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| “ | It’s a confusing business but if it’s one’s profession, one does what one’s told.
— James Bond
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” |
Commander James Bond CMG RNVR is a character created by the British journalist and novelist Ian Fleming. Known as a secret service agent, code number 007, Bond resides in London but is active internationally. Besides his adventure as an MI6 spy, he is also known for his enjoyment of cars, love of food, drink and love-making, and an average intake of sixty custom-made cigarettes a day.
Battle vs. Sherlock Holmes (Novels) (by LokoDito)[]
The British secret agent, James Bond, code-named 007, was feeling angsty and anxious. He sat on a cold rickety bed inside a lonely dappy room for rent, with an orange lighting flicking above his head. Not a good place to stay for someone with style, but he needed a safehouse that was unknown and undetectable. In case someone did find him, he always had his pistol and knife ready.
Bond still did not understand why he got into this predicament. He seriously did not cheat with the wife of a senior marine commando, and definitely did not kill her husband when the bastard came home earlier than usual. He did not remember any scream, pleads, and begs from no woman. He was a comfy and peaceable man, who left at the first signs of trouble. So it was a mystery how the news reported that there were two bodies found dead inside their house.
A knock jolted Bond out of his bed, his pistol in his hand. At first, he decided to ignore it and create an illusion that he was fast asleep. But the knocking persisted beyond crazy, prompting Bond to inquire who it was, hoping that this was just the landlord wanting to say goodnight, or to tell him of some maintenance work. Bond crept into the door, pistol now behind his back, and answered, "Who is it?"
To his surprise, he heard a female's voice, saying, "Good evening, sir. I am here to deliver some blankets and beddings for the cold."
Normally, Bond would have just told her to piss off. But the woman seemed... enticing. Her sweet, pleasant, soft voice, was very womanly and lacking any straight tone of a bitch with a brain. From that voice, he could discern that the woman was in her mid-20s, probably a young college girl working for a tuition fee or something. This girl was probably soft, supple, submissive, and someone who would be a good cuddle at the very least, and at the very best, a mighty reason to thank God for Genesis 1:28.
Not wanting to delay it further, Bond decided to holster his pistol and let the woman in. Ask her to fix his bed and... we'll maybe he could think of something on the fly. When Bond opened the door, however, there was no woman to enjoy the night with. A girl's footsteps could be heard thudding in the hallways, probably belonging to the one whom he should be meeting with. Instead, an old man in a long coat and a deerstalker, stood in front of Bond.
"Commander Bond, I presume?" the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, remarked upon seeing the agent. "Would you care for a chat?"
Holmes had been hired to track down this wanted man, and upon finally seeing him face-to-face, his deductions did not disappoint. Strong jaw and eat hair created an image of someone with pride. His expensive white jacket and black suit and slacks spoke of someone who was leisured. Yet, the crooked brow and sinister smirk screamed of someone narcissistic and dangerous. It didn't take much from what Holmes could gather to concoct the best plan for this son of a bitch. He knew that a woman would make the easy bait. It might have sounded creepy and utterly dangerous, but all Holmes needed was to find Bond, and find the best lure to get him literally with his trousers down.
"Guess you caught me," Bond said as he allowed Sherlock Holmes into his room. "I had a feeling that if there's anyone who was going to track me down in London, it would be you."
Unfortunately, it seemed Bond himself had been expecting the hunter as well. He closed and locked the door behind the great detective, making the latter turn around in surprise. Bond then slammed his fist on the switch, taking away their only source of light. Holmes then felt a kick into his abdomen that sent him crashing unto a wooden cabinet. After hearing the click of a pistol, Holmes quickly drew his revolver and fired blindly into the dark.
Bond knew the sound of an old-fashioned revolver, and the moment he counted six shots, it was his turn to fire back. A bullet from Bond's Walther slammed into Holmes's shoulder, making the detective drop his revolver. Not like it would be useful anyways at this moment. With his shoulder damaged, and weapon out of action, Holmes made a calculated risk. He dashed towards the only light he could find, the shimmering window, and dove head first, breaking glass everywhere. The detective fell from the second floor and slammed painfully on the concrete sidewalk. But such pain was nothing now that he was safely outside, forcing his adversary to race down to the street.
The secret agent did not see that one coming. Cursing, he grabbed his brief case, went out of his room and into the stairs, doing his best to get down immediately before his quarry could escape. The smart thing to do was to forget about that detective and get out of London. But he had to finish off Holmes since the info that he had might led to his eventual capture. Bond also knew that Holmes was one of the only few who could track him in his own game, and one could imagine the boost in Bond's reputation when he finally become the one to take out the great Sherlock Holmes.
Bond arrived unto the foggy London streets, grabbing fresh magazines and a suppressor from his brief case. There was a trail of blood leading to an alleyway. Hoping that the injury must have crippled Holmes's movement and decision-making skills, Bond gleefully entered the lane with hungry eyes. He was eager to finish this battle soon, then find that girl afterwards and invite her to tea in his room, whether she liked it or not.
Suddenly, a sharp pain ignited on Bond's palm, making him drop his pistol. It came from Holmes's riding crop. One slap was enough to lacerate skin, but a second one actually fractured a bone. Yelling in pain, Bond bolted out of the alley and back into the street. He grabbed a switchblade from his leather shoe holster and threw it at Holmes, which the great detective parried away with a cane. Bond then went for Holmes's legs, but the detective caught him, before flipping the agent to the pavement.
As Bond grunted in pain, his back laid flat on the street, a French kiss from Holmes's cane finally knocked him out. Holmes then called a cabbie to haul this meat sack into jail.
Expert's Opinion[]
Although Bond has an advantage with better pistol and professional training, Holmes's other weapons and superior x-factors, especially his intellect, won him the day.