Title: Mirror, Mirror
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Summary: When Holmes and Watson see some boys playing doctor and detective, they get to see the impact of their stories…and are suitably disturbed by it. Sometimes art immitates life and sometimes life immitates art.
Warnings: humour mixed with a little drama
Word Count: 1400+
A/N: Okay, this is just kind of a way to make fun of myself after completing my whole Holmes-angsting-over-Watson AiCB story and was meant to be purely crack!fic, but ended up a little emo anyways. Hey, I just can't resist. ;) Please enjoy. Posted originally for lj community, Watson's_Woes.
"Holmes, wait a moment, please."
"Ah, is your leg bothering you, Doctor? We need not have gone so far, you know."
"Hush Holmes, I am only in need of a short break. There's a bench there, near the fountain."
"Very well, lead on."
The two, arm in arm, meandered slowly towards their desired spot, although was somewhat halted by a pair of boys who sped past them, too wrapped up in their play to pay the two men any mind or remember their manners.
"Come, Watson, the game's afoot!" the taller boy shouted, rounding the fountain at an energetic sprint.
A smaller and obviously younger boy, scarf practically dragging along the ground behind him, trailed obediently after his comrade with a cry of, "Right-O Holmes!"
Watson chuckled as he sat and watched the boys in a steadily popularized game of genius detective and loyal doctor. Holmes surveyed it with a healthy measure of curiosity, as if debating whether to be flattered or annoyed by it.
Just then, another boy, who was an unfortunate possessor of buck teeth and bowl cut red hair joined them. "Mr. Holmes," he said, in equal measures of spit and lisp, "Moriarty is terrorizing London. You must help!"
"Very well, Lestrade," the 'Holmes' boy announced with exaggerated graveness, "what have you found out so far?"
"Can't say I've found anything."
"And why not?" the boy questioned sharply.
"Well I'm in Scotland Yard, so I don't know nothin'."
This caused Holmes to snort with laughter, while Watson had the decency to blush.
Meanwhile their smaller counterparts exchanged looks and shook their heads in a disparaging manner.
"I suppose it's up to you, Holmes. Do you have any hopes of solving this case?" the Watson lad asked.
"Of course, now that we're on the case," young Holmes exclaimed, emphasizing his plural and baring his teeth at his Watson in a determined grin.
Watson smiled softly to himself, but refrained from glancing at his companion.
"Ah, see here, Watson, an obvious clue." The Holmes boy whipped out a cracked monocle from his jacket pocket and held it close to his eye while examining a leaf he picked off the ground. "I deduce that Professor Moriarty is heading towards the docks with shipments of gold!"
"How could he have deduced that from a leaf?" Holmes muttered scornfully.
"Just because your skills don't encompass that particular expertise—"
Holmes scoffed, but focused once more on the impromptu performance.
The boy playing Watson made an exaggerated motion of smoothing down his nonexistent mustache. "But for what purpose Holmes? What motive could he possibly have?"
"That I do not yet know. We must return to Baker Street so I may think on it."
They walked off to sit on the edge of the fountain, side by side.
"Holmes, if you're going to face Moriarty, you need to eat something."
"Bollocks, Watson, I can't eat now, I'm thinking!"
"I'm a doctor, you should listen to me!"
"I'm the genius here."
"Well you're acting very stupid just now."
"If I'm so stupid, then how could I know that Moriarty intends to use the gold to fund socialist spies?"
"That's amazing, Holmes. We must go immediately and stop him!"
"Quite so, bring your revolver."
Watson sighed in exasperation but maintained a tolerant smile. "I feel oddly misrepresented."
"Really? I thought it was a marvelous characterization. Besides, you, if anyone, my dear Boswell, should choke on the fruits of your own labor," Holmes drawled.
"Quiet, I'm trying to pay attention to the final scene," Watson hissed dramatically.
The boys were stalking through the grass, the Holmes boy somewhat ahead with his Watson surreptitiously covering their backs. They had just passed a large oak when another boy, older than the both of them, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, jumped out from behind the tree and grabbed the younger boy by the scarf and used it to pull the struggling boy against him.
The Holmes lad immediately spun around. "Moriarty!"
"Sherlock Holmes, you fell right into my trap. I planted those clues, you fool and now, your friend is going to suffer the consequences." With his forefinger and thumb, the Moriarty boy formed the distinct shape of the gun and held it up to the captive boy's temple. "Say your goodbyes, Doctor," the kid-professor whispered wickedly into the younger boy's ear.
Watson's facsimile met his friend's gaze with his slightly teary one. "I'll never say goodbye. Holmes…"
"Moriarty, don't you dare!" the boy bellowed, heedlessly bounding forward to try and stop the inevitable.
Both Holmes and Watson flinched when the gun went off, even though it was nothing more than the older boy shouting, 'BANG!', a sound nearly drowned out by the wordless cry let out by the boy playing Holmes.
Watson's doppelganger slumped to the floor when the Moriarty lad unceremoniously released him, laughing cruelly as the other boy dropped to his knees by his fallen friend and pulling the lifeless body into his arms.
"Watson, no. Nooooooooo! Watson! God, please!"
"You'll receive no help from that quarter, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty's double sneered.
"I'll find you, Moriarty. I'll find you and I will TEAR YOU TO SHREDS!" Holmes-light vowed even as the tears slid down his cheeks.
"Hey Sam!" the boy who played Lestrade earlier came racing up to their dramatic death scene. "Oi, you and James better get home. Your mum's lookin' for you."
Sam looked thoroughly put out. "Aw, alright then. Good job, by the way James. You were holding really still."
James turned over in his brother's lap and shot him a sunny smile. "Been practicing. Hey, you were really scary this time, Pierce."
"Pshaw, you fellas are always leaving before we get to the good parts. See you tomorrow, then."
The boys all said their goodbyes, leaving their real life counterparts reeling on the park bench.
"That was very possibly the most horrible thing I have ever encountered in my life. Not even the real Moriarty was that evil," Watson commented dryly, though his laughter died in his throat when he caught sight of Holmes' clenched jaw and pale face.
"I shan't forgive you."
Watson blinked. "For what, dying during a dramatic performance? I'm sorry I didn't put up much of a fight. I should have reminded the lad he still would have had my revolver in his pocket."
"For ever publishing that account of our apprehension of 'Killer' Evans!" Holmes clarified vehemently. "Now all of London thinks I'm liable to start weeping at the drop of the hat like some wretched Molly-boy."
Holmes stood and quickly stalked off back in the direction of Baker Street, but Watson just as quickly leapt up and seized his wrist, forcing him to turn and face him once more.
"Do you mean to say, you think yourself beyond such disgusting displays of emotions?" Watson spat angrily. "Well then, perhaps to be fair, I can call that boy back and ask him to stand there dispassionately while his younger brother reenacts my part at Reichenbach falls."
Holmes expression subtly changed from irritation to guilt, pain emanating from the depths of his eyes. "Watson, never mind what I said. I—"
"Don't bother, Holmes. It was just a game, no reason for either of us to be upset about it," Watson snapped, as he brushed past the other man.
This time it was Holmes who stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist. "That could be us someday, Watson. And whereas you would return to your Mary in whatever Heaven you deserve, I will be alone," Holmes said softly. "It's only a matter of time. If boys can figure out the worst possible torture any villain could inflict on me, it would be no hard feat for an actual criminal mind to do the same."
"We're not as young as we used to be," Holmes continued on, his voice holding that same wounded note as before.
Watson gave his friend a warm smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That's right and we have not lasted this long for lack of effort."
Just then, another boy went streaking by, plaid deerstalker and all, followed closely by an elder companion who was telling him to slow the bloody hell down before he got himself killed.
"Sherlock Holmes will never die!" the boy proclaimed stoutly before jumping daringly over the park bench.
"Hear that, Holmes? Your stories will last forever," Watson teased.
"Our stories, Watson. Our stories," Holmes corrected, gently emphasizing the plural.