes, prone to darker more reserved moods, was often quiet, taciturn and Watson was used to such behaviour. However, there seemed to be an added melancholy to Holmes’s silence, as though he were sulking about something. Watson sighed and took a sip of brandy. He savoured the smooth dryness on his tongue then as he swallowed he felt it burn a path down his throat, making him feel warm and content.
“First class meal as usual,” he said taking another puff on his cigar.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed. He blew out a smoke ring and watched it bend and float in the stray currents in the air. “Shame I couldn’t say the same for the concert.”
“Oh? I thought it was rather good,” Watson replied much to Holmes’ disgust.
“Yes, well, you’re a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan...” ‘So what would you know?’ was the unspoken ending to that sentence. “The man was incompetent. A child could play better than that. The man has no respect for the music; it’s all style and no substance.”
“Whatever you say, Holmes,” Watson answered realising that he would never win an argument about music, especially not with Holmes. “Heaven forbid I should enjoy something merely because it is entertaining.” Holmes rolled his eyes in response.
*****
Holmes dipped his finger in the water then proceeded to run it around the rims of the three crystal glasses, filling the air with a ringing three note tune. “Huh! My three little glasses of water were better than that performance we witnessed tonight.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Holmes.” Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow at him but said nothing. “You’re in a funny mood tonight and I don’t think it has anything to do with the concert.”
Holmes let out another little sigh and sat back in his chair. “It’s nothing.” He said in a way that indicated it was far from ‘nothing’.
“All right, don’t tell me,” Watson harrumphed and drew on his cigar, only to find that it had gone out. He reached into his jacket pocket for his matches.
“So,” said Holmes, “is married life everything you hoped it would be?”
Watson paused, the match lit and burning down towards his fingers. “I am happy if that’s what you’re asking.”
An emotion flickered across Holmes’s face but it was too fast for Watson to pin down. What replaced it was an obviously false smile. Holmes said nothing.
Left unwatched the flame had burned a path down the match and Watson made a little leap as it seared his forefinger and thumb. He shook his hand in an attempt to cool it and proceeded to knock his brandy over the table. Angry now, at himself as much as Holmes, an exasperated huff of breath left his lips and he threw the spent match across the table with such vigour that it bounced off and onto the floor.
Holmes watched its descent, not wanting to look at his friend.
“We should go,” Holmes said and, after placing a few notes on the table stood and left.
*****
Hopefully, I may finish these one day!
Anywho, I thought as I don't really know when I'm going to be able to finish these that I would post some little snippets, you know, just to show that I'm not a lost cause ;)
They are all Holmes related. I have a HoC fic that is significantly closer to being finished than any of these, but to post any snippets would sort of spoil it for you...so I won't.
Some random bits from my (hopefully) longer, plottly H/L story:
Lestrade found himself at Scotland Yard by half past seven. He climbed to the stairs that led to his office, Constable Pearce’s bloodstained boots in hand. He strode quickly and with purpose, wanting nothing more than to get to his office without delay where he could sit in peace and quiet and give time for his headache to dissipate before he went off to Wood Street Station to interview the suspect. He had already run the gauntlet of young police officers eager to hear all about the new murder case, and he had almost made it to his office before Tobias Gregson swooped down upon him.
Gregson; big in stature and personality stood an imposing five inches above Lestrade and had an annoying habit of rocking forward on his tip-toes just to add an extra couple of inches. It used to bother Lestrade back when they were on the beat, having Gregson loom over him like that, often getting far too close for comfort. Lestrade tried not to dwell on any emotions as far as his esteemed colleague was concerned.
“Morning!” he boomed, perhaps sensing Lestrade’s fragile state. “Heard you copped the Fenchurch body.”
“That’s right,” Lestrade confirmed without stopping. He had neither the desire nor the required strength to talk to Gregson at that point, especially as the other man was clearly in the mood to bait him.
“Got a surprise for you,” Gregson announced and Lestrade stopped in his tracks and turned back to him, secretly hating himself for listening.
Ignore him. Just walk away, just walk away...
“Oh?”
Idiot, I told you to walk away!
Gregson’s face broke out into a sly grin, as he clearly changed his mind about whatever he had been about to say. “Someone’s waiting for you in your office. Been waiting about an hour.” There was an unnerving glint in Gregson’s grey eyes that signalled he was having a little fun at Lestrade’s expense. “Good morning,” he bid then walked away, a smug smile still fixed on his face. Lestrade could have sworn that he heard a faint chuckle and saw that tell-tale shake of the shoulders.
Curious but painfully aware of the continuing ache in his temples Lestrade entered his office. And was confronted by the tall, gaunt figure of Sherlock Holmes.
Oh Lord, not today, he silently groaned to himself, shutting the door to his office.
*****
They were shown into the hallway, which was about as big as Lestrade’s rooms and Holmes’ Baker Street rooms put together. The floor was marble as was the sweeping staircase that lay ahead of them, white with delicate swirls of light grey, the surface shiny and polished. Everything was polished, clean and tidy with not a single thing out of place. Lestrade was not a man for clutter, preferring to keep everything in his life uncomplicated, but even he felt that there was something sparse and soulless about this house.
“How the other half live, eh?” he said to Holmes. He was in awe that a person could afford so lavish a home, but found that he couldn’t actually imagine living somewhere so...spartan.
He turned to see Holmes intently scrutinizing everything before him. Lestrade knew from experience that Sherlock Holmes’ attention to detail bordered on total recall and he too found himself studying everything a little bit closer than he usually would have, just in case Holmes took it upon himself to quiz him later.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” came a voice from the top of the staircase. It was a smooth, deep voice, one that was very pleasing to hear.
Holmes and Lestrade looked up and were confronted by perhaps the most handsome man that either of them had set eyes upon. Lestrade had often heard the word ‘chiselled’ when referring to some good looking gentleman but had never appreciated the word until that moment. He had a strong square jaw and high cheekbones, but there was no bony, sharpness in his features at all. His hair was dark blond and thick, swept back neatly away from his face, not a single strand of it out of place and it seemed to glow as the sunlight from the window behind shone on it.
Lestrade felt his jaw drop momentarily before he schooled his expression once more. He felt his face grow warm and he hoped that the man and, more importantly, Holmes hadn’t seen his brief loss of composure.
*****
Lestrade’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to swallow the toxic mixture of guilt, anger and grief. He went to say something but his throat felt so dry and any words he may have uttered refused to form in his mind. What could he say without betraying himself?
“Were you lovers?” Holmes said, cutting through any pretence that the two of them might have found comfort in. No, this was no time for him to be coy. If he was ever to get to the bottom of the mystery that was Inspector Lestrade, he wouldn’t be able to indulge in any false courtesy.
Lestrade reeled back as though he had been slapped across the face and he rose to his feet in a flurry and headed for the door. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you ask that, Mr Holmes.” His voice was monotonous; a well rehearsed denial.
Holmes took to his feet as well and, thankful to his advanced height, he beat Lestrade to the door with two lengthy strides and stood blocking the way. Lestrade’s expressive eyes seemed to blaze hot with anger, looking very much like a cornered animal that was willing to claw its way out.
“Stand aside, Mr Holmes,” he said in a snarl.
“Not until you tell me the truth,” Holmes countered, enjoying this game almost too much. There was something dangerous about it, trapping Lestrade there while he debated with himself whether to play his hand now. “I want to know if it’s true...what I’ve always suspected about you.”
That caused Lestrade to take a step back away from Holmes and his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He worked it a few times, trying to find words, but they once again refused to come. His head was spinning as his heart pounded furiously in his chest. He could hear the rushing blood in his ears as they both stood there in silence.
“It’s all right, Lestrade,” he said in a voice so soft that, had he not heard it for himself, Lestrade would never have attributed to Holmes. Holmes reached out a hand, a long elegant hand, alabaster white with acid stains. Hands from a hundred fantasies that Lestrade had resolutely ignored. Now touching his face with such tenderness that his thumping heart seemed to stop dead. “You don’t need to deny what you are. Not to me.”
*****
From a little H/L ficlet. I'm not sure where I'm going with this one yet XD
Halting his pacing for a second Lestrade tried the metal door handle for the fiftieth time that hour. He knew it was hopeless but there is a small and irrationally hopeful element to human nature that prompts such redundant actions. After pushing down on the handle a few times he stood back and sighed.
“Did you really think that the door would be a little less locked that time?” said Sherlock Holmes, his tone reminiscent of the way an adult would patronise a young child. Lestrade had to admit to growing weary of being talked down to by a man roughly ten years his junior. He often wondered why he kept returning, putting himself in the firing line over and over again. Yet the pros of his relationship with Mr Holmes; the knowledge he gained, the help he received and the dubious pleasure of his company, far outweighed the cons. He simply had to sigh as he resigned himself to the fact that, for whatever reason, his life would inevitably include Sherlock Holmes.
Lestrade turned to find Holmes’s keen grey eyes focused on the same offending door handle. “And what are you doing?” Lestrade countered, determined to at least give as good as he got. “Trying to stare it into submission?”
“I’m thinking,” said Holmes with sharp impatience. “Try not to be so distracting.”
Lestrade let out a short, soft laugh and rolled his eyes. “That mind of yours is a juggernaut,” he said. “I’d like to hear you name one thing that could stop it.”
Holmes let out a snarl of annoyance and tore his eyes away from the door handle to level his gaze at Lestrade. “How about witless prattling?” he snapped. The look of contempt softened slightly after a few seconds as he took in Lestrade’s hurt expression. It was a subtle look, but Holmes could recognise the vaguest of emotions in a single raised eyebrow.
There was an awkward silence, which could only have lasted a few seconds but seemed to stretch on and on painfully.
*****
H/W ficlet. Some introspection from our favourite amateur detective.
We sit side by side in deckchairs on the pebbled beach in Brighton, looking out to sea. The hot sun burns our faces but the cool breeze coming in from the Channel cools them again. The air is fresh and salty. So fresh in fact that it makes me cough until I am weary and sore and when the choking finally subsides I groan in annoyance.
“This fresh air will kill me,” I grumble. “My chest hurts.”
Watson smiles, clearly in too good a mood to rise to the bait. Oh well, it was worth a try.
“If you didn’t smoke so much your chest wouldn’t hurt,” he lectures but only in a half-hearted fashion, leaning back in the deckchair, eyes closed, enjoying the warm rays of the sun. “Besides, fresh air never killed anyone.”
“Are you willing to stake your reputation on that?”
“Yes.”
And with that we fall back into comfortable silence.
I am often amazed at how comfortable I feel with Watson. I am by nature a solitary creature who has never actively sought the company others and if I am brutally honest with myself, I am not the type of man most people would chose to spend time with. Yet good old Watson seems content in my company, even during my worst moments when I can’t even stand to be with myself. Perhaps that just makes him a better man than me. Or maybe it makes him a lunatic.
*****
Another H/W ficlet. I have a rough idea where I'm going with this one. A night out, and Holmes and Watson find themselves not getting on so well. What is behind the tension?.
Holmes, prone to darker more reserved moods, was often quiet, taciturn and Watson was used to such behaviour. However, there seemed to be an added melancholy to Holmes’s silence, as though he were sulking about something. Watson sighed and took a sip of brandy. He savoured the smooth dryness on his tongue then as he swallowed he felt it burn a path down his throat, making him feel warm and content.
“First class meal as usual,” he said taking another puff on his cigar.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed. He blew out a smoke ring and watched it bend and float in the stray currents in the air. “Shame I couldn’t say the same for the concert.”
“Oh? I thought it was rather good,” Watson replied much to Holmes’ disgust.
“Yes, well, you’re a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan...” ‘So what would you know?’ was the unspoken ending to that sentence. “The man was incompetent. A child could play better than that. The man has no respect for the music; it’s all style and no substance.”
“Whatever you say, Holmes,” Watson answered realising that he would never win an argument about music, especially not with Holmes. “Heaven forbid I should enjoy something merely because it is entertaining.” Holmes rolled his eyes in response.
*****
Holmes dipped his finger in the water then proceeded to run it around the rims of the three crystal glasses, filling the air with a ringing three note tune. “Huh! My three little glasses of water were better than that performance we witnessed tonight.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Holmes.” Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow at him but said nothing. “You’re in a funny mood tonight and I don’t think it has anything to do with the concert.”
Holmes let out another little sigh and sat back in his chair. “It’s nothing.” He said in a way that indicated it was far from ‘nothing’.
“All right, don’t tell me,” Watson harrumphed and drew on his cigar, only to find that it had gone out. He reached into his jacket pocket for his matches.
“So,” said Holmes, “is married life everything you hoped it would be?”
Watson paused, the match lit and burning down towards his fingers. “I am happy if that’s what you’re asking.”
An emotion flickered across Holmes’s face but it was too fast for Watson to pin down. What replaced it was an obviously false smile. Holmes said nothing.
Left unwatched the flame had burned a path down the match and Watson made a little leap as it seared his forefinger and thumb. He shook his hand in an attempt to cool it and proceeded to knock his brandy over the table. Angry now, at himself as much as Holmes, an exasperated huff of breath left his lips and he threw the spent match across the table with such vigour that it bounced off and onto the floor.
Holmes watched its descent, not wanting to look at his friend.
“We should go,” Holmes said and, after placing a few notes on the table stood and left.
*****
Hopefully, I may finish these one day!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-01 08:17 pm (UTC)Nice things to wait for! I'm all a-twitter!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-02 06:03 pm (UTC)I really need to set aside some time to get these finished.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-03 12:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-01 11:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-02 06:05 pm (UTC)Sometimes these things have a life of their own.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-02 04:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-02 06:10 pm (UTC)But what else are powers of dedution for? That's what I would do with such powers, none of this solving crime nonsense! XD
I will finish them, I promise...I'm just...not sure when ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-02 06:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-05 03:15 pm (UTC)I will finish it eventually! :D
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-06 12:14 am (UTC)Gregson; big in stature and personality stood an imposing five inches above Lestrade and had an annoying habit of rocking forward on his tip-toes just to add an extra couple of inches.
Wow, that is SUCH a Gregson sort of thing to do. I love it! You write him really well; he has even less canon evidence to help than Lestrade.
“Morning!” he boomed, perhaps sensing Lestrade’s fragile state.
UGH, Gregson, just stop XD Oh heavens, Holmes. Poor Lestrade! This is SO good. *bouncebouncebounce*
*reads more*
ands from a hundred fantasies that Lestrade had resolutely ignored. Now touching his face with such tenderness that his thumping heart seemed to stop dead.
OMFG. *falls over backwards* *sits up and flails* Lestrade! His-- and his-- oh ;_; I want to wrap him up in a blanket and these are only snippets! I can't wait for the whole thing!
“How about witless prattling?” he snapped. The look of contempt softened slightly after a few seconds as he took in Lestrade’s hurt expression.
*wibble* Holmes! Stoppit! But actually, if it makes Lestrade make that look, I don't mind THAT much XD *evil* As long as he does something to make up for it.
“Yes, well, you’re a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan...”
HOLMES. Oh gosh, I love him snarky *shifty look* These are going to be SO good! Thank you for putting up snippets so we could have a little preview ^_^
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-07 10:42 am (UTC)he has even less canon evidence to help than Lestrade.
Yes, for Gregson I draw my inspiration from BBC Radio adaptatation (esp. STUD, where the bitching between him and Lestrade is first rate) and this guy I know who thinks he can intimidate me just by being tall. He doesn't realise that if I was scared by everyone who was taller than me, I would be scared of everyone! XD /amusing little personal story>
Gregson's a man on many sides though. It's his personal mission to make Lestrade's life difficult, and he doesn't appreciate it when people muscle in on his mission ;)
I want to wrap him up in a blanket
Aww! I have no idea how you'll feel when you read the whole thing then! Poor Lestrade, I'm too fond of playing with his mind.
if it makes Lestrade make that look, I don't mind THAT much
You and I are of the same mind then! BTW, this is one of those H/L stories I was talking about, where it's clearly BBCRadio!Holmes and Granada!Lestrade.
YAY! I'm sure I can find some time to finish these...as long as I look like I'm "working" ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2010-01-07 11:37 pm (UTC)