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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 19/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1133
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
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.
A TIME AND A PLACE
“Watson,” said Holmes as I ducked another shot which glanced off the stone wall inches from where my head had been moments before, showering us both with chips, “have you any idea what day it is today?”
I levelled my revolver to aim at the figure in the doorway opposite, and cursed a moment later when it moved and the shot went wide. “I don’t know,” I replied, distracted. “Tuesday?”
He tsked in irritation. “No, no, no, I mean the date.”
Thomas fired again, this time almost taking off Holmes’s left ear. I dragged him aside – he didn’t even appear to have noticed the bullet whistling past his head. “Does it matter?” I asked, astounded that he should be occupying his formidable brain with something so trivial – and at a time like this! “We do have rather more pressing concerns, in case you had failed to notice.”
Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew his own gun, checked it was loaded and drew back the hammer. As he spoke he peered carefully over the wall, watching the shadows on the opposite side of the street. “Well, it did just occur to me that today is the 20th, which makes it exactly a year since we decided to take the rooms at 221B.”
“Really?” I stopped in surprise. “I had no idea twelve months could pass so quickly - ”
There was a commotion from the house in which Thomas was sheltering. I heard the distinctive shrill of a police whistle, and a second later found myself thrown to the floor as a shot, a heavier bore than previously, embedded itself in the stone behind me. Holmes, who had knocked me bodily aside, pulled himself upwards. Climbing to his knees, and leaving me to regain my breath, he took a glance over the wall once more.
“Damnation! Where is Lestrade?” he muttered.
I sat up to see the sizeable hole in the masonry and felt myself blanch. The shot would have gone straight through me had my friend not been so quick-thinking. “We’re sitting ducks here, Holmes. He knows we’ll run out of ammunition sooner or later.”
“And by that logic, so will he. Hopefully before the official forces arrive.” Holmes lifted his revolver, and I saw him level it at the doorway, taking a careful sight along the barrel. “Did you have any plans for this evening?” he asked casually, as though we were sitting in a restaurant in the Strand rather than crouching in the dark behind a garden wall with a madman taking pot-shots at us with an elephant gun.
“Oh, nothing much beyond settling down with a large whisky and a good book. Being shot at is much more relaxing,” I replied facetiously.
One corner of his mouth twitched upwards, that strange approximation of a smile I had become so used to over the last year. “Good man.”
There was a flurry of activity in the doorway opposite – I readied my revolver, only to find to my horror that the hammer clicked upon an empty chamber. Somewhere beyond our hiding place I could hear the tramp of booted feet, the whinnying of horses, but they were too far away. By the law of averages Thomas would have a successful shot soon, and once one of us was down it would be easy to pick off the other. “Holmes…” I began, but he shook his head.
“Nil desperandum, Watson,” he said, his long white finger tightening upon the trigger of his gun. The revolver kicked in his hand, and a cry of pain rang out from the doorway opposite. I saw a figure crumple to the ground, clutching its shoulder, heard the clatter of something heavy and metallic hitting the steps. Holmes turned to me and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Any regrets?”
“About coming with you tonight?” I thought about the past twenty-four hours, about the chase through the warehouses down on the docks, the desperate race to find Holmes before Thomas made good his threat to ‘end that meddling whelp’s career before it has begun’, and then this last stand-off with the blackguard who had intended to poison the supply of tea just arrived from China in order to force the government to pay him an exorbitant amount of money. Since I left the house I had been hit over the head twice, nearly run down by a cab and found myself dodging a hail of bullets – I was now running purely upon adrenalin and knew that when it left me I would quite probably collapse for I had managed no more than two hours’ sleep since Sunday night. I wanted nothing more than to return to Baker Street and reacquaint myself with the concept of a quiet evening in.
“About taking rooms with me in the first place,” Holmes corrected, and I knew that, had I not met this eccentric, mercurial man, those quiet evenings would have become monotonous; a run of days, weeks, even months where nothing ever changed and routine was king. I would have known nothing more than a comfortable but dull way of life where adventure and excitement were to be found purely between the covers of a yellow-backed novel. Would I really have preferred that? I wondered.
“Of course not,” I said, in answer to both questions. He smiled, and the next moment swayed, nearly falling. I caught him, and a quick examination revealed a nasty gash across his forehead, no doubt caused by the flying masonry. “Besides,” I added, rummaging in my pocket for a handkerchief, “who would patch you up if I were not here?”
“Contrary to popular opinion, Doctor, I do not bring you along on these - ” He struggled for a word, taking a stride forwards and almost ending up on the ground again.
I grabbed his arm. “Foolhardy ventures?” I suggested.
“ – investigations,” he continued, as though I had never spoken, “purely for your medical skills.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“However,” Holmes added, brushing vainly at the blood which was trickling into his eyes, “I will not deny that they do come in useful at times…”
I could not help but laugh at his understatement, hearing him chuckle as well, and hoisted his arm about my shoulders, helping him away from our cover as Inspector Lestrade and a veritable army of Bobbies finally descended upon the house across the street. “Come on,” I said, “We both need a bath, a drink and a good night’s sleep. Let’s find a cab back to Baker Street. Let’s go home.”
And as we staggered along the road in the direction of Holborn, I could not help but wonder exactly when I had really begun to think of it as such, for home it truly was.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1133
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
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.
A TIME AND A PLACE
“Watson,” said Holmes as I ducked another shot which glanced off the stone wall inches from where my head had been moments before, showering us both with chips, “have you any idea what day it is today?”
I levelled my revolver to aim at the figure in the doorway opposite, and cursed a moment later when it moved and the shot went wide. “I don’t know,” I replied, distracted. “Tuesday?”
He tsked in irritation. “No, no, no, I mean the date.”
Thomas fired again, this time almost taking off Holmes’s left ear. I dragged him aside – he didn’t even appear to have noticed the bullet whistling past his head. “Does it matter?” I asked, astounded that he should be occupying his formidable brain with something so trivial – and at a time like this! “We do have rather more pressing concerns, in case you had failed to notice.”
Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew his own gun, checked it was loaded and drew back the hammer. As he spoke he peered carefully over the wall, watching the shadows on the opposite side of the street. “Well, it did just occur to me that today is the 20th, which makes it exactly a year since we decided to take the rooms at 221B.”
“Really?” I stopped in surprise. “I had no idea twelve months could pass so quickly - ”
There was a commotion from the house in which Thomas was sheltering. I heard the distinctive shrill of a police whistle, and a second later found myself thrown to the floor as a shot, a heavier bore than previously, embedded itself in the stone behind me. Holmes, who had knocked me bodily aside, pulled himself upwards. Climbing to his knees, and leaving me to regain my breath, he took a glance over the wall once more.
“Damnation! Where is Lestrade?” he muttered.
I sat up to see the sizeable hole in the masonry and felt myself blanch. The shot would have gone straight through me had my friend not been so quick-thinking. “We’re sitting ducks here, Holmes. He knows we’ll run out of ammunition sooner or later.”
“And by that logic, so will he. Hopefully before the official forces arrive.” Holmes lifted his revolver, and I saw him level it at the doorway, taking a careful sight along the barrel. “Did you have any plans for this evening?” he asked casually, as though we were sitting in a restaurant in the Strand rather than crouching in the dark behind a garden wall with a madman taking pot-shots at us with an elephant gun.
“Oh, nothing much beyond settling down with a large whisky and a good book. Being shot at is much more relaxing,” I replied facetiously.
One corner of his mouth twitched upwards, that strange approximation of a smile I had become so used to over the last year. “Good man.”
There was a flurry of activity in the doorway opposite – I readied my revolver, only to find to my horror that the hammer clicked upon an empty chamber. Somewhere beyond our hiding place I could hear the tramp of booted feet, the whinnying of horses, but they were too far away. By the law of averages Thomas would have a successful shot soon, and once one of us was down it would be easy to pick off the other. “Holmes…” I began, but he shook his head.
“Nil desperandum, Watson,” he said, his long white finger tightening upon the trigger of his gun. The revolver kicked in his hand, and a cry of pain rang out from the doorway opposite. I saw a figure crumple to the ground, clutching its shoulder, heard the clatter of something heavy and metallic hitting the steps. Holmes turned to me and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Any regrets?”
“About coming with you tonight?” I thought about the past twenty-four hours, about the chase through the warehouses down on the docks, the desperate race to find Holmes before Thomas made good his threat to ‘end that meddling whelp’s career before it has begun’, and then this last stand-off with the blackguard who had intended to poison the supply of tea just arrived from China in order to force the government to pay him an exorbitant amount of money. Since I left the house I had been hit over the head twice, nearly run down by a cab and found myself dodging a hail of bullets – I was now running purely upon adrenalin and knew that when it left me I would quite probably collapse for I had managed no more than two hours’ sleep since Sunday night. I wanted nothing more than to return to Baker Street and reacquaint myself with the concept of a quiet evening in.
“About taking rooms with me in the first place,” Holmes corrected, and I knew that, had I not met this eccentric, mercurial man, those quiet evenings would have become monotonous; a run of days, weeks, even months where nothing ever changed and routine was king. I would have known nothing more than a comfortable but dull way of life where adventure and excitement were to be found purely between the covers of a yellow-backed novel. Would I really have preferred that? I wondered.
“Of course not,” I said, in answer to both questions. He smiled, and the next moment swayed, nearly falling. I caught him, and a quick examination revealed a nasty gash across his forehead, no doubt caused by the flying masonry. “Besides,” I added, rummaging in my pocket for a handkerchief, “who would patch you up if I were not here?”
“Contrary to popular opinion, Doctor, I do not bring you along on these - ” He struggled for a word, taking a stride forwards and almost ending up on the ground again.
I grabbed his arm. “Foolhardy ventures?” I suggested.
“ – investigations,” he continued, as though I had never spoken, “purely for your medical skills.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“However,” Holmes added, brushing vainly at the blood which was trickling into his eyes, “I will not deny that they do come in useful at times…”
I could not help but laugh at his understatement, hearing him chuckle as well, and hoisted his arm about my shoulders, helping him away from our cover as Inspector Lestrade and a veritable army of Bobbies finally descended upon the house across the street. “Come on,” I said, “We both need a bath, a drink and a good night’s sleep. Let’s find a cab back to Baker Street. Let’s go home.”
And as we staggered along the road in the direction of Holborn, I could not help but wonder exactly when I had really begun to think of it as such, for home it truly was.
