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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 33/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1769
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, humour
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: After the angst of the last couple of chapters, a piece of silliness. :) The title comes from the song of the same name by the Pet Shop Boys.
I WOULDN’T NORMALLY DO THIS KIND OF THING
Having been tramping around in the cold and the wet all day engaged upon house calls, I was relieved to finally be able to ascend the stairs and removed my damp overcoat, looking forward to half an hour beside the fire with my evening newspaper and a warming drink before dinner. With this aim in mind, I opened the sitting room door only to stop short upon the threshold at the unexpected sight within.
Sherlock Holmes stood with his back to me, in a circle made by pushing back the furniture as far as it would go. His arms were held at odd angles in mid-air, as though he were a wax tableau or a performer awaiting his cue, and I could just make out a pamphlet of some kind held in his outstretched hand. After a moment, trying to identify the strange noise that was just on the edge of my hearing, I became aware that he was humming. It was a vaguely familiar tune, but just then I could not for the life of me identify it. Suffice to say, it was not a piece of music with which I would normally associate my friend.
These things, had they occurred randomly, would have been unusual to say the least, but grouped together in this way they became downright odd. Holmes appeared to have no notion of my presence, and so I tentatively cleared my throat to announce my arrival. The effect was alarming to say the least: the detective leapt like a scalded cat and spun around to face me, flinging as he did so the papers he held onto his already cluttered desk. Much to my amazement, he was blushing furiously.
“Watson, must you creep up on people?” he demanded, his voice high and frantic.
“I’m sorry, old man, but I did tell you I would be back around now,” I said, and peered at him in some concern for it seemed he might be sickening for something. “Are you quite all right?”
“Perfectly well,” he replied quickly, and then coughed, his tone when he continued having lowered an octave, “Perfectly well, thank you.”
Curious, but not wishing to embarrass him further, I looked about for my armchair. Finding it in the doorway to Holmes’s bedroom, I set about drawing it back to its customary position on the left hand side of the fireplace and sat down, unfolding my newspaper. As I ran an eye over the domestic reports, I was peripherally aware of my friend pacing about the room. The scrape of a match told me that he had lit up a cigarette, and I glanced from the corner of my eye to see him perched upon the window sill, gazing out at the dismal evening. Though I wanted to ask him what on earth he had been doing when I entered, I knew better than to press him for explanations. He would tell me in his own time if he felt I needed to know, and I had seen enough peculiar things over the years to be able to bear my own curiosity a little longer.
Eventually, as I had reached an article on the current state of the Poor Laws, he leapt up, striding across the open space in the middle of the floor. He stood there for a moment, one hand in his pocket and his left foot tapping upon the worn carpet, before he said,
“Watson, do you know how to waltz?”
I looked up in surprise, for whatever I had been expecting him to say it was certainly not that. “Yes,” I replied, frowning. “Why do you ask?”
Holmes looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I find I have need of the ability. For a case,” he added swiftly before I could speak. “I must learn the steps and make a decent fist of it by tomorrow if I am to retain the co-operation of a certain young lady.”
“Holmes, I hope this is not co-operation of the same kind as that you obtained from Milverton’s housemaid,” I said in a warning tone, remembering what had come of that association.
He threw back his head and barked a laugh. “No! No, my dear fellow, nothing like that, I promise. But I have been invited to a ball and...”
“You do not know how to dance.”
“I do not know how to waltz,” he corrected. “I have been attempting to learn, but it is a little difficult to master alone.”
“So that’s what you were doing when I came in!” I exclaimed, the pieces at last fitting together in my mind. Holmes had been attempting to teach himself the steps of the dance from a magazine.
He bristled. “I had thought you engaged elsewhere until six o’clock at least.”
“It is a quarter past,” I pointed out, and added, “It’s all right, old man, no need to be embarrassed. We all have to start somewhere.”
“Do you mean...” Holmes’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you offering to teach me?”
“Can you think of anyone else to ask? I doubt if you could obtain a lesson with a dancing master before tomorrow evening. I am a little rusty, I will admit, but if you need to learn quickly...”
“Yes, yes, it is an excellent suggestion,” he interrupted, no doubt afraid that if he were churlish I might change my mind. He stood, expectantly, in the middle of the floor, and I realised that he evidently wished the lesson to begin immediately. I groaned inwardly and hauled myself up from my chair.
“I think it might be best if you extinguished your cigarette,” I told him, “I doubt if the lady you wish to impress will appreciate a singed ball gown.”
“I am not of a mind to impress anyone, Watson,” he snapped, impaling me with a grey glare when I shot him a mischievous smile. “Had I not needed the information she holds in order to trap a thief I would never have begun this charade.”
“Of course, of course,” I said, attempting to school my features into some semblance of solemnity and failing miserably. “Well, for a start you will have to put your arm around me, old chap.”
He looked horrified. “Must I? Is there no way one can learn...at a distance?”
“Not if you wish to do it properly.” I took hold of his hand and placed it lightly in the small of my back. Holmes was trying not to recoil at this unwanted intimacy, I knew, and so I caught hold of his free hand, lacing my fingers through his and trying not to feel ridiculous. “Now, just do as I tell you. On my count: one, two three...”
***
“Watson, do move your feet out of the way!” Holmes cried half an hour later.
“My feet are not in the way,” I opined, “it is you who cannot count! Honestly, Holmes, you are a musician – it should be child’s play for you to follow a simple rhythm!”
He scowled at me. “It would appear to me that you and I are dancing to two completely different tunes, doctor!”
“It would be easier with accompaniment,” I admitted.
“Unfortunately, I have only one pair of hands and cannot dance and play at the same time,” Holmes said, quite obviously annoyed. I yelped as he stepped on my foot again - whether from accident or design I couldn’t tell – only to receive a growl in response.
We were still stumbling around the sitting room with all the grace of a couple of dancing bears when there was a knock upon the door and Mrs Hudson appeared to enquire if we were ready for our dinner. She stared at us for a long moment, eyes wide, before her mouth twitched and it became quite obvious that she was trying very hard not to laugh. I could not blame her for we must have presented a quite ludicrous sight.
“Lord have mercy, whatever are you doing?” she asked.
Holmes muttered something under his breath and stalked to the mantelpiece to fill his pipe. It therefore fell to me to explain. When I had, our landlady folded her hands before her and look us both up and down.
“Well,” she said, “I can’t say I would have agreed to dance with either of you, had I seen that little display before being asked.”
“Do you know how to waltz, then, Mrs Hudson?” I could not help asking.
“That I do, sir. Oh, I haven’t always been renting rooms to eccentric consulting detectives,” she added with a knowing glance at Holmes’s back. He ignored her, puffing away like an old steam engine as was his wont. “I was rather a good dancer in my day. Of course, back then the waltz was still considered a little scandalous. It wasn’t quite the done thing.”
“Mrs Hudson, you never cease to surprise me,” I said, and she smiled, a twinkle in her eye. An idea came to me. “I fear I make a poor lady for Holmes to practise with, despite my efforts. Do you suppose you might be willing to assist in this instance?”
Mrs Hudson looked at her irascible tenant. “Is it important?”
“The fate of a long and, until now, happy marriage may depend upon it,” Holmes said without turning round. “The lady – my client – is quite desperate.”
“I think she must be.” There was a long pause following that statement. Then Mrs Hudson gave a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, very well. Doctor, you can keep time. Come here, Mr Holmes.”
He came reluctantly to take the hand she held out to him. I tried not to smile, for they did make a rather ill-matched couple, Holmes being the taller by a good ten inches.
“Now,” said Mrs Hudson, “do as I tell you, concentrate on the steps, and if you break any of my toes you can get your own dinner for a fortnight.”
The detective nodded, turning his eyes to me for assistance, but I just shrugged, not willing for a moment to rescue him, and the lesson began.
***
After ten minutes I found myself helping our poor landlady hobble down the stairs, promising that we would organise our own meals for an unspecified length of time while our pupil sat glowering in his armchair behind a veil of blue smoke.
In one respect, if not others, Mrs Hudson and I were in complete agreement: no matter how elegant and graceful Sherlock Holmes might appear to be, when it came to dancing he very definitely had two left feet.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1769
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, humour
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: After the angst of the last couple of chapters, a piece of silliness. :) The title comes from the song of the same name by the Pet Shop Boys.
I WOULDN’T NORMALLY DO THIS KIND OF THING
Having been tramping around in the cold and the wet all day engaged upon house calls, I was relieved to finally be able to ascend the stairs and removed my damp overcoat, looking forward to half an hour beside the fire with my evening newspaper and a warming drink before dinner. With this aim in mind, I opened the sitting room door only to stop short upon the threshold at the unexpected sight within.
Sherlock Holmes stood with his back to me, in a circle made by pushing back the furniture as far as it would go. His arms were held at odd angles in mid-air, as though he were a wax tableau or a performer awaiting his cue, and I could just make out a pamphlet of some kind held in his outstretched hand. After a moment, trying to identify the strange noise that was just on the edge of my hearing, I became aware that he was humming. It was a vaguely familiar tune, but just then I could not for the life of me identify it. Suffice to say, it was not a piece of music with which I would normally associate my friend.
These things, had they occurred randomly, would have been unusual to say the least, but grouped together in this way they became downright odd. Holmes appeared to have no notion of my presence, and so I tentatively cleared my throat to announce my arrival. The effect was alarming to say the least: the detective leapt like a scalded cat and spun around to face me, flinging as he did so the papers he held onto his already cluttered desk. Much to my amazement, he was blushing furiously.
“Watson, must you creep up on people?” he demanded, his voice high and frantic.
“I’m sorry, old man, but I did tell you I would be back around now,” I said, and peered at him in some concern for it seemed he might be sickening for something. “Are you quite all right?”
“Perfectly well,” he replied quickly, and then coughed, his tone when he continued having lowered an octave, “Perfectly well, thank you.”
Curious, but not wishing to embarrass him further, I looked about for my armchair. Finding it in the doorway to Holmes’s bedroom, I set about drawing it back to its customary position on the left hand side of the fireplace and sat down, unfolding my newspaper. As I ran an eye over the domestic reports, I was peripherally aware of my friend pacing about the room. The scrape of a match told me that he had lit up a cigarette, and I glanced from the corner of my eye to see him perched upon the window sill, gazing out at the dismal evening. Though I wanted to ask him what on earth he had been doing when I entered, I knew better than to press him for explanations. He would tell me in his own time if he felt I needed to know, and I had seen enough peculiar things over the years to be able to bear my own curiosity a little longer.
Eventually, as I had reached an article on the current state of the Poor Laws, he leapt up, striding across the open space in the middle of the floor. He stood there for a moment, one hand in his pocket and his left foot tapping upon the worn carpet, before he said,
“Watson, do you know how to waltz?”
I looked up in surprise, for whatever I had been expecting him to say it was certainly not that. “Yes,” I replied, frowning. “Why do you ask?”
Holmes looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I find I have need of the ability. For a case,” he added swiftly before I could speak. “I must learn the steps and make a decent fist of it by tomorrow if I am to retain the co-operation of a certain young lady.”
“Holmes, I hope this is not co-operation of the same kind as that you obtained from Milverton’s housemaid,” I said in a warning tone, remembering what had come of that association.
He threw back his head and barked a laugh. “No! No, my dear fellow, nothing like that, I promise. But I have been invited to a ball and...”
“You do not know how to dance.”
“I do not know how to waltz,” he corrected. “I have been attempting to learn, but it is a little difficult to master alone.”
“So that’s what you were doing when I came in!” I exclaimed, the pieces at last fitting together in my mind. Holmes had been attempting to teach himself the steps of the dance from a magazine.
He bristled. “I had thought you engaged elsewhere until six o’clock at least.”
“It is a quarter past,” I pointed out, and added, “It’s all right, old man, no need to be embarrassed. We all have to start somewhere.”
“Do you mean...” Holmes’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you offering to teach me?”
“Can you think of anyone else to ask? I doubt if you could obtain a lesson with a dancing master before tomorrow evening. I am a little rusty, I will admit, but if you need to learn quickly...”
“Yes, yes, it is an excellent suggestion,” he interrupted, no doubt afraid that if he were churlish I might change my mind. He stood, expectantly, in the middle of the floor, and I realised that he evidently wished the lesson to begin immediately. I groaned inwardly and hauled myself up from my chair.
“I think it might be best if you extinguished your cigarette,” I told him, “I doubt if the lady you wish to impress will appreciate a singed ball gown.”
“I am not of a mind to impress anyone, Watson,” he snapped, impaling me with a grey glare when I shot him a mischievous smile. “Had I not needed the information she holds in order to trap a thief I would never have begun this charade.”
“Of course, of course,” I said, attempting to school my features into some semblance of solemnity and failing miserably. “Well, for a start you will have to put your arm around me, old chap.”
He looked horrified. “Must I? Is there no way one can learn...at a distance?”
“Not if you wish to do it properly.” I took hold of his hand and placed it lightly in the small of my back. Holmes was trying not to recoil at this unwanted intimacy, I knew, and so I caught hold of his free hand, lacing my fingers through his and trying not to feel ridiculous. “Now, just do as I tell you. On my count: one, two three...”
***
“Watson, do move your feet out of the way!” Holmes cried half an hour later.
“My feet are not in the way,” I opined, “it is you who cannot count! Honestly, Holmes, you are a musician – it should be child’s play for you to follow a simple rhythm!”
He scowled at me. “It would appear to me that you and I are dancing to two completely different tunes, doctor!”
“It would be easier with accompaniment,” I admitted.
“Unfortunately, I have only one pair of hands and cannot dance and play at the same time,” Holmes said, quite obviously annoyed. I yelped as he stepped on my foot again - whether from accident or design I couldn’t tell – only to receive a growl in response.
We were still stumbling around the sitting room with all the grace of a couple of dancing bears when there was a knock upon the door and Mrs Hudson appeared to enquire if we were ready for our dinner. She stared at us for a long moment, eyes wide, before her mouth twitched and it became quite obvious that she was trying very hard not to laugh. I could not blame her for we must have presented a quite ludicrous sight.
“Lord have mercy, whatever are you doing?” she asked.
Holmes muttered something under his breath and stalked to the mantelpiece to fill his pipe. It therefore fell to me to explain. When I had, our landlady folded her hands before her and look us both up and down.
“Well,” she said, “I can’t say I would have agreed to dance with either of you, had I seen that little display before being asked.”
“Do you know how to waltz, then, Mrs Hudson?” I could not help asking.
“That I do, sir. Oh, I haven’t always been renting rooms to eccentric consulting detectives,” she added with a knowing glance at Holmes’s back. He ignored her, puffing away like an old steam engine as was his wont. “I was rather a good dancer in my day. Of course, back then the waltz was still considered a little scandalous. It wasn’t quite the done thing.”
“Mrs Hudson, you never cease to surprise me,” I said, and she smiled, a twinkle in her eye. An idea came to me. “I fear I make a poor lady for Holmes to practise with, despite my efforts. Do you suppose you might be willing to assist in this instance?”
Mrs Hudson looked at her irascible tenant. “Is it important?”
“The fate of a long and, until now, happy marriage may depend upon it,” Holmes said without turning round. “The lady – my client – is quite desperate.”
“I think she must be.” There was a long pause following that statement. Then Mrs Hudson gave a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, very well. Doctor, you can keep time. Come here, Mr Holmes.”
He came reluctantly to take the hand she held out to him. I tried not to smile, for they did make a rather ill-matched couple, Holmes being the taller by a good ten inches.
“Now,” said Mrs Hudson, “do as I tell you, concentrate on the steps, and if you break any of my toes you can get your own dinner for a fortnight.”
The detective nodded, turning his eyes to me for assistance, but I just shrugged, not willing for a moment to rescue him, and the lesson began.
***
After ten minutes I found myself helping our poor landlady hobble down the stairs, promising that we would organise our own meals for an unspecified length of time while our pupil sat glowering in his armchair behind a veil of blue smoke.
In one respect, if not others, Mrs Hudson and I were in complete agreement: no matter how elegant and graceful Sherlock Holmes might appear to be, when it came to dancing he very definitely had two left feet.
