Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. Contains strong m/m sexual scenes, violence, coarse language and adult themes.
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No infringement of the following characters and situations is intended.
Warning: (MA) Mature Adults only. Sharpe/Highlander.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Richard Sharpe, Methos and Harrods [what a trifecta!] are not mine.This was not done for profit, just for fun.
Rating: MA
You probably need to read Mothballs and An Offer Too Good To Refuse or this will make even less sense.
by Minerva
Sharpe's Sale
London: Present Day
ichard Sharpe slowly surveyed the scene before him.
"That's where we'll find the most resistance," he muttered "those big buggers over there!" He glanced at his companion waiting for confirmation.
"Are yer listening Methos!" he said crossly "We could be in for trouble here!"
"Yes yes Richard, I see I see. Do you have a plan?"
Sharpe let his gaze sweep the milling crowd in front of him wishing once again that he had brought his eye glass with him.
"There! Do you see it?" he said pointing "It's the weakest point"
"You mean those two women with prams?" Methos asked a little shocked. "You can't be serious Richard!" He was beginning to think this whole escapade was becoming ridiculous. It had seemed a good idea last night.
Sharpe hadn't been himself ever since they had donated his French Cavalry Trousers to the Museum. They had been included in the Waterloo display. A fitting tribute, Methos had thought.
But Sharpe had just stood there with tears in his eyes and muttered something about Patrick Harper getting his wish. He had hardly said a word since.
Methos had vaguely wondered if it could also have something to do with the death of Jo Harper, Sharpe's fiancee, but had dismissed that thought quickly.
No it was the loss of his trousers that was depressing Sharpe so what better way to cheer him up than buying some new ones! After all MacLeod had often said the best way to cheer up Amanda was to take her shopping and Methos had figured it should work with Richard Sharpe.
He had checked the papers and found that Harrods was having a sale. Perfect thought Methos...or at least he had last night.
"Those things can be lethal! I'm not dicing with them!" Sharpe looked at Methos as though he were a green recruit. " No, next to them, those old women. They won' put up a fight! Get ready now the doors are opening! Bloody hell,if only yer'd let me bring m'sword"
Richard Sharpe surged through the crowd yelling obscenities, pushing and shoving. He vaulted over one of the prams, grabbing a walking stick from one of the old women on the way. He used it effectively, knocking people about the ankles and shins. With a bloodcurdling scream he lunged forward and through the doors. Richard Sharpe had just stormed Harrods.
"Oh my god!" moaned Methos as he was swept along by the the tide of shoppers.
Badajoz: 1812
Captain Richard Sharpe stormed into the breach, Patrick Harper and the Chosen Men close behind him. He hacked and slashed his way through the terrified French soldiers, screaming and shouting. He was caught up in a battle frenzy but at the back of his mind was a nagging worry.
Patrick Harper grabbed his arm abruptly bring him back to reality. Sharpe surveyed the slaughter all around him. Dead and dying littered the room.
"Did I do that?" Sharpe asked unable to remember the carnage.
"Afraid so Sir, you were in a real state, you were. Is it because you're worried about Miss Theresa Sir" said Harper sympathetically. "We can go find her now if you like Sir"
"No, that can wait. We must find the Tailor" replied Sharpe breathlessly as he wiped the blood from his sword.
"If you don't mind me asking Sir, what would you be wanting with the Tailor. Is that where miss Theresa is hiding?" Harper asked ever patiently.
"Trousers Harper! I want bloody Trousers!" My god Harper could be thick sometimes. "It was yer bloody idea. If I've got to get rid of these to keep you happy then at least I intend to replace them with good quality, well fitting ones. Now lets get going !" and with sword drawn Sharpe ran out into the chaos.
The Chosen Men just looked at each other.
London: Present Day
Methos finally caught up to Sharpe in the menswear department. It was crowded with women, shouting, pushing and fighting over clothes. Methos briefly wondered why there were so few men buying their own clothes but quickly decided that most men were too smart to be caught in a dangerous situation like this. I must be getting old he thought.
He could see Richard fighting his way towards a table of Pierre Cardin slacks. He moved nimbly like a dancer, but with strength and purpose. A thing of beauty really, Methos idled.
Taking a deep breath Methos pushed into the fray.
He felt a unfamiliar had wandering over his backside and struggled to turn around in the pressing crowd.
A young woman giggled at him "Sorry" she said "I thought you were my Brother"
Methos just groaned.
Badajoz: 1812
The street of Badajoz were filled with soldiers. Some were fighting the retreating French soldiers, others chasing the Spanish women, others were simply fighting amongst themselves.
Richard Sharpe strode on, oblivious to it all.
Where to find a Tailor? A big city like Badajoz probably had more than one.
"Perhaps we should ask someone Sir" said the ever reliable Harper.
"Good idea Pat" said Sharpe and grabbed at a young Spanish girl as she ran past.
"Where's the Tailor" he said but the girl just looked at him fearfully and mumbled something in Spanish.
"The bloody tailor!" he said again. The girl shook her head.
"Trousers" he tried, gesturing at his own.
The girl took one look at where Sharpe was pointing and fainted.
"Bloody Hell Harper! Take care of this will yer" said Sharpe as he handed the girl to Harper.
"Yes Sir " said Harper and hoisted the girl over his shoulder.
London: Present Day.
"Did you see that Methos" gasped Sharpe, clearly out of breath, his arms laden with slacks and jeans. " That bloody woman scratched me." Sharpe held up his arm to show Methos the long red marks.
"More battle scars Richard?" he said with a slight smile "At least yours are in a place you can show."
But Sharpe was no longer listening . He had spied the fitting rooms and was battling his way towards them.
Badajoz:1812 Lieutenant Harry Price sat in the doorway cradling his prize. He had found himself several bottles of fine French wine and intended to get drunk, well more drunk anyway. He looked up at the sound of Captain Sharpe's voice and watched as Sharpe came up the street, clearly looking for something.
Brothel, thought Price, ahh perhaps he could help his Captain. He'd seen a brothel around here somewhere. As they came closer Price could see what appeared to be a young Spanish girl slung over Sergeant Harper's shoulder. Well he'll be all right, thought Price.
"This way sir," said Harry rising shakily to his feet "I saw a brothel right around the corner."
"Harry, what would I want with Brothel at a time like this. I'm after trousers!"
Harry Price admired Captain Sharpe, idolised him if the truth was know, and would happily have followed him into Hell itself. A pair of trousers seemed a small sacrifice.
"Here Sir, you can have mine" he said fumbling to undo them. That part was never easy.
"Bloody Hell! Price, are you drunk again. Look at the size of them. They'll never do."
And with that Sharpe strode off down the street again.
London: Present Day.
"So what do yer think" asked Sharpe his voice tight and strained. He had poured himself into a pair of black leather trousers.
Methos cast a critical eye over him. If Sharpe went out in those he'd attract trouble like a magnet. "You don't think you need the bigger size? They are awfully....fitting."
"You sound just like Pat!" snarled Sharpe.
"Well there's a story I'm sure." Methos grumbled back. "Why don't you try the Jeans."
Badajoz: 1812
Richard Sharpe gazed into the tailor shop window, rapture clearing showing on his face. They were in a quiet street, away from the rioting and raping and it was there he had found what he was looking for.
"They're perfect Pat" he said casting longing glances at the britches of brown doe skin displayed in the window. "They'll fit me with ne'er a wrinkle. Look right good with a pair of those boots that come up to the thigh." Sharpe's eyes twinkled at the thought.
Once inside Sharpe pull the britches from the window marvelling at the soft feel of the chamois leather in his hands.
"Feel that Pat." he said offering the fabric to his Sergeant.
"I've kind of got my hands full at the moment Sir" said Harper, referring to the girl who was still hanging over his shoulder. "Just get them on real quick so we can go round up the Lads before they get themselves into mischief."
"Well a least turn yer back Harper." said Sharpe sharply.He put the doe skin britches down and quickly stripped of his boots and trousers.
Unfortunately the young Spanish girl chose that very moment to revive from her faint. She looked a Sharpe, screamed and fainted again.
"Bloody hell" exclaimed Sharpe nearly falling over.
"Shite" cursed Patrick Harper, his ears ringing.
A cackling laugh from the doorway caused them both to turn and there, holding two loaded pistols was Sergeant Hakeswill.
"Well well Sharpie, nice to see some things haven't changed." said Hakeswill casting an appreciative glance over Sharpe as he stood there with his trousers around his ankles.
"What do you want Hakeswill." Sharpe said between gritted teeth.
"I'll be taking those doeskin britches you were just about to try on. I've taken a real fancy to 'em."
"No," Sharpe shouted but Hakeswill snatched the britches and ran.
Sharpe and Harper both lunged for the doorway. Sharpe's feet became hopelessly tangled in his trousers that were *still* around his ankles and sprawled into the street. Harper, hampered by the Spanish girl, was unable to stop himself and fell on top of his Captian, the Spanish girl sandwiched somewhere between them.
It was just at that moment that Harry Price chose to stagger into the street. Harry had never been a gossip. He had discounted the bizarre tale he had overheard Dan Hagman telling young Perkins about Captain Sharpe, Sergeant Harper and a donkey. Perhaps that donkey story was right after all, he thought as he looked at the tangle of arms and legs in front of him.
"That looks like fun Sir," he said "Mind if I join you?"
London: Present Day.
"Try these Sir" said the simpering sales assistant handing a pair of tigerskin print velour slacks to Sharpe. " I think they are just you!"
"And just what do you call *this* look?" asked Methos clearly not impressed.
"Why its the Hypo-retro-repo-sixties look." she sneered and minced away.
"Its awful!" cried Methos but he could see Sharpe smoothing the fabric between his fingers, a far away look in his eyes."You are not thinking of trying those on are you?" Methos asked starting to get worried.
"God no! It's just that they remind me of Lawford." Sharpe replied, his voicing softening as he spoke the name.
"Oh, that time in India when you shot that tiger ?" asked Methos.
Sharpe allowed a little smile to touch his lips "Something like that." he whispered.
Badajoz:1812
The day had turned out to be a disaster thought Richard Sharpe as he and Sergeant Harper walked slowly back to their billets.
The Provosts had showed up as Sharpe lay in the street and it had taken hours to explain why he was rolling around without his trousers underneath Sergeant Harper, an unconscious Spanish girl and the drunken Harry Price.
By the time Sharpe had sorted out the mess Sergeant Hakeswill had disappeared along with the doeskin britches.
The Spanish girl, Lolita, had been unable to utter a single word since her unfortunate run in with Sharpe and everyone was blaming him. The local priest had declared that Sharpe either restore the girls power of speech or Sergeant Harper would have to marry her.
"I'm not a damned miracle worker!" Sharpe had told him, but finally he had agreed to go back the next morning and have a go. Sharpe had little idea how to actually perform a miracle but he would give it his best shot. Besides he didn't want to loose Harper.
"You know Sir, it might be for the best after all" said Harper as he walked alongside Sharpe. "Those doeskin britches just weren't you. More like something poor Colonel Lawford would wear, God have mercy on him."
Lawford and doeskin, hmm, Sharpe considered that thoughtfully. No, not doeskin, tigerskin. Yes, Lawford and tigerskin.Sharpe smiled remembering India, Lawford and the tigerskin they had stolen after the Tippoo's funeral. Ah those had been fun times.
Sharpe forced his mind back to his present problem.
"Don't know what I'm going to do for trousers now Pat. I guess I'll just have to keep these."
Patrick Harper glanced Sharpe's trousers and nodded. They are starting to wear and fade in all the right... eerrr...wrong places, thought Harper. Perhaps they were not so bad after all.
"I guess I can put up with them for a while longer Sir." Harper smiled at Sharpe.
"Thanks Pat" said Sharpe, his face breaking into a big grin. "Now what can you tell me about miracles?"
Harper smiled back. What could he possibly want with a young Spanish bride when he had Richard Sharpe to look after.
London: Present Day.
"So Richard, how did you go" asked Methos unhappily "What did you buy?"
"Nothing!" said Sharpe "Not a bloody thing"
Damnit, thought Methos, don't tell me this whole day has been a waste of time.
"But what about those black Levis I saw you trying on?"
Sharpe bristled. "Bloody girl grabbed them when I had m'trousers down. I lost them!"
Sharpe was clearly upset.
"Well it wasn't a fair fight Richard" Methos soothed, "She had you at a disadvantage. Come on, I know what will cheer you up. Lets go to the museum and see how your trousers are going."
"I'd like that" said Sharpe, "I do miss them. Did I ever tell yer about the time I stormed Badajoz with Patrick Harper....."
When they arrived at the museum they were surprised to find that the Waterloo display had been closed temporarily.
"I'm sorry gents you can't go in there." explained a Security Guard who had walked up behind them. "We've had some trouble with one of the exhibits."
"Oh, which one?" asked Methos a faint suspicion beginning to form in his mind.
"We had an authentic pair of French Cavalry Trousers on display.." began the guard only to be interrupted by a near hysterical Sharpe.
"They've not been stolen?" Sharpe almost screamed.
"No no Sir nothing like that. We've just had a few...incidents... since they went on display and the curator thought it safer to remove them than risk any further trouble. He's taking them down now."
"Not again" thought Sharpe.
"Just what sort of trouble" asked Methos
"Here, you're not one of those bloody reporters are you" asked the guard "We've been trying to keep this quiet."
"NO need to worry , we're the Gentlemen who donated the Trousers to the Exhibit. We are just concerned for their well being." Methos flashed one of his special smiles at the guard who visibly relaxed.
"The trousers are fine sir, it's the Patrons that we're worried about. A few days ago a woman passed out after apparently trying to sniff them. Luckily her husband was on hand to revive her."
"Was she all right?" asked Sharpe the incident bringing back memories of Jo.
"She was fine, why she even came back the next day to take photos. But it could have been much worse" the guard continued on " there was a party of school children in the next room. Imagine if the poor kiddies had seen a thing like that. It could have scarred them for life." the guard shuddered.
"It's amazing what some people will do." said Methos shaking his head and trying not to laugh.
"Then this morning" the guard continued, clearly on a roll now "we were confronted with this large group of women waiting for the doors to open. We thought at first they were looking for the Harrods sale and had got lost."
Sharpe and Methos both nodded their heads knowingly.
"But apparently they were part of some sort of club...The Naked Lentils or something and they'd come from miles to see those trousers. It was like a riot. You cant imagine."
I think I can, thought Sharpe and Methos to themselves.
"Then there are the Emails we have been getting about them, it's become too much. Some staff have even threatened to strike. So the curator has decided they have got to go. Those trousers are giving out the wrong message and this Museum wants no part of it."
Richard Sharpe looked like a man who had seen a ghost.
Later:
"So Richard, what's the real story behind Lawford and the tiger skin." Methos asked as they walked home in the twilight.
Richard Sharpe who had been smiling constantly since the Museum Curator had handed him his trousers wrapped in brown paper and told him to take them home, turned to his friend and said "After the Tippoo's funeral Lawford and I stole the tigerskin. I've still got it packed away at home somewhere."
That was not enough for Methos. He wanted details.
"But what did you want it for Richard, what did you *do* with it." he asked pressing the point.
Richard Sharpe sighed remembering other times.
"When we get home I'll get it out," he said smiling shyly at Methos, "It might be better if I show yer."
The End
Jenny Jones.
The whole "Sale" idea is courtesy of Jen.
The Donkey and the Email is courtesy of Sarah in France.
Trouser sniffing is courtesy of Heather.
The Miracles are courtesy of Judy.
The Naked Lentils are...guess...[No offence meant, sorry if I upset anyone]
Can you spot the reference to my favourite poem?
Parts of this story are based on actual events. Only the circumstances have been changed to protect the guilty.
I've never been to London or Harrods so I have no idea if any of this is accurate. Sorry.
Lawford and the Tigerskin...well that's another story