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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 30/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1288
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mary Morstan 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: Mary's appearance in The Hand of Friendship went down so well that I was tempted to use her again. This fragment follows on from that fic.
FACE THE MUSIC
“It’s a present,” my wife explained, after I had entered the house to the accompaniment of a somewhat out of tune rendition of Handel’s See The Conquering Hero.
“Is it indeed?” I put down my bag, regarding the rather battered upright piano which had apparently taken up residence in our parlour during my absence on my rounds. It had quite obviously been well loved by its previous owner, but its defects could doubtless be put right with a lick or two of paint and judicious application of a tuning fork.
For a moment I wondered where on earth it could have come from (one could not, after all, send a piano via the penny post), before my eye fell on the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, who stood in the window embrasure examining his nails as though he had no connection whatever with the musical instrument which had invaded my home.
My friend had been staying with Mary and I for the past week in an attempt to shake off the depression into which he had sunk following a dearth of new cases to test his formidable mind. Though Mrs Hudson tried her hardest to help, I had decided that it would be best for all concerned if Holmes had a complete break and so brought him – somewhat reluctantly - to Paddington with me for something of a rest cure. Thankfully by now the clouds were beginning to lift, and he was feeling much more himself. Unfortunately, it was quite obvious to one who knew him well that he found negotiating the ups and downs of life with a married couple confusing, though he would of course strenuously deny it if asked. He was wary of my wife to begin with, distrustful of women as a whole and unused to daily contact with the fair sex on such a level, but Mary persevered in her intention to befriend him and I was happy to note that she managed to charm the great detective with as much ease as she did everyone who crossed her path. By Wednesday Holmes was taking an interest in my patients as they came to the front door, watching and deducing from a prime vantage point at the window of the guest bedroom; by Friday evening he had evidently found in Mary a willing and able pupil and I found myself being called upon after dinner to confirm or deny the information they had gleaned between them, much to their combined amusement.
I turned to Holmes now. He appeared a little uncomfortable under my scrutiny, which, had I not seen him trying to adapt to his new status as a guest in my home for the past few days, I would have thought a little odd. “I take it this has something to do with you, old man?” I enquired.
Holmes opened his mouth to reply but Mary interrupted before he could speak.
“Now, don’t be sharp with Mr Holmes, John,” she said quickly. “He wanted to help me – we were talking about music and I mentioned that I had had no opportunity to play since the position I had before I went to Mrs Forrester’s. Do you remember that I told you she had no instrument for they were all of them tone deaf? I - ”
Holmes was watching me during this swift speech, and I could see his eyebrow arching, his mouth twitching slightly. It was plain he had seen through the stern aspect I was trying to project – he always did claim I was a hopeless actor. “I would not be too concerned, Mrs Watson,” he said, “I am well acquainted with your husband’s ‘bull-pup’, and I believe we are safe for it is not currently straining at the leash.”
Mary frowned, and then a smile broke across her face. She came and threw her arms around my neck, swatting me lightly on the ear. “Don’t you like the piano?” she asked when she had told me what a rotten man I was for trying to pull her leg.
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” I said, running my gaze over the instrument again and noting that it took up nearly half the space in the little room. “It’s just that it’s rather…large.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” my wife replied, adding firmly, “I can easily rearrange the room to accommodate it. All we need to do is sand it down a little, give it some fresh paint and employ the services of a piano tuner and it will be as good as new. We can push it into the corner and it will be quite out of the way. It still has a fine sound – you can hear that easily. Are we to keep it?”
I hesitated for a moment, both her eyes and Holmes’s on me like those of two children who imagined they were about to be denied a treat, and smiled. “Yes, very well.”
Mary laughed and kissed me on the nose.
***
An hour or two later I ventured out into the chilly garden to find Holmes sitting on the low wall smoking a cigarette in the gathering dusk.
“Mary doesn’t mind if you smoke that indoors, you know,” I said as I crossed the sparse, dead lawn and sat down beside him.
He exhaled through his nose like a contented dragon and shook his head. “I should not wish to force her into opening a window. The temperature is dropping rather swiftly.”
“All the more reason for you to come inside,” I countered, and he chuckled. We sat in companionable silence for a while until I said, “Mary is thrilled with the piano.”
“I am glad. As a fellow musician I could not allow talent to stagnate. From our discussions on the subject I believe your wife is also proficient upon the violin – who knows, she might have been harbouring designs upon my Stradivarius.”
I smiled. “Perish the thought. But where the devil did you get it?” I asked after another pause, during which we watched a robin hopping about in the holly bush at the end of the garden.
Holmes stubbed out the remains of his cigarette on the wall and stretched out his long legs. As I watched him bury his hands in his coat pockets I began to wish that I had not ventured outside in just my jacket. I stuffed my chilled hands under my armpits in an attempt to warm them. “I called in a favour,” he said. “A past client of mine repairs and refurbishes musical instruments – I waived his fee on the understanding that he would assist me in the future should I require it. Purely by chance, he happened to have exactly what I was looking for in his workshop. He will come and tune the beast tomorrow.”
“Well, thank you again. I cannot help but ask why you made such a gesture, though, Holmes. It is - ”
“Unlike me?” he enquired, raising an eyebrow a fraction.
“I did not say that.”
He shrugged. “You may as well have done, and you would be right.”
“Then why - ?”
My friend looked down at his feet for some time, and I realised that for once he was not quite sure what to say. Eventually, after careful consideration, he replied, “As I have remarked in the past, crime is commonplace, logic is rare. So too is kindness. Do you understand, my dear fellow?”
I considered for a few moments, and then I nodded, for I did understand. Only Sherlock Holmes would make a grand gesture instead of saying two little words. In the end I said them for him:
“Thank you, Holmes.”
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1288
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mary Morstan 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: Mary's appearance in The Hand of Friendship went down so well that I was tempted to use her again. This fragment follows on from that fic.
FACE THE MUSIC
“It’s a present,” my wife explained, after I had entered the house to the accompaniment of a somewhat out of tune rendition of Handel’s See The Conquering Hero.
“Is it indeed?” I put down my bag, regarding the rather battered upright piano which had apparently taken up residence in our parlour during my absence on my rounds. It had quite obviously been well loved by its previous owner, but its defects could doubtless be put right with a lick or two of paint and judicious application of a tuning fork.
For a moment I wondered where on earth it could have come from (one could not, after all, send a piano via the penny post), before my eye fell on the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, who stood in the window embrasure examining his nails as though he had no connection whatever with the musical instrument which had invaded my home.
My friend had been staying with Mary and I for the past week in an attempt to shake off the depression into which he had sunk following a dearth of new cases to test his formidable mind. Though Mrs Hudson tried her hardest to help, I had decided that it would be best for all concerned if Holmes had a complete break and so brought him – somewhat reluctantly - to Paddington with me for something of a rest cure. Thankfully by now the clouds were beginning to lift, and he was feeling much more himself. Unfortunately, it was quite obvious to one who knew him well that he found negotiating the ups and downs of life with a married couple confusing, though he would of course strenuously deny it if asked. He was wary of my wife to begin with, distrustful of women as a whole and unused to daily contact with the fair sex on such a level, but Mary persevered in her intention to befriend him and I was happy to note that she managed to charm the great detective with as much ease as she did everyone who crossed her path. By Wednesday Holmes was taking an interest in my patients as they came to the front door, watching and deducing from a prime vantage point at the window of the guest bedroom; by Friday evening he had evidently found in Mary a willing and able pupil and I found myself being called upon after dinner to confirm or deny the information they had gleaned between them, much to their combined amusement.
I turned to Holmes now. He appeared a little uncomfortable under my scrutiny, which, had I not seen him trying to adapt to his new status as a guest in my home for the past few days, I would have thought a little odd. “I take it this has something to do with you, old man?” I enquired.
Holmes opened his mouth to reply but Mary interrupted before he could speak.
“Now, don’t be sharp with Mr Holmes, John,” she said quickly. “He wanted to help me – we were talking about music and I mentioned that I had had no opportunity to play since the position I had before I went to Mrs Forrester’s. Do you remember that I told you she had no instrument for they were all of them tone deaf? I - ”
Holmes was watching me during this swift speech, and I could see his eyebrow arching, his mouth twitching slightly. It was plain he had seen through the stern aspect I was trying to project – he always did claim I was a hopeless actor. “I would not be too concerned, Mrs Watson,” he said, “I am well acquainted with your husband’s ‘bull-pup’, and I believe we are safe for it is not currently straining at the leash.”
Mary frowned, and then a smile broke across her face. She came and threw her arms around my neck, swatting me lightly on the ear. “Don’t you like the piano?” she asked when she had told me what a rotten man I was for trying to pull her leg.
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” I said, running my gaze over the instrument again and noting that it took up nearly half the space in the little room. “It’s just that it’s rather…large.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” my wife replied, adding firmly, “I can easily rearrange the room to accommodate it. All we need to do is sand it down a little, give it some fresh paint and employ the services of a piano tuner and it will be as good as new. We can push it into the corner and it will be quite out of the way. It still has a fine sound – you can hear that easily. Are we to keep it?”
I hesitated for a moment, both her eyes and Holmes’s on me like those of two children who imagined they were about to be denied a treat, and smiled. “Yes, very well.”
Mary laughed and kissed me on the nose.
***
An hour or two later I ventured out into the chilly garden to find Holmes sitting on the low wall smoking a cigarette in the gathering dusk.
“Mary doesn’t mind if you smoke that indoors, you know,” I said as I crossed the sparse, dead lawn and sat down beside him.
He exhaled through his nose like a contented dragon and shook his head. “I should not wish to force her into opening a window. The temperature is dropping rather swiftly.”
“All the more reason for you to come inside,” I countered, and he chuckled. We sat in companionable silence for a while until I said, “Mary is thrilled with the piano.”
“I am glad. As a fellow musician I could not allow talent to stagnate. From our discussions on the subject I believe your wife is also proficient upon the violin – who knows, she might have been harbouring designs upon my Stradivarius.”
I smiled. “Perish the thought. But where the devil did you get it?” I asked after another pause, during which we watched a robin hopping about in the holly bush at the end of the garden.
Holmes stubbed out the remains of his cigarette on the wall and stretched out his long legs. As I watched him bury his hands in his coat pockets I began to wish that I had not ventured outside in just my jacket. I stuffed my chilled hands under my armpits in an attempt to warm them. “I called in a favour,” he said. “A past client of mine repairs and refurbishes musical instruments – I waived his fee on the understanding that he would assist me in the future should I require it. Purely by chance, he happened to have exactly what I was looking for in his workshop. He will come and tune the beast tomorrow.”
“Well, thank you again. I cannot help but ask why you made such a gesture, though, Holmes. It is - ”
“Unlike me?” he enquired, raising an eyebrow a fraction.
“I did not say that.”
He shrugged. “You may as well have done, and you would be right.”
“Then why - ?”
My friend looked down at his feet for some time, and I realised that for once he was not quite sure what to say. Eventually, after careful consideration, he replied, “As I have remarked in the past, crime is commonplace, logic is rare. So too is kindness. Do you understand, my dear fellow?”
I considered for a few moments, and then I nodded, for I did understand. Only Sherlock Holmes would make a grand gesture instead of saying two little words. In the end I said them for him:
“Thank you, Holmes.”
