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Nov. 26th, 2004 03:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sebastienneKate inspired me with this picture to write Sherlock Holmes fanfiction featuring Oscar Wilde.
Does this make me an offical Victoriana geek, now?
-----
"I see aqua in the bedroom, purple in the hall, and of course we simply must do the study in scarlet!"
I grimaced at the vulgarity of the interior designer that Holmes had engaged to rejuvenate our increasingly shabby rooms at 221b, Baker Street. My companion, however, watched our peculiar visitor with rapt attention.
He was clad, of all things, in stockings and knee-breeches. The button-hole of his maroon velvet blazer was a green carnation, and he was smoking with a delicate, almost feminine cigarette holder. In all my years of sharing and recording the exploits of my detective friend, nothing so bizarre had ever crossed our threshold.
His voice was drawling and affected as he pronounced that: "In all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential."
I concurred: "Certainly, we want our rooms to be stylish, although.."
"Just as, in all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential."
I was affronted at the man's interruption of me, but Holmes' eyes seemed to light up at his insufferable arrogance. His reply confused me:
"I hope, sir, that you won't make my rooms too stylish... for I would hate to have to live up to my own interior decoration.
Our visitor paused for a second, and his posturing seemed to lessen, as if Holmes had said something quite piercing.
"But perhaps that won't be a problem, as I don't think our budget could quite stretch to vermillion velvet wall-hangings, or even blue china..."
Holmes spoke with absolute innocence, but still the dandy's eyes passed over him for a split-second of confusion, before he regained his composure with a nervous laugh and continued with his opinionated declarations.
"Good sir, you need not concern yourself with problems of budget - today more than ever, the artist and a love of the beautiful are needed to counteract the sordid materialism of the age. An over-concern with budgetary matters leads to one knowing the price of everything, and the value of nothing."
I could bear his posturing no longer. I had tolerated his odious manner and dubious reputation for the sake of my friend, but this vacuous affectation was more than a man like me could bear.
"You, sir, talk nothing but nonsense!"
"No-one ever does."
I don't know whether I was more shocked by the speed of his discourteous riposte, or by the wry smile which flitted across my friend's features at my discomfiture. I glared at Holmes, as our visitor chuckled, and said, "I am afraid, gentlemen, that I will have to leave you now - I have a subsequent engagement for dinner with my friend Mr Bunbury. But please, do not hesitate to contact me if you require another consultation."
I rose to show him out, glad that he was finally taking his leave of us. I watched him through the glass in the door as he strolled off along Baker Street, swinging his cane and humming to himself.
I marched back into the sitting room, ready to launch into a tirade about the insufferable nonsense spoken by the interior designer, but was shocked into silence by the absorbed demeanour of my friend.
"What a singular gentleman," he commented, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Honestly, Holmes, do you know nothing of his reputation? He is one of the most infamous men in London!"
"Surely you know, Watson, that until his reputation becomes a criminal one, it is of no interest to me whatsoever." I was about to respond with that fact that his reputation was for the most unspeakable type of crime, when Holmes went on: "I chose to employ him simply because I remembered his name from my Oxford days. He was a source of some intrigue to my youthful mind, although it is clear that he does not remember me."
I was used to my friend's methods well enough to reply, "ah, so that's what all the nonsense with 'living up to your blue china' was about!"
"Indeed. Watson, I'm not entirely sure that we won't get some analytical thought out of you one day, after all!"
"Surely you, of all people, could tell from his manner of dress and of speech... well.... what he is," I stammered, unable to quite articulate the feelings I had on the subject.
"Well, my dear Watson, I could tell you that he lives in the vicinity of Chelsea; that he dined at the Savoy last night, with a group of people considerably richer than himself; and that there is no such man as Mr Bunbury... but as to 'what he is', other than an interior decorator and occasional journalist, his carriage gave me no clue whatsoever."
"You did not notice the effeminacy of his posture?"
"Watson, what are you trying to suggest?"
"That he - that is, they say he is - particularly Greek in some of his practices."
"Yes, I recall that he studied Literae Humaniores. But why that should exclude him from good society, I don't know."
"Holmes, you are being purposefully obtuse!"
"I assure you I am not."
"They say that he - at least I - that he isn't a marrying man."
"On the contrary, I perceived from the state of his stockings that he is married, with at least one child, but no nanny."
I could see from the sardonic smile at the corner of my friend's mouth that he knew exactly to what I was referring, and was taking pleasure in watching me having such trouble in expressing myself.
"Oh, Holmes, you infuriate me. He all but openly flaunts his perversion and you pretend not to be able to detect it. "
"Oh, you're talking about his homosexuality! - my dear Watson, that's been evident to me since Oxford, before even he knew it!"
It is hard to hide anything from Sherlock Holmes, but I pride myself on the fact that I made no external manifestation of my astonishment at his flippant dismissal of the most unspeakable sin of our age.
Does this make me an offical Victoriana geek, now?
-----
"I see aqua in the bedroom, purple in the hall, and of course we simply must do the study in scarlet!"
I grimaced at the vulgarity of the interior designer that Holmes had engaged to rejuvenate our increasingly shabby rooms at 221b, Baker Street. My companion, however, watched our peculiar visitor with rapt attention.
He was clad, of all things, in stockings and knee-breeches. The button-hole of his maroon velvet blazer was a green carnation, and he was smoking with a delicate, almost feminine cigarette holder. In all my years of sharing and recording the exploits of my detective friend, nothing so bizarre had ever crossed our threshold.
His voice was drawling and affected as he pronounced that: "In all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential."
I concurred: "Certainly, we want our rooms to be stylish, although.."
"Just as, in all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential."
I was affronted at the man's interruption of me, but Holmes' eyes seemed to light up at his insufferable arrogance. His reply confused me:
"I hope, sir, that you won't make my rooms too stylish... for I would hate to have to live up to my own interior decoration.
Our visitor paused for a second, and his posturing seemed to lessen, as if Holmes had said something quite piercing.
"But perhaps that won't be a problem, as I don't think our budget could quite stretch to vermillion velvet wall-hangings, or even blue china..."
Holmes spoke with absolute innocence, but still the dandy's eyes passed over him for a split-second of confusion, before he regained his composure with a nervous laugh and continued with his opinionated declarations.
"Good sir, you need not concern yourself with problems of budget - today more than ever, the artist and a love of the beautiful are needed to counteract the sordid materialism of the age. An over-concern with budgetary matters leads to one knowing the price of everything, and the value of nothing."
I could bear his posturing no longer. I had tolerated his odious manner and dubious reputation for the sake of my friend, but this vacuous affectation was more than a man like me could bear.
"You, sir, talk nothing but nonsense!"
"No-one ever does."
I don't know whether I was more shocked by the speed of his discourteous riposte, or by the wry smile which flitted across my friend's features at my discomfiture. I glared at Holmes, as our visitor chuckled, and said, "I am afraid, gentlemen, that I will have to leave you now - I have a subsequent engagement for dinner with my friend Mr Bunbury. But please, do not hesitate to contact me if you require another consultation."
I rose to show him out, glad that he was finally taking his leave of us. I watched him through the glass in the door as he strolled off along Baker Street, swinging his cane and humming to himself.
I marched back into the sitting room, ready to launch into a tirade about the insufferable nonsense spoken by the interior designer, but was shocked into silence by the absorbed demeanour of my friend.
"What a singular gentleman," he commented, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Honestly, Holmes, do you know nothing of his reputation? He is one of the most infamous men in London!"
"Surely you know, Watson, that until his reputation becomes a criminal one, it is of no interest to me whatsoever." I was about to respond with that fact that his reputation was for the most unspeakable type of crime, when Holmes went on: "I chose to employ him simply because I remembered his name from my Oxford days. He was a source of some intrigue to my youthful mind, although it is clear that he does not remember me."
I was used to my friend's methods well enough to reply, "ah, so that's what all the nonsense with 'living up to your blue china' was about!"
"Indeed. Watson, I'm not entirely sure that we won't get some analytical thought out of you one day, after all!"
"Surely you, of all people, could tell from his manner of dress and of speech... well.... what he is," I stammered, unable to quite articulate the feelings I had on the subject.
"Well, my dear Watson, I could tell you that he lives in the vicinity of Chelsea; that he dined at the Savoy last night, with a group of people considerably richer than himself; and that there is no such man as Mr Bunbury... but as to 'what he is', other than an interior decorator and occasional journalist, his carriage gave me no clue whatsoever."
"You did not notice the effeminacy of his posture?"
"Watson, what are you trying to suggest?"
"That he - that is, they say he is - particularly Greek in some of his practices."
"Yes, I recall that he studied Literae Humaniores. But why that should exclude him from good society, I don't know."
"Holmes, you are being purposefully obtuse!"
"I assure you I am not."
"They say that he - at least I - that he isn't a marrying man."
"On the contrary, I perceived from the state of his stockings that he is married, with at least one child, but no nanny."
I could see from the sardonic smile at the corner of my friend's mouth that he knew exactly to what I was referring, and was taking pleasure in watching me having such trouble in expressing myself.
"Oh, Holmes, you infuriate me. He all but openly flaunts his perversion and you pretend not to be able to detect it. "
"Oh, you're talking about his homosexuality! - my dear Watson, that's been evident to me since Oxford, before even he knew it!"
It is hard to hide anything from Sherlock Holmes, but I pride myself on the fact that I made no external manifestation of my astonishment at his flippant dismissal of the most unspeakable sin of our age.
