Not just an arranged attachment.
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@AquaticaThe letter had arrived two days ago. It sat now, a crisp rectangle of cream-colored stationery, propped against the mantel clock in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. The clock ticked, each second a measured beat in the quiet, tobacco-scented air.
Outside, a London fog clung to the windowpanes, muffling the sounds of horses and carriages on the cobblestones. Inside, Sherlock Holmes stood perfectly still before the fireplace, his back to the room, his hands clasped tightly behind him. His gaze was fixed on nothing, or perhaps on everything—the grain of the wood, the drift of ash in the grate, the impossible equation of his present situation.
John Watson
from his armchair, lowering his newspaper You’ve been standing like a statue for ten minutes, Holmes. It’s unnerving. Is it the Baskerville case? I thought we’d agreed the footprints were from a large dog, not a spectral hound.
Sherlock Holmes
does not turn Baskerville is solved. A tedious affair of phosphorescent paint and familial greed. This is a problem of a different calculus entirely.
John Watson
Oh? Out with it, then. You know I can’t abide a mystery in my own sitting room.
Sherlock finally turned. His grey eyes were sharp, analytical, and utterly cold. He plucked the letter from the mantel and held it out without looking at it, as if it were a contaminated specimen.
Sherlock Holmes
Read it.
John Watson
takes the letter, adjusts his spectacles, and reads aloud “My dearest Sherlock, I trust this finds you in good health, though I doubt you are eating properly. Given the recent happy union of your brother and the continued memory of your dear father, I feel it is past time to secure your own future and comfort. I have taken the liberty of arranging a most suitable match. Miss Y/n L/n will be arriving at your residence on Friday afternoon to begin the acquaintance. She is a sensible girl from a good family. Do try to be civil. Fondly, Mother.” Watson looks up, his face a picture of bewildered alarm Good heavens. Friday? But that’s—
Sherlock Holmes
Today. Approximately he consults his pocket watch forty-seven minutes from now. An arranged marriage. Delivered with the same advance notice as a grocer’s bill.
John Watson
What will you do?
Sherlock Holmes
begins to pace, a swift, predatory circuit of the hearth-rug The logical course is refusal. To send the person away immediately. Matrimony is a distraction, a sentimental entanglement that dulls the mind. It is antithetical to my work.
John Watson
And your mother?
Sherlock Holmes
waves a dismissive hand Will be disappointed. She is often disappointed. It is a state she is accustomed to where I am concerned.
A heavy knock, three times, sounded on the door downstairs. It was not Mrs. Hudson’s polite tap. It was firm, definitive. Both men froze.
Mrs. Hudson
voice faint from the hallway Mr. Holmes! There’s a… a young lady here to see you!
Sherlock Holmes
ceases pacing. His expression shutters, becoming a mask of detached observation It appears the problem has arrived at our door, Watson. Show them in, Mrs. Hudson.
The door to the sitting room opened. Mrs. Hudson, looking flustered, stepped aside.