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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 25/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 910
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:This one is based on one of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kcscribbler's latest sentences, to whit: He should be used to Holmes’s twisted humor by now, but when they are separated one foggy night while searching for clues in the small country graveyard, and something cold and clammy grabs his ankles, his embarrassment at screaming is (thankfully) covered by Holmes’s howl of pain in receiving a boot to the face. Hope you don't mind, KCS - it wouldn't leave me alone! :)
FRIGHT NIGHT
Sherlock Holmes glared up at me as well as he was able from just one eye. The other was practically swollen shut, surrounded by a rainbow of bruising which was just starting to show itself and stretched all the way down the left hand side of his face from his temple to his jaw. There was a cut along his cheekbone, at which I dabbed gently with an antiseptic swab.
“You have to admit that it was your own fault,” I said, in answer to the venomous look.
There was a grunt in response. “I should by rights refuse to be treated by a man who reacts so violently to a simple joke.”
“A joke? Holmes, sneaking up on someone in a graveyard at midnight is not a joke!” I exclaimed, recalling the icy fingers of terror which had run their way up my spine when I felt the cold, clammy hand snatch at my ankles. The fact that I had been standing near an open tomb awaiting a new burial had not helped matters.
Holmes shot me a sly glance, the effect of which was spoiled somewhat by the nature of his injuries. “My dear Watson, are you telling me that you really thought I was a ghost?” he asked with ill-concealed amusement.
“Of course not.” In retaliation I touched the swab to the cut with rather more force than strictly necessary and tried not to smile when he yelped. “But you could have been anyone – an escaped convict, or a… an axe murderer!”
“Dear me.” Holmes tsked. “You do read far too much lurid fiction.”
“And you have a horribly macabre sense of humour,” I retorted. “What did you expect me to do, taken unawares like that?”
He reached up a tentative hand to feel the area around his eye, and grimaced. “You might have at least lashed out with your fist,” he complained. “I could have been blinded!”
“Hardly. My boots do not have pointed toes.” I finished my ministrations and began to clear away the blood-stained cotton wool. “Mrs Hudson is fetching some ice for those contusions. I did ask if she had any steak, but given the circumstances she said that she would not waste this evening’s dinner on your misfortunes.”
“How kind of her.” Holmes slumped back against the cushions and let his good eye fall shut. He would look a sight come morning, even more than he already did, for the worst of the bruising had yet to come out. In the moment that I kicked out in panic as I was grabbed in the churchyard, I had no idea that my foot had come into contact with flesh and bone until I heard a howl of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Horrified, I struck a match and stumbled through the long grass to find Holmes curled in a ball between the graves, moaning and clutching his cheek. Guilt consumed me for a second before I recalled the appalling shock he had given me mere moments earlier and I found myself alternately shouting at him and trying to pry his fingers away so that I could see the damage.
There was a knock at the sitting room door, and I crossed the room to admit our redoubtable landlady, who entered with a cloth-wrapped bundle and a disapproving expression. Catching sight of the muddy, dishevelled figure stretched out on the sofa, looking as though he had gone ten rounds in the ring with a heavyweight, she glanced at me and rolled her eyes heavenward before announcing, “Ice, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes’s eyes opened to painful slits and he reached out to take the proffered cloth. A gasp escaped him as the cold compress touched his battered face, and then he relaxed, the soothing properties of the ice beginning to take effect. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he mumbled from behind the bundle.
She nodded. “Maybe that will teach you to think twice before playing foolish pranks,” she said loftily. “Honestly – grown men behaving like schoolboys!”
With that pronouncement hanging in the air, she sailed from the room, the door banging shut behind her. I closed the clasps of my medical bag with a snap and stowed it away beneath my desk. Pouring a glass of water from the carafe on the sideboard, I emptied a packet of painkiller into the liquid and handed it to Holmes, who accepted it gratefully.
“Your prognosis, Doctor?” he asked indistinctly when he had drained the glass.
“I think you’ll live,” I said. “I missed your nose and the zygomatic is not damaged. You’re going to look rather unattractive for the next few days, though. Shall we say you walked into a door?”
He groaned. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you in a brawl.”
“I will. And I will also give you a piece of advice,” I added as I helped him up from the sofa and steered him towards his bedroom.
As he fell heavily onto the bed he tried to raise an questioning eyebrow, but the attempt caused him to wince and he gave up, laying his throbbing head down upon the pillow. “What is it?”
“Don’t sneak up on a war veteran who is still rather jumpy,” I said, rummaging through his wardrobe for a clean nightshirt. “You’re lucky I wasn’t armed.”
There was a pause, before Holmes’s unscathed eye widened and he nodded hurriedly in agreement.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 910
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:This one is based on one of
kcscribbler's latest sentences, to whit: He should be used to Holmes’s twisted humor by now, but when they are separated one foggy night while searching for clues in the small country graveyard, and something cold and clammy grabs his ankles, his embarrassment at screaming is (thankfully) covered by Holmes’s howl of pain in receiving a boot to the face. Hope you don't mind, KCS - it wouldn't leave me alone! :)FRIGHT NIGHT
Sherlock Holmes glared up at me as well as he was able from just one eye. The other was practically swollen shut, surrounded by a rainbow of bruising which was just starting to show itself and stretched all the way down the left hand side of his face from his temple to his jaw. There was a cut along his cheekbone, at which I dabbed gently with an antiseptic swab.
“You have to admit that it was your own fault,” I said, in answer to the venomous look.
There was a grunt in response. “I should by rights refuse to be treated by a man who reacts so violently to a simple joke.”
“A joke? Holmes, sneaking up on someone in a graveyard at midnight is not a joke!” I exclaimed, recalling the icy fingers of terror which had run their way up my spine when I felt the cold, clammy hand snatch at my ankles. The fact that I had been standing near an open tomb awaiting a new burial had not helped matters.
Holmes shot me a sly glance, the effect of which was spoiled somewhat by the nature of his injuries. “My dear Watson, are you telling me that you really thought I was a ghost?” he asked with ill-concealed amusement.
“Of course not.” In retaliation I touched the swab to the cut with rather more force than strictly necessary and tried not to smile when he yelped. “But you could have been anyone – an escaped convict, or a… an axe murderer!”
“Dear me.” Holmes tsked. “You do read far too much lurid fiction.”
“And you have a horribly macabre sense of humour,” I retorted. “What did you expect me to do, taken unawares like that?”
He reached up a tentative hand to feel the area around his eye, and grimaced. “You might have at least lashed out with your fist,” he complained. “I could have been blinded!”
“Hardly. My boots do not have pointed toes.” I finished my ministrations and began to clear away the blood-stained cotton wool. “Mrs Hudson is fetching some ice for those contusions. I did ask if she had any steak, but given the circumstances she said that she would not waste this evening’s dinner on your misfortunes.”
“How kind of her.” Holmes slumped back against the cushions and let his good eye fall shut. He would look a sight come morning, even more than he already did, for the worst of the bruising had yet to come out. In the moment that I kicked out in panic as I was grabbed in the churchyard, I had no idea that my foot had come into contact with flesh and bone until I heard a howl of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Horrified, I struck a match and stumbled through the long grass to find Holmes curled in a ball between the graves, moaning and clutching his cheek. Guilt consumed me for a second before I recalled the appalling shock he had given me mere moments earlier and I found myself alternately shouting at him and trying to pry his fingers away so that I could see the damage.
There was a knock at the sitting room door, and I crossed the room to admit our redoubtable landlady, who entered with a cloth-wrapped bundle and a disapproving expression. Catching sight of the muddy, dishevelled figure stretched out on the sofa, looking as though he had gone ten rounds in the ring with a heavyweight, she glanced at me and rolled her eyes heavenward before announcing, “Ice, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes’s eyes opened to painful slits and he reached out to take the proffered cloth. A gasp escaped him as the cold compress touched his battered face, and then he relaxed, the soothing properties of the ice beginning to take effect. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he mumbled from behind the bundle.
She nodded. “Maybe that will teach you to think twice before playing foolish pranks,” she said loftily. “Honestly – grown men behaving like schoolboys!”
With that pronouncement hanging in the air, she sailed from the room, the door banging shut behind her. I closed the clasps of my medical bag with a snap and stowed it away beneath my desk. Pouring a glass of water from the carafe on the sideboard, I emptied a packet of painkiller into the liquid and handed it to Holmes, who accepted it gratefully.
“Your prognosis, Doctor?” he asked indistinctly when he had drained the glass.
“I think you’ll live,” I said. “I missed your nose and the zygomatic is not damaged. You’re going to look rather unattractive for the next few days, though. Shall we say you walked into a door?”
He groaned. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you in a brawl.”
“I will. And I will also give you a piece of advice,” I added as I helped him up from the sofa and steered him towards his bedroom.
As he fell heavily onto the bed he tried to raise an questioning eyebrow, but the attempt caused him to wince and he gave up, laying his throbbing head down upon the pillow. “What is it?”
“Don’t sneak up on a war veteran who is still rather jumpy,” I said, rummaging through his wardrobe for a clean nightshirt. “You’re lucky I wasn’t armed.”
There was a pause, before Holmes’s unscathed eye widened and he nodded hurriedly in agreement.
