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vocab_drabbles2022-12-06 12:28 pm
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote in vocab_drabbles2022-12-06 12:28 pm
#039: Prognosticate: BBC Sherlock: Gen
Title: Prognosticate
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 663 (221b x 3)
Rating: Gen
Notes/Warnings: Genderswapped. fem!Sherlock/fem!John.
Summary: Sherlock plays the fortuneteller at a church fete to stop a murderer.
“I really don’t know about…”
John overheard the village ladies behind her expressing their opinions, opinions which were a mix of condemnation and bemusement with a large share of piqued curiosity. John herself thought it was unusual to have a fortune-telling tent at a church winter fete, but the long queue told its own story.
And the tent was beautiful, done up in icy blues and silver with Madame Snowflake in curling script just over the entrance. More than one passerby had been inspired to sing ‘Let It Go’ or have their photograph taken with the tent in the background.
It was all rather fun. Pity the reason they were there.
To prevent a murder.
John’s position in the queue wasn’t chance. She was very purposefully just behind a couple.
When it was their turn, the woman went first.
When she emerged, she was white as a sheet.
“Gladys? What’s wrong?”
“She’s good. She’s very good. Knows all kinds of things. Things she couldn’t possibly know.”
“Really?” asked the man suspiciously. He looked from the tent to the woman. “Are you going to be okay while I go in?”
“Why don’t I take her to the tea tent?” offered John. “I changed my mind about this business, and I’m gasping for a cuppa.”
“All right,” she said weakly. “Good luck, Barry.”
---
“Do you believe in it?” asked Gladys when they were seated in the tea tent. “Second sight?”
“Some people have extraordinary abilities,” said John. “To observe, deduce, and prognosticate. I’ve seen it myself firsthand.”
“I thought it was just going to be a lark, but she told me things, things about me, things about Barry.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to confide in a stranger than someone who knows you well. It bothered you, what she said.”
Gladys nodded, then took a sip of tea.
“Maybe some things make sense that didn’t make sense before,” said John gently. “Maybe you’re thinking about things you never thought about before. I don’t know. I’m just going by your expression.”
“Yes, I need to think.” She looked about the crowded, noisy tea tent. “Not here.”
“Are you going to go home?” ‘With him’ went unsaid.
“I think I’ll go to my mum’s,” she said quietly, address the tepid tea. “I don’t think she’ll mind.”
“Is she a good mum?”
Gladys gave a smirk and nodded. “And she hates Barry. She’s always hated him.” She added with a rueful laugh. “I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll say she always told me he was a wrong ‘un, but it took a lady with a crystal ball!”
---
“All good on your end?” asked Sherlock when John had slipped into the tent, disregarding the ‘Out to Lunch’ placard.
“All good. You?”
“Yes, I just received word Lestrade and her team picked Barry up, just as he was about to destroy vital evidence.”
“Gladys wasn’t his first, and now she can be the one who just escaped being his last. Well done, Madame Snowflake.”
“My fortune-telling career is over,” said Sherlock, opening a trunk and divesting herself of headdress, wig, earrings, and eyelashes. “We can tell the vicar we were successful in our mission.”
“A very open-minded chap, the vicar, especially when you explained that you weren’t actually intending to practice the dark arts.”
“The only dark art I was practicing was the application of this kohl round my eyes,” replied Sherlock, deftly removing the greasepaint from her face.
John helped Sherlock change out of her Madame Snowflake costume and into clothes which made her look like any another person deciding to attend a village winter fete.
Sherlock packed the flowing gowns and silver adornments into the trunk. “Let’s have the vicar’s wife collect it.”
“Very well. I do think your, uh, stage name was rather apt.”
“Am I a snowflake, John?” asked Sherlock, hands on hips.
“Yes, utterly unique.” John kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “And absolutely beautiful.”
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 663 (221b x 3)
Rating: Gen
Notes/Warnings: Genderswapped. fem!Sherlock/fem!John.
Summary: Sherlock plays the fortuneteller at a church fete to stop a murderer.
“I really don’t know about…”
John overheard the village ladies behind her expressing their opinions, opinions which were a mix of condemnation and bemusement with a large share of piqued curiosity. John herself thought it was unusual to have a fortune-telling tent at a church winter fete, but the long queue told its own story.
And the tent was beautiful, done up in icy blues and silver with Madame Snowflake in curling script just over the entrance. More than one passerby had been inspired to sing ‘Let It Go’ or have their photograph taken with the tent in the background.
It was all rather fun. Pity the reason they were there.
To prevent a murder.
John’s position in the queue wasn’t chance. She was very purposefully just behind a couple.
When it was their turn, the woman went first.
When she emerged, she was white as a sheet.
“Gladys? What’s wrong?”
“She’s good. She’s very good. Knows all kinds of things. Things she couldn’t possibly know.”
“Really?” asked the man suspiciously. He looked from the tent to the woman. “Are you going to be okay while I go in?”
“Why don’t I take her to the tea tent?” offered John. “I changed my mind about this business, and I’m gasping for a cuppa.”
“All right,” she said weakly. “Good luck, Barry.”
---
“Do you believe in it?” asked Gladys when they were seated in the tea tent. “Second sight?”
“Some people have extraordinary abilities,” said John. “To observe, deduce, and prognosticate. I’ve seen it myself firsthand.”
“I thought it was just going to be a lark, but she told me things, things about me, things about Barry.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to confide in a stranger than someone who knows you well. It bothered you, what she said.”
Gladys nodded, then took a sip of tea.
“Maybe some things make sense that didn’t make sense before,” said John gently. “Maybe you’re thinking about things you never thought about before. I don’t know. I’m just going by your expression.”
“Yes, I need to think.” She looked about the crowded, noisy tea tent. “Not here.”
“Are you going to go home?” ‘With him’ went unsaid.
“I think I’ll go to my mum’s,” she said quietly, address the tepid tea. “I don’t think she’ll mind.”
“Is she a good mum?”
Gladys gave a smirk and nodded. “And she hates Barry. She’s always hated him.” She added with a rueful laugh. “I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll say she always told me he was a wrong ‘un, but it took a lady with a crystal ball!”
---
“All good on your end?” asked Sherlock when John had slipped into the tent, disregarding the ‘Out to Lunch’ placard.
“All good. You?”
“Yes, I just received word Lestrade and her team picked Barry up, just as he was about to destroy vital evidence.”
“Gladys wasn’t his first, and now she can be the one who just escaped being his last. Well done, Madame Snowflake.”
“My fortune-telling career is over,” said Sherlock, opening a trunk and divesting herself of headdress, wig, earrings, and eyelashes. “We can tell the vicar we were successful in our mission.”
“A very open-minded chap, the vicar, especially when you explained that you weren’t actually intending to practice the dark arts.”
“The only dark art I was practicing was the application of this kohl round my eyes,” replied Sherlock, deftly removing the greasepaint from her face.
John helped Sherlock change out of her Madame Snowflake costume and into clothes which made her look like any another person deciding to attend a village winter fete.
Sherlock packed the flowing gowns and silver adornments into the trunk. “Let’s have the vicar’s wife collect it.”
“Very well. I do think your, uh, stage name was rather apt.”
“Am I a snowflake, John?” asked Sherlock, hands on hips.
“Yes, utterly unique.” John kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “And absolutely beautiful.”