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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 28/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1156
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
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.
WHOOPS! HERE COMES A WHIZZ BANG
“Watson, look out!”
I spun, my hand going for my revolver, only to see Hawkins breaking free of the two constables holding him. With a roar he threw himself towards me – before I could even register that I needed to move, Holmes had barrelled into me, sending us both to the floor just as the knife Lestrade’s men had failed to confiscate thudded into the beam where my head had been moments before. I heard the inspector bellowing, followed by booted feet pounding on the floorboards; when I raised my head saw that Hawkins had been wrestled to the ground by at least six burly policemen. Lestrade, face puce with rage, was berating the officers who had let the smuggler escape.
Holmes straightened and sat back on his heels, allowing me to sit up. It took me a minute or two to catch my breath, for hitting the floor with his weight on top of me had quite forced all the air from my lungs.
“Are you all right, old man?” he asked, running a concerned eye over my dishevelled person.
“Quite, thank you,” I wheezed. “That was very close!”
“Sorry, Doctor, he got away from them,” Lestrade said as he joined us. “I’ll see that Goodwin and Ball are disciplined, don’t you worry.” Glancing over his shoulder he called to his men, “All right – take him away!”
“You’ll be sorry for this!” Hawkins yelled as he was hauled bodily towards the stairs. “You ain’t heard the last of me, Mr Holmes!”
“I don’t doubt it,” Holmes replied laconically. “We have the trial to come, after all. I believe I shall enjoy watching a judge make you squirm.”
“Get him out of here, Jenkins,” said Lestrade as Hawkins let fly a torrent of abuse in Holmes’s direction. It was an incredibly colourful and creative stream of invective, and we could still hear his shouts bouncing from the walls as he disappeared from view towards the waiting police wagon. The little inspector turned back to us, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Well, that’s another case satisfactorily concluded, eh, Mr Holmes?”
“A tolerable result, Lestrade,” Holmes agreed, taking a seat on a nearby packing case and reaching inside his coat for his cigarette case. He tapped one out on the lid and slipped the end between his lips. “Have you his accomplices?”
“Sergeant Chapman is rounding them up as we speak. We should have the whole gang under lock and key by morning.”
“Excellent.” Holmes lit his cigarette and tossed the match over his shoulder. “I believe we can leave it to you and your men to take things from here. Home, Watson?”
I slumped with relief. “I thought you’d never ask, Holmes.”
Lestrade followed us as we made our way towards the stairs. “You’ll come down to the Yard to tie up the loose ends?”
Holmes assured him that we would be there as soon as we had had a decent night’s sleep. Lestrade responded to this remark with his typical annoyance, informing the detective that none of his men would be getting more than an hour or two in bed by the time they had dealt with the formalities, but I was not really listening. I could quite suddenly smell burning, and not that of Holmes’s tobacco. I sniffed the air, trying to discern from which direction the smell was coming.
My friend watched me in some amusement. “Hungry, old man?”
I shook my head, explaining what I was doing. Lestrade followed my example and breathed in. “I can smell it too.” He glanced around us and a moment later his eyes widened. “It’s coming from over there!”
“Good God!” I exclaimed as I realised he was pointing towards the packing cases we had just left. Smoke was rising from the back of the pile, just behind that upon which Holmes had been sitting. It was plain in that moment that his discarded match had not been completely extinguished. “Lestrade, exactly what was Hawkins smuggling?”
The inspector paled. “Chinese fireworks…”
Holmes and I stared at each other, both opening our mouths, me to chastise him and he to argue, but before either of us could speak there was a huge bang from across the room and we were racing for cover, Lestrade’s shout of “Everybody down!” in our ears. We made it to the stairs and all but fell down them as more and more of the cases took fire and disgorged their squealing, popping, sparking and fizzing contents around the room above us. I glanced up as Holmes pulled me towards the warehouse door to see brilliant flashes of colour from above, almost blinding in their intensity.
Outside, in the darkness of the small hours it was worse, a rainbow of light shooting up into the night sky, illuminating the dockland for some considerable distance. I jumped as a rocket screamed its way overhead to explode in a beautiful shower of golden rain. More and more of them followed, and we found ourselves watching with ill-disguised appreciation even as we heard the bells of the fire brigade announcing their presence.
I am ashamed to say that Holmes and I slipped away as Lestrade argued with the fire chief over what had happened. It was too dangerous for his men to enter the building with so many fireworks running amok inside, and so I believe it took some two hours for the conflagration to be brought under control. The next morning the newspapers were full of speculation as to how it could have happened, and we received a telegram at half past six from a very irate inspector declaring his intention to prosecute Holmes for causing a breach of the peace and endangering police personnel.
“It was your fault,” I told him over the meagre breakfast Mrs Hudson provided as revenge for being woken so early by Lestrade’s messenger. “You should be more careful – we could have been killed, not to mention the fact that the fire destroyed all the evidence against Hawkins.”
“That was not his only offence, merely the crime which gave us the opportunity to catch him red-handed,” Holmes replied. “There is enough still in existence to hang him twice over.”
“Even so, I hope you will make sure you extinguish all matches in future.”
He placed a hand over his heart and closed his eyes, intoning, “But, of course, Watson. May I be torn apart by wild horses should I fail to do so.”
I snorted and turned my attention to my toast.
“Anyway,” Holmes added, folding the Morning Chronicle and sliding it across the table towards me, “It appears that you and Lestrade appear to be the only ones to pass censure on my conduct. You will see from the papers that everyone else seems to have felt that my mistake produced the best Guy Fawkes Night the capital has ever seen.”
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1156
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
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.
WHOOPS! HERE COMES A WHIZZ BANG
“Watson, look out!”
I spun, my hand going for my revolver, only to see Hawkins breaking free of the two constables holding him. With a roar he threw himself towards me – before I could even register that I needed to move, Holmes had barrelled into me, sending us both to the floor just as the knife Lestrade’s men had failed to confiscate thudded into the beam where my head had been moments before. I heard the inspector bellowing, followed by booted feet pounding on the floorboards; when I raised my head saw that Hawkins had been wrestled to the ground by at least six burly policemen. Lestrade, face puce with rage, was berating the officers who had let the smuggler escape.
Holmes straightened and sat back on his heels, allowing me to sit up. It took me a minute or two to catch my breath, for hitting the floor with his weight on top of me had quite forced all the air from my lungs.
“Are you all right, old man?” he asked, running a concerned eye over my dishevelled person.
“Quite, thank you,” I wheezed. “That was very close!”
“Sorry, Doctor, he got away from them,” Lestrade said as he joined us. “I’ll see that Goodwin and Ball are disciplined, don’t you worry.” Glancing over his shoulder he called to his men, “All right – take him away!”
“You’ll be sorry for this!” Hawkins yelled as he was hauled bodily towards the stairs. “You ain’t heard the last of me, Mr Holmes!”
“I don’t doubt it,” Holmes replied laconically. “We have the trial to come, after all. I believe I shall enjoy watching a judge make you squirm.”
“Get him out of here, Jenkins,” said Lestrade as Hawkins let fly a torrent of abuse in Holmes’s direction. It was an incredibly colourful and creative stream of invective, and we could still hear his shouts bouncing from the walls as he disappeared from view towards the waiting police wagon. The little inspector turned back to us, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Well, that’s another case satisfactorily concluded, eh, Mr Holmes?”
“A tolerable result, Lestrade,” Holmes agreed, taking a seat on a nearby packing case and reaching inside his coat for his cigarette case. He tapped one out on the lid and slipped the end between his lips. “Have you his accomplices?”
“Sergeant Chapman is rounding them up as we speak. We should have the whole gang under lock and key by morning.”
“Excellent.” Holmes lit his cigarette and tossed the match over his shoulder. “I believe we can leave it to you and your men to take things from here. Home, Watson?”
I slumped with relief. “I thought you’d never ask, Holmes.”
Lestrade followed us as we made our way towards the stairs. “You’ll come down to the Yard to tie up the loose ends?”
Holmes assured him that we would be there as soon as we had had a decent night’s sleep. Lestrade responded to this remark with his typical annoyance, informing the detective that none of his men would be getting more than an hour or two in bed by the time they had dealt with the formalities, but I was not really listening. I could quite suddenly smell burning, and not that of Holmes’s tobacco. I sniffed the air, trying to discern from which direction the smell was coming.
My friend watched me in some amusement. “Hungry, old man?”
I shook my head, explaining what I was doing. Lestrade followed my example and breathed in. “I can smell it too.” He glanced around us and a moment later his eyes widened. “It’s coming from over there!”
“Good God!” I exclaimed as I realised he was pointing towards the packing cases we had just left. Smoke was rising from the back of the pile, just behind that upon which Holmes had been sitting. It was plain in that moment that his discarded match had not been completely extinguished. “Lestrade, exactly what was Hawkins smuggling?”
The inspector paled. “Chinese fireworks…”
Holmes and I stared at each other, both opening our mouths, me to chastise him and he to argue, but before either of us could speak there was a huge bang from across the room and we were racing for cover, Lestrade’s shout of “Everybody down!” in our ears. We made it to the stairs and all but fell down them as more and more of the cases took fire and disgorged their squealing, popping, sparking and fizzing contents around the room above us. I glanced up as Holmes pulled me towards the warehouse door to see brilliant flashes of colour from above, almost blinding in their intensity.
Outside, in the darkness of the small hours it was worse, a rainbow of light shooting up into the night sky, illuminating the dockland for some considerable distance. I jumped as a rocket screamed its way overhead to explode in a beautiful shower of golden rain. More and more of them followed, and we found ourselves watching with ill-disguised appreciation even as we heard the bells of the fire brigade announcing their presence.
I am ashamed to say that Holmes and I slipped away as Lestrade argued with the fire chief over what had happened. It was too dangerous for his men to enter the building with so many fireworks running amok inside, and so I believe it took some two hours for the conflagration to be brought under control. The next morning the newspapers were full of speculation as to how it could have happened, and we received a telegram at half past six from a very irate inspector declaring his intention to prosecute Holmes for causing a breach of the peace and endangering police personnel.
“It was your fault,” I told him over the meagre breakfast Mrs Hudson provided as revenge for being woken so early by Lestrade’s messenger. “You should be more careful – we could have been killed, not to mention the fact that the fire destroyed all the evidence against Hawkins.”
“That was not his only offence, merely the crime which gave us the opportunity to catch him red-handed,” Holmes replied. “There is enough still in existence to hang him twice over.”
“Even so, I hope you will make sure you extinguish all matches in future.”
He placed a hand over his heart and closed his eyes, intoning, “But, of course, Watson. May I be torn apart by wild horses should I fail to do so.”
I snorted and turned my attention to my toast.
“Anyway,” Holmes added, folding the Morning Chronicle and sliding it across the table towards me, “It appears that you and Lestrade appear to be the only ones to pass censure on my conduct. You will see from the papers that everyone else seems to have felt that my mistake produced the best Guy Fawkes Night the capital has ever seen.”
