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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 5/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1095
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
Author's Note: Snow has magical powers. It turns us all into big kids...
JACK FROST NIPPING AT YOUR NOSE
“Holmes, do you really think this is a good idea?” I asked as my friend opened the front door, allowing a blast of frigid air across the threshold.
“Watson, how can you ask such a question? We have been prisoners in this house for three days – we need air,” Holmes replied firmly, pulling on his gloves.
“Yes, but is the risk of a broken leg really worth it? The pavements are all frozen solid!”
“Then we shall skate. I for one am willing to take a chance. Any more time spent indoors will see me in Bedlam.” He grasped his stick, sniffed the air and ventured out, a silhouette against the white world beyond. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him.
The landscape beyond our door was quite breathtaking, and not just because of the bitter chill which robbed one of air the moment they inhaled. Baker Street was sparkling beneath a thick blanket of snow, a blanket which had so far barely been touched by either wheel or footprint, the muddy and defiled slush from the day before temporarily hidden from view by the fresh, pristine cloak. A few hardy souls besides ourselves had ventured out, but it seemed that otherwise London had yet to wake, brought to a grinding halt by the deep drifts which huddled up to houses and businesses. Up the street I could see the bookseller on the corner at work before his front door with a shovel; a muffled clopping sound announced the slow and cautious arrival of a cab, the horse taking careful steps upon the slippery ground. Both it seemed would be hoping for custom in vain.
I walked slowly, my old wounds disliking the cold, grateful for the added traction provided by my stick. Holmes, after skidding dangerously when he attempted his usual stride, had shifted to tread upon the powdery snow which lay at the edge of the pavement, moving through it with a kind of awkward, shuffling gait which I had to ignore for fear of laughing at him and raising his ire. He was prickly enough already after three days’ incarceration in our rooms without my encouraging him.
In this fashion we made our gradual way up Baker Street and across the Marylebone Road without mishap, and together took a bracing turn about Regent’s Park, where the paths had considerately been cleared by a boy with a broom. Groups of children whooped and ran in great clouds of shimmering droplets, taking full advantage of the weather and the brief respite for normality it had brought. Snowmen sprang up all over the park, of varying size and skill. Toboggans careered down any convenient incline, much to the delight of their riders, who inevitably ended up rolling in the ice and slush. It was truly a delightful scene.
After and hour of such amusement and exercise, however, my leg and shoulder had begun to throb most uncomfortably, and the biting wind had stung colour into even Holmes’s pale cheeks. We headed for home, my limp becoming more pronounced the closer we came to Baker Street – eventually Holmes took my arm through his and allowed me to lean on him as we walked. It was precarious, to say the least, and more than once I fully expected us both to end up on the pavement in an undignified heap as he nearly lost his footing upon the slick ground.
Finally reaching the door of 221B had rarely been more of a relief. I sagged against the railings to catch my breath as my friend fumbled with cold-numbed fingers through his pockets for the key. Unfortunately his cry of triumph when it was located swiftly turned into a startled yelp of disgust as he turned the key in the lock with too much force and disturbed the snow that had gathered above on the lintel. It sailed downwards, landing upon his hat and shoulders with a fat ‘plop’, and sliding right down the back of his exposed neck as he bent his head towards the door.
This time I couldn’t help it: I laughed. He squirmed frantically, but to no avail – the ice was making it inexorable way between his shoulder blades and down his spine, and no amount of frenzied twisting would dislodge it.
“Watson!” he exclaimed as he glanced up and saw me practically doubled over with mirth. “Watson, this is no laughing matter!”
“S-sorry…H-Holmes…” I managed to gasp out, the expression of sheer outrage on his face only making things worse. So overcome was I that I failed to notice the gradual shift from outrage to mischief until it was too late. I had barely straightened, wiping at my streaming eyes, before I felt the freezing impact of a handful of wet snow right in my mouth.
“Gah!” I spluttered, brushing away the remnants of the projectile, snowflakes clinging persistently to my moustache. “Why, you - ”
Holmes, delighted, gave one of his characteristic barks of laughter, a grin splitting his wind-chapped face. “Oh, Watson – if you could only see yourself…!”
I was not about to let him get the better of me. “Right,” I growled menacingly, reaching for the window sill behind me, “You asked for it….”
The lines were drawn, and battle commenced. Twenty minutes later we were cold and wet from head to foot and giggling like a couple of errant schoolboys. Mrs Hudson, alerted by the noise, opened the door to find us standing on the step looking as though we had been tumbling in the park with the children, shivering but inordinately pleased with ourselves. Horrified, she chased us indoors and up the stairs with strict instructions to change out of our sodden clothes at once.
“You’ll both catch your death!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know, grown men the pair of you! Ought to know better!”
“Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” I said contritely, hearing Holmes snigger behind me. “It won’t happen again.”
The good lady had not missed the sound of my friend’s amusement. She folded her arms and regarded us both disapprovingly. “It had better not, Doctor. It’s just as well I made up the fire and took those warm towels up. You’ll be needing them even more now. And don’t drip on the hall carpet,” she added as Holmes removed his hat, which still had snow upon the crown, “If I find a puddle of ice water anywhere I shall send you both to bed without supper!”
A threat indeed, and one that neither of us wished to put to the test.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1095
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, fluff
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
Author's Note: Snow has magical powers. It turns us all into big kids...
JACK FROST NIPPING AT YOUR NOSE
“Holmes, do you really think this is a good idea?” I asked as my friend opened the front door, allowing a blast of frigid air across the threshold.
“Watson, how can you ask such a question? We have been prisoners in this house for three days – we need air,” Holmes replied firmly, pulling on his gloves.
“Yes, but is the risk of a broken leg really worth it? The pavements are all frozen solid!”
“Then we shall skate. I for one am willing to take a chance. Any more time spent indoors will see me in Bedlam.” He grasped his stick, sniffed the air and ventured out, a silhouette against the white world beyond. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him.
The landscape beyond our door was quite breathtaking, and not just because of the bitter chill which robbed one of air the moment they inhaled. Baker Street was sparkling beneath a thick blanket of snow, a blanket which had so far barely been touched by either wheel or footprint, the muddy and defiled slush from the day before temporarily hidden from view by the fresh, pristine cloak. A few hardy souls besides ourselves had ventured out, but it seemed that otherwise London had yet to wake, brought to a grinding halt by the deep drifts which huddled up to houses and businesses. Up the street I could see the bookseller on the corner at work before his front door with a shovel; a muffled clopping sound announced the slow and cautious arrival of a cab, the horse taking careful steps upon the slippery ground. Both it seemed would be hoping for custom in vain.
I walked slowly, my old wounds disliking the cold, grateful for the added traction provided by my stick. Holmes, after skidding dangerously when he attempted his usual stride, had shifted to tread upon the powdery snow which lay at the edge of the pavement, moving through it with a kind of awkward, shuffling gait which I had to ignore for fear of laughing at him and raising his ire. He was prickly enough already after three days’ incarceration in our rooms without my encouraging him.
In this fashion we made our gradual way up Baker Street and across the Marylebone Road without mishap, and together took a bracing turn about Regent’s Park, where the paths had considerately been cleared by a boy with a broom. Groups of children whooped and ran in great clouds of shimmering droplets, taking full advantage of the weather and the brief respite for normality it had brought. Snowmen sprang up all over the park, of varying size and skill. Toboggans careered down any convenient incline, much to the delight of their riders, who inevitably ended up rolling in the ice and slush. It was truly a delightful scene.
After and hour of such amusement and exercise, however, my leg and shoulder had begun to throb most uncomfortably, and the biting wind had stung colour into even Holmes’s pale cheeks. We headed for home, my limp becoming more pronounced the closer we came to Baker Street – eventually Holmes took my arm through his and allowed me to lean on him as we walked. It was precarious, to say the least, and more than once I fully expected us both to end up on the pavement in an undignified heap as he nearly lost his footing upon the slick ground.
Finally reaching the door of 221B had rarely been more of a relief. I sagged against the railings to catch my breath as my friend fumbled with cold-numbed fingers through his pockets for the key. Unfortunately his cry of triumph when it was located swiftly turned into a startled yelp of disgust as he turned the key in the lock with too much force and disturbed the snow that had gathered above on the lintel. It sailed downwards, landing upon his hat and shoulders with a fat ‘plop’, and sliding right down the back of his exposed neck as he bent his head towards the door.
This time I couldn’t help it: I laughed. He squirmed frantically, but to no avail – the ice was making it inexorable way between his shoulder blades and down his spine, and no amount of frenzied twisting would dislodge it.
“Watson!” he exclaimed as he glanced up and saw me practically doubled over with mirth. “Watson, this is no laughing matter!”
“S-sorry…H-Holmes…” I managed to gasp out, the expression of sheer outrage on his face only making things worse. So overcome was I that I failed to notice the gradual shift from outrage to mischief until it was too late. I had barely straightened, wiping at my streaming eyes, before I felt the freezing impact of a handful of wet snow right in my mouth.
“Gah!” I spluttered, brushing away the remnants of the projectile, snowflakes clinging persistently to my moustache. “Why, you - ”
Holmes, delighted, gave one of his characteristic barks of laughter, a grin splitting his wind-chapped face. “Oh, Watson – if you could only see yourself…!”
I was not about to let him get the better of me. “Right,” I growled menacingly, reaching for the window sill behind me, “You asked for it….”
The lines were drawn, and battle commenced. Twenty minutes later we were cold and wet from head to foot and giggling like a couple of errant schoolboys. Mrs Hudson, alerted by the noise, opened the door to find us standing on the step looking as though we had been tumbling in the park with the children, shivering but inordinately pleased with ourselves. Horrified, she chased us indoors and up the stairs with strict instructions to change out of our sodden clothes at once.
“You’ll both catch your death!” she exclaimed. “I don’t know, grown men the pair of you! Ought to know better!”
“Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” I said contritely, hearing Holmes snigger behind me. “It won’t happen again.”
The good lady had not missed the sound of my friend’s amusement. She folded her arms and regarded us both disapprovingly. “It had better not, Doctor. It’s just as well I made up the fire and took those warm towels up. You’ll be needing them even more now. And don’t drip on the hall carpet,” she added as Holmes removed his hat, which still had snow upon the crown, “If I find a puddle of ice water anywhere I shall send you both to bed without supper!”
A threat indeed, and one that neither of us wished to put to the test.
