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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 23/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1649
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.
Author's Note: This one was inspired by one of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kcscribbler's Fifty Sentences: #24 – Now: Sherlock Holmes was stunned to discover that, for the first time in his adult life, someone had actually remembered – much less purchased him a gift for – his birthday; and watching the man tear into the package, flinging paper all over the hearthrug, his new flat-mate chuckled and only wondered why the detective was blinking so furiously.
MANY HAPPY RETURNS
Sherlock Holmes’s birthday was a closely-guarded secret. As with the majority of details about his past and personal life, he kept such information close to his chest. It took some time for me to learn that my fellow lodger was two years younger than myself, and even longer that his family came from old landed stock. We had shared rooms in Baker Street for nigh-on ten years before he mentioned his brother Mycroft to me.
Though I had no living relatives in England (the only exception my distant cousin Molly, with whom I had lost contact after joining the army), my circle of friends was large enough to ensure that upon the anniversary of my birth I regularly received one or two cards and congratulatory telegrams. Much to my surprise, however, as the months went on I noticed no such missives ever being delivered to my friend. Even at Christmas, when my own cards covered the bookshelves above my desk, Holmes’s side of the room remained resolutely bare. I knew he had little in the way of friends, more through choice than anything, and it was this mysterious absence of any contact with the outside world of human existence which first gave me to think that he must be an orphan, with no relations to send cards or greetings. I found myself feeling sorry for him when the weeks passed inexorably without one letter which appeared to have come from someone other than a tradesman or a client.
I cannot recall exactly how I came to discover the date of Holmes’s birth, but I do know it was sometime during the second year of our tenancy at 221B. Soon afterwards I became determined to do something to mark the occasion, and enlisted the assistance of a more than willing Mrs Hudson. In the course of my errands the week before I had noticed a perfect present for my friend in one of the jewellers in Regent Street, and it was this I carried – brightly-wrapped in appropriate paper – in the pocket of my jacket as I entered the sitting room on the afternoon of the momentous day.
Holmes was curled in his armchair, smoke drifting lazily from his pipe towards the ceiling. His eyes were closed, his face impassive, but I could see that despite the languid air there was an unusual tension in his spare frame. He did not move when I shut the door behind me with an audible click, did not even raise an eyelid. Now I have twenty years’ familiarity with his habits I can look back and deduce that he had been indulging in the cocaine bottle, but in those days I was still unaware of the vice. Carefully I pulled the little package from my pocket and laid it down on the table at his elbow, before taking my own seat across the hearth and unfolding my copy of The Evening Standard.
The room was quiet, but for the ticking of the clock and the occasional pop from the fire in the hearth. I watched Holmes from the corner of my eye, but it was a full quarter of an hour after my arrival when he at last came to life. His eyes opened and he stretched, catlike, before turning to place his now cold pipe on the table. As he did, he immediately noticed the parcel which sat there amongst the litter of ashtrays and papers. He picked it up, open confusion creasing his face for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance.
“Watson, what is this?” he asked, and I smiled.
“I should have thought that would be obvious,” I said.
“Well…” Holmes hesitated, holding the package between finger and thumb as though he thought it might bite him, “it would appear that you have dropped some of your shopping amongst my things.”
“Not at all. I put it there quite deliberately.”
His eyes widened. “Do you mean..?”
“I do indeed. It is for you.” My smile broadened, and I rose from my seat to offer him my hand. “Happy Birthday, Holmes.”
To my surprise, he did not respond, instead staring up at me in a mixture of shock and amazement. His mouth opened and closed two or three times without emitting a sound; and I began to become rather worried. Before I could ask him if he was quite all right, however, he seemed to overcome this strange paralysis and suddenly fell to ripping the paper from the box with childish enthusiasm. Scraps fell onto the hearthrug in his frenzy, but eventually he had the thing open, and was holding the present I had spotted a few days before: a silver cigarette case, which I had had engraved with his initials.
“Well?” I asked after several moments of silence. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
“I - ” He faltered, and the worry returned, for I had never in the course of the last twenty-two months seen Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words. He did not move, his eyes fixed upon the object in his hands.
“I saw that your old one was looking rather the worse for wear, and thought that this would be rather stronger,” I added, knowing I was babbling but somehow feeling that I had to fill the conversational void with something for my plans seemed to be going rather awry. “You could always - ”
“Watson.” I stopped talking at the sound of his voice and realised that he was looking up at me, a curious expression upon his face. “I can’t accept this. It must have cost you a fortune!”
I shrugged, and felt my shoulder twinge. “That is of no consequence. Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much, but - ”
“That is all that matters to me.”
“But why? Why did you do this?” He still sounded confused, which in turn puzzled me. One would think that no one had ever bought him a birthday gift before…I halted that thought as I remembered the lack of cards the previous year, the absence of familial contact which had prompted me to make this gesture. Was it possible that this was indeed the truth?
“Because I wanted to,” I said simply. “I could not let such a day pass unmarked.”
Holmes snorted and shook his head. “It always has done before.”
Feeling now that I might have made a grave error in wishing to do something kind for a friend, I resumed my seat. Holmes turned the cigarette case over in his hands, head bowed, for some time. It was rare to see him so pensive when not engaged upon some investigation.
“Holmes,” I said eventually, “Has no one ever done anything to mark your birthday before?”
After a moment he sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and sighed. “Not since I left home, no. To be honest, there was no one to mark the day but me, and I found that it became quite easy to forget about it altogether if I were to keep myself busy. After all, what is a birthday but another day of the year? It is a little difficult, not to mention somewhat pointless, to celebrate with oneself alone.”
“I find that appalling,” I told him, and he glanced at me, a funny little smile twitching one corner of his mouth.
“Yes, yes, I suppose you would. I can assure you that it made little difference to me.”
He was trying to be cavalier, but I did not believe him, given the strange way he fidgeted in his seat, his fingers tapping upon the burnished surface of the silver case. He was not comfortable with the conversation at all, and I decided that if he did not want to talk then I did not wish to press it. I stayed silent, and at last he was able to meet my gaze with something of his usual insouciance. He looked at the cigarette case again, as if seeing it properly for the first time, and he stood up, crossing to my side.
“Thank you,” he said, offering a hand which I took and which shook mine firmly. “I am really very touched, my dear fellow.”
I nodded, and watched him as he went into his room and found his battered old leather case, the back of which was falling off. When he had transferred his cigarettes into the new and tucked it away in his coat pocket, I got to my feet. Wordlessly I fetched our hats and sticks from the hall and held his out to him. He frowned at me, and I almost chuckled at the knowledge that I had now perplexed Sherlock Holmes twice in one day.
“We are going out for dinner,” I explained. “My treat.”
His eyebrows shot upwards, and he shook his head. “No! No, no, no, Watson, I cannot allow this! You have not the money – I absolutely forbid it!”
“I forbid you to forbid me to do anything,” I retorted. “I want to.”
Holmes stared at me helplessly. “But why?” he asked. It was a genuine question: he really did not understand.
I smiled. “Because you are my friend, and this is what friends do. We are friends, are we not?”
For a moment he just looked at me, and then an answering smile crept onto his face. He nodded. “But the expense - ”
“Oh, don’t worry, you can reciprocate on my birthday,” I assured him seriously, and he threw his head back and laughed, the tension in the room evaporating.
When Mrs Hudson appeared with a birthday cake and candles a few minutes later, however, despite the mask he desperately tried to keep in place, he was blinking furiously and I could not be absolutely sure that I had not seen the first traces of tears in his eyes.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1649
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.
Author's Note: This one was inspired by one of
kcscribbler's Fifty Sentences: #24 – Now: Sherlock Holmes was stunned to discover that, for the first time in his adult life, someone had actually remembered – much less purchased him a gift for – his birthday; and watching the man tear into the package, flinging paper all over the hearthrug, his new flat-mate chuckled and only wondered why the detective was blinking so furiously.MANY HAPPY RETURNS
Sherlock Holmes’s birthday was a closely-guarded secret. As with the majority of details about his past and personal life, he kept such information close to his chest. It took some time for me to learn that my fellow lodger was two years younger than myself, and even longer that his family came from old landed stock. We had shared rooms in Baker Street for nigh-on ten years before he mentioned his brother Mycroft to me.
Though I had no living relatives in England (the only exception my distant cousin Molly, with whom I had lost contact after joining the army), my circle of friends was large enough to ensure that upon the anniversary of my birth I regularly received one or two cards and congratulatory telegrams. Much to my surprise, however, as the months went on I noticed no such missives ever being delivered to my friend. Even at Christmas, when my own cards covered the bookshelves above my desk, Holmes’s side of the room remained resolutely bare. I knew he had little in the way of friends, more through choice than anything, and it was this mysterious absence of any contact with the outside world of human existence which first gave me to think that he must be an orphan, with no relations to send cards or greetings. I found myself feeling sorry for him when the weeks passed inexorably without one letter which appeared to have come from someone other than a tradesman or a client.
I cannot recall exactly how I came to discover the date of Holmes’s birth, but I do know it was sometime during the second year of our tenancy at 221B. Soon afterwards I became determined to do something to mark the occasion, and enlisted the assistance of a more than willing Mrs Hudson. In the course of my errands the week before I had noticed a perfect present for my friend in one of the jewellers in Regent Street, and it was this I carried – brightly-wrapped in appropriate paper – in the pocket of my jacket as I entered the sitting room on the afternoon of the momentous day.
Holmes was curled in his armchair, smoke drifting lazily from his pipe towards the ceiling. His eyes were closed, his face impassive, but I could see that despite the languid air there was an unusual tension in his spare frame. He did not move when I shut the door behind me with an audible click, did not even raise an eyelid. Now I have twenty years’ familiarity with his habits I can look back and deduce that he had been indulging in the cocaine bottle, but in those days I was still unaware of the vice. Carefully I pulled the little package from my pocket and laid it down on the table at his elbow, before taking my own seat across the hearth and unfolding my copy of The Evening Standard.
The room was quiet, but for the ticking of the clock and the occasional pop from the fire in the hearth. I watched Holmes from the corner of my eye, but it was a full quarter of an hour after my arrival when he at last came to life. His eyes opened and he stretched, catlike, before turning to place his now cold pipe on the table. As he did, he immediately noticed the parcel which sat there amongst the litter of ashtrays and papers. He picked it up, open confusion creasing his face for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance.
“Watson, what is this?” he asked, and I smiled.
“I should have thought that would be obvious,” I said.
“Well…” Holmes hesitated, holding the package between finger and thumb as though he thought it might bite him, “it would appear that you have dropped some of your shopping amongst my things.”
“Not at all. I put it there quite deliberately.”
His eyes widened. “Do you mean..?”
“I do indeed. It is for you.” My smile broadened, and I rose from my seat to offer him my hand. “Happy Birthday, Holmes.”
To my surprise, he did not respond, instead staring up at me in a mixture of shock and amazement. His mouth opened and closed two or three times without emitting a sound; and I began to become rather worried. Before I could ask him if he was quite all right, however, he seemed to overcome this strange paralysis and suddenly fell to ripping the paper from the box with childish enthusiasm. Scraps fell onto the hearthrug in his frenzy, but eventually he had the thing open, and was holding the present I had spotted a few days before: a silver cigarette case, which I had had engraved with his initials.
“Well?” I asked after several moments of silence. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
“I - ” He faltered, and the worry returned, for I had never in the course of the last twenty-two months seen Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words. He did not move, his eyes fixed upon the object in his hands.
“I saw that your old one was looking rather the worse for wear, and thought that this would be rather stronger,” I added, knowing I was babbling but somehow feeling that I had to fill the conversational void with something for my plans seemed to be going rather awry. “You could always - ”
“Watson.” I stopped talking at the sound of his voice and realised that he was looking up at me, a curious expression upon his face. “I can’t accept this. It must have cost you a fortune!”
I shrugged, and felt my shoulder twinge. “That is of no consequence. Do you like it?”
“Yes, very much, but - ”
“That is all that matters to me.”
“But why? Why did you do this?” He still sounded confused, which in turn puzzled me. One would think that no one had ever bought him a birthday gift before…I halted that thought as I remembered the lack of cards the previous year, the absence of familial contact which had prompted me to make this gesture. Was it possible that this was indeed the truth?
“Because I wanted to,” I said simply. “I could not let such a day pass unmarked.”
Holmes snorted and shook his head. “It always has done before.”
Feeling now that I might have made a grave error in wishing to do something kind for a friend, I resumed my seat. Holmes turned the cigarette case over in his hands, head bowed, for some time. It was rare to see him so pensive when not engaged upon some investigation.
“Holmes,” I said eventually, “Has no one ever done anything to mark your birthday before?”
After a moment he sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and sighed. “Not since I left home, no. To be honest, there was no one to mark the day but me, and I found that it became quite easy to forget about it altogether if I were to keep myself busy. After all, what is a birthday but another day of the year? It is a little difficult, not to mention somewhat pointless, to celebrate with oneself alone.”
“I find that appalling,” I told him, and he glanced at me, a funny little smile twitching one corner of his mouth.
“Yes, yes, I suppose you would. I can assure you that it made little difference to me.”
He was trying to be cavalier, but I did not believe him, given the strange way he fidgeted in his seat, his fingers tapping upon the burnished surface of the silver case. He was not comfortable with the conversation at all, and I decided that if he did not want to talk then I did not wish to press it. I stayed silent, and at last he was able to meet my gaze with something of his usual insouciance. He looked at the cigarette case again, as if seeing it properly for the first time, and he stood up, crossing to my side.
“Thank you,” he said, offering a hand which I took and which shook mine firmly. “I am really very touched, my dear fellow.”
I nodded, and watched him as he went into his room and found his battered old leather case, the back of which was falling off. When he had transferred his cigarettes into the new and tucked it away in his coat pocket, I got to my feet. Wordlessly I fetched our hats and sticks from the hall and held his out to him. He frowned at me, and I almost chuckled at the knowledge that I had now perplexed Sherlock Holmes twice in one day.
“We are going out for dinner,” I explained. “My treat.”
His eyebrows shot upwards, and he shook his head. “No! No, no, no, Watson, I cannot allow this! You have not the money – I absolutely forbid it!”
“I forbid you to forbid me to do anything,” I retorted. “I want to.”
Holmes stared at me helplessly. “But why?” he asked. It was a genuine question: he really did not understand.
I smiled. “Because you are my friend, and this is what friends do. We are friends, are we not?”
For a moment he just looked at me, and then an answering smile crept onto his face. He nodded. “But the expense - ”
“Oh, don’t worry, you can reciprocate on my birthday,” I assured him seriously, and he threw his head back and laughed, the tension in the room evaporating.
When Mrs Hudson appeared with a birthday cake and candles a few minutes later, however, despite the mask he desperately tried to keep in place, he was blinking furiously and I could not be absolutely sure that I had not seen the first traces of tears in his eyes.
