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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 21/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1133
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mycroft Holmes
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.
WHEREVER I LAY MY HAT
It was late on an inclement Friday evening, and Holmes and I were on the point of retiring for the night, when the front doorbell rang. It echoed through the house, Mrs Hudson having gone to bed herself an hour since, and I rose to answer only to be stayed by Holmes’s hand on my arm.
“Remain in your seat, my dear fellow. Whatever they want, I shall send them away.”
I twisted, watching him cross the room. “If it is medical assistance they need - ”
“I will direct them to the nearest alternative.” He turned at the door and shot me a stern glance. “You are done in, Watson, and you must have some rest.”
“That is the pot calling the kettle black,” I retorted, though I did feel exhausted. A recent outbreak of measles had been keeping me rushed off my feet. “When did you obey my instructions regarding sleep when you were trying to isolate that chemical compound last week?”
Holmes sniffed. “That is entirely different.”
“How so?”
He opened the door and headed out onto the landing. His voice floated back to me. “Because I am allowed to disregard your orders. I will not permit you to disobey mine.”
I laughed, for such a response was typical of a man of his commanding nature. Sitting back and contemplating climbing the flight of stairs which led to my bedroom, I listened to his footsteps descending to the hall. The bell pealed again before he reached the front door, and he shouted something intelligible at the person so insistently ringing upon it at such an ungodly hour. I must have dozed off again, for the next thing I knew Holmes was shaking me gently by the arm and I opened my eyes to see that we were no longer alone in our rooms.
Perched awkwardly upon the sofa was the massive form of Mycroft Holmes, a large glass of brandy looking very delicate in his flipper-like hand. I found myself frowning, for visits from my friend’s older brother were rare indeed, and unheard of so late in the day. Mycroft was a man of routine, and very much averse to deviating from the familiar patterns which comprised his life. Only once or twice had he come to Baker Street, instead preferring to summon his brother to his regular haunt, the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall.
Seeing my confusion, he waved his glass in my direction. “Good evening, Doctor. I must apologise for the intrusion, but I thought it only right to inform Sherlock of my temporary change in circumstances, and to stop off here on the way seemed the easiest method of doing so.”
“Change in circumstances? I don’t follow.” I scrubbed at my leaden eyes, trying to return myself to some semblance of consciousness.
“There has been an assassination attempt at the Diogenes,” said Holmes gravely. “Just over an hour ago.”
I blinked. “Assassination? What - ?”
“A bomb, to be precise, Doctor,” Mycroft explained, “Or at least what the police believe to be a bomb. It was discovered in the Strangers’ Room by one of the attendants. Thankfully it did not have enough of a charge to do more than damage the outside wall and two of the bookcases, but Her Majesty’s forces of law and order have seen fit to evacuate both the club and the attendant buildings. Consequently, as I live just across the street I have not been able to return to my lodgings to do more than pack a portmanteau.”
“Good God,” I breathed, astonished.
“Fortunately Mycroft’s rooms are on the ground floor, so nothing was damaged,” Holmes added. “Mr Melas was not so lucky – the force of the blast shattered both his windows.”
“I have therefore been forced to seek shelter elsewhere,” Mycroft finished, draining the last of his brandy. “It is damned inconvenient, I can tell you. There has not been a night for the last thirty-nine years when I have slept somewhere other than either my lodgings or the Diogenes.”
My fuddled mind finally worked its way back to full comprehension, and I sat up straight in my chair. “You must stay here,” I said.
The reaction I received, however, was not quite that which I was expecting. Holmes looked horrified, and Mycroft startled. He put down his glass, lifting a hand in refusal.
“No, no, Doctor, it is very kind of you, but - ”
“Nonsense. It is the most obvious solution,” I replied firmly, despite Holmes’s hissed attempts to persuade me otherwise. “You are welcome to my room - I can stay at the surgery for a couple of nights until all this is sorted out.”
“Watson!” Holmes exclaimed, and his brother shook his head.
“Thank you, but I must decline,” he said. “Apart from the fact that your room is on the second floor and to climb those stairs in addition to the seventeen one already has to negotiate in this poorly-thought out building is more than I can stand, there is the added complication of a promise I made to myself a long time ago that Sherlock and I would never spend another night under the same roof as long as I had the power to prevent it. I am happy to say that I have kept that promise since July 1867, when I left home to come and take up a position in Whitehall, and I do not intend to break it now.”
Holmes’s mouth twitched in amusement, which led me to wonder exactly what had caused Mycroft to make such a vow. “Where will you go, brother mine?” he enquired. “To Cressida? I am sure she has a spare room.”
“What, and have to endure children running around my feet?” Mycroft said, scandalised. “I shall leave that pleasure to you, since you and she seem to be on such good terms these days.”
“Then where?” I asked, as Holmes’s smile swiftly became a scowl of annoyance.
The elder Holmes heaved himself to his feet. “I shall repair to the Bentinck, in Duke Street. It is conveniently situated, though I shall be forced to take a cab to work, which will be most irksome.”
“You? In a hotel?” his brother said, not quite able to believe what he was hearing. I admit to some amazement myself, for Mycroft was one of the founder members of the only club in London to encourage its members to ignore one another.
“Indeed,” Mycroft replied, pulling on his gloves. “Louisa Trotter will make me very welcome. Besides, I’m sure a hotel which has no public lounge and encourages its guests to remain in their rooms will suit me very well.” He picked up his hat, bade us goodnight and departed, leaving his brother and myself staring after him with open mouths.
***
Author's Note: Louisa Trotter and the Bentinck Hotel are references to 70s BBC drama The Duchess of Duke Street. The series was created by John Hawkesworth, who developed the Granada Holmes for television alongside Michael Cox. We've been watching it again recently and it seems to have wormed its way into my consciousness. :)
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1133
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mycroft Holmes
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.
WHEREVER I LAY MY HAT
It was late on an inclement Friday evening, and Holmes and I were on the point of retiring for the night, when the front doorbell rang. It echoed through the house, Mrs Hudson having gone to bed herself an hour since, and I rose to answer only to be stayed by Holmes’s hand on my arm.
“Remain in your seat, my dear fellow. Whatever they want, I shall send them away.”
I twisted, watching him cross the room. “If it is medical assistance they need - ”
“I will direct them to the nearest alternative.” He turned at the door and shot me a stern glance. “You are done in, Watson, and you must have some rest.”
“That is the pot calling the kettle black,” I retorted, though I did feel exhausted. A recent outbreak of measles had been keeping me rushed off my feet. “When did you obey my instructions regarding sleep when you were trying to isolate that chemical compound last week?”
Holmes sniffed. “That is entirely different.”
“How so?”
He opened the door and headed out onto the landing. His voice floated back to me. “Because I am allowed to disregard your orders. I will not permit you to disobey mine.”
I laughed, for such a response was typical of a man of his commanding nature. Sitting back and contemplating climbing the flight of stairs which led to my bedroom, I listened to his footsteps descending to the hall. The bell pealed again before he reached the front door, and he shouted something intelligible at the person so insistently ringing upon it at such an ungodly hour. I must have dozed off again, for the next thing I knew Holmes was shaking me gently by the arm and I opened my eyes to see that we were no longer alone in our rooms.
Perched awkwardly upon the sofa was the massive form of Mycroft Holmes, a large glass of brandy looking very delicate in his flipper-like hand. I found myself frowning, for visits from my friend’s older brother were rare indeed, and unheard of so late in the day. Mycroft was a man of routine, and very much averse to deviating from the familiar patterns which comprised his life. Only once or twice had he come to Baker Street, instead preferring to summon his brother to his regular haunt, the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall.
Seeing my confusion, he waved his glass in my direction. “Good evening, Doctor. I must apologise for the intrusion, but I thought it only right to inform Sherlock of my temporary change in circumstances, and to stop off here on the way seemed the easiest method of doing so.”
“Change in circumstances? I don’t follow.” I scrubbed at my leaden eyes, trying to return myself to some semblance of consciousness.
“There has been an assassination attempt at the Diogenes,” said Holmes gravely. “Just over an hour ago.”
I blinked. “Assassination? What - ?”
“A bomb, to be precise, Doctor,” Mycroft explained, “Or at least what the police believe to be a bomb. It was discovered in the Strangers’ Room by one of the attendants. Thankfully it did not have enough of a charge to do more than damage the outside wall and two of the bookcases, but Her Majesty’s forces of law and order have seen fit to evacuate both the club and the attendant buildings. Consequently, as I live just across the street I have not been able to return to my lodgings to do more than pack a portmanteau.”
“Good God,” I breathed, astonished.
“Fortunately Mycroft’s rooms are on the ground floor, so nothing was damaged,” Holmes added. “Mr Melas was not so lucky – the force of the blast shattered both his windows.”
“I have therefore been forced to seek shelter elsewhere,” Mycroft finished, draining the last of his brandy. “It is damned inconvenient, I can tell you. There has not been a night for the last thirty-nine years when I have slept somewhere other than either my lodgings or the Diogenes.”
My fuddled mind finally worked its way back to full comprehension, and I sat up straight in my chair. “You must stay here,” I said.
The reaction I received, however, was not quite that which I was expecting. Holmes looked horrified, and Mycroft startled. He put down his glass, lifting a hand in refusal.
“No, no, Doctor, it is very kind of you, but - ”
“Nonsense. It is the most obvious solution,” I replied firmly, despite Holmes’s hissed attempts to persuade me otherwise. “You are welcome to my room - I can stay at the surgery for a couple of nights until all this is sorted out.”
“Watson!” Holmes exclaimed, and his brother shook his head.
“Thank you, but I must decline,” he said. “Apart from the fact that your room is on the second floor and to climb those stairs in addition to the seventeen one already has to negotiate in this poorly-thought out building is more than I can stand, there is the added complication of a promise I made to myself a long time ago that Sherlock and I would never spend another night under the same roof as long as I had the power to prevent it. I am happy to say that I have kept that promise since July 1867, when I left home to come and take up a position in Whitehall, and I do not intend to break it now.”
Holmes’s mouth twitched in amusement, which led me to wonder exactly what had caused Mycroft to make such a vow. “Where will you go, brother mine?” he enquired. “To Cressida? I am sure she has a spare room.”
“What, and have to endure children running around my feet?” Mycroft said, scandalised. “I shall leave that pleasure to you, since you and she seem to be on such good terms these days.”
“Then where?” I asked, as Holmes’s smile swiftly became a scowl of annoyance.
The elder Holmes heaved himself to his feet. “I shall repair to the Bentinck, in Duke Street. It is conveniently situated, though I shall be forced to take a cab to work, which will be most irksome.”
“You? In a hotel?” his brother said, not quite able to believe what he was hearing. I admit to some amazement myself, for Mycroft was one of the founder members of the only club in London to encourage its members to ignore one another.
“Indeed,” Mycroft replied, pulling on his gloves. “Louisa Trotter will make me very welcome. Besides, I’m sure a hotel which has no public lounge and encourages its guests to remain in their rooms will suit me very well.” He picked up his hat, bade us goodnight and departed, leaving his brother and myself staring after him with open mouths.
***
Author's Note: Louisa Trotter and the Bentinck Hotel are references to 70s BBC drama The Duchess of Duke Street. The series was created by John Hawkesworth, who developed the Granada Holmes for television alongside Michael Cox. We've been watching it again recently and it seems to have wormed its way into my consciousness. :)
