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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 34/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1351
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson, two Baker Street Irregulars
Genre: Friendship, humour
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Ben and Charlie however, do.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
Author's Note: Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot...![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
piplover suggested using the Irregulars for the Halloween fic but another idea struck me so here they are for Bonfire Night instead. :)
REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER
“Mr ‘Olmes! Mr ‘Olmes!”
We were almost at our door when we heard the small voice calling. Holmes turned from trying to extricate his keys from his pocket to find two of his Irregulars at his elbow, both looking at him expectantly. I noticed that one of them – Ben, the smaller in an oversized cap and what looked like his brother’s boots – was holding a knotted piece of string which was attached to a makeshift trolley.
Holmes had of course seen this and more, and he frowned. As far as I knew he had not set the boys upon any trail at present and it was unlike them to be hanging around Baker Street with no work to do. “What can I do for you, boys?” he enquired.
Charlie, the elder of the two, had removed his cap and was twisting it nervously between his thin hands. “Um...penny for the Guy, Mr ‘Olmes?”
“Guy?” Holmes raised an eyebrow and peered round the children at the rickety cart they were pulling behind them. Upon closer inspection I could see that it had been cobbled together from an old apple crate and a couple of ancient and rusting perambulator wheels. On it sat a vaguely human figure made out of flour sacks and assorted discarded clothing, listing alarmingly to one side as though it had been drinking heavily. A crude cardboard sign was slung around its neck, the scrawl upon it in pencil reading Gi Forks.
“There’s a prize,” Ben piped up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Charlie tried to shush him but he took no notice. “Fer the best Guy, I mean. It’s fer the – fer the bonfire, the one in the park on Friday!”
“I see.” The detective slowly ran a critical eye over their creation, and I felt quite sorry for them when he said, “And you hope to win with that, do you?”
Their little faces fell, and Charlie flushed. “We didn’t ‘ave too much to use, only a few things me mam could spare,” he said defensively, adding, “It’s better than what Wiggins ‘as got! ‘Is don’t even ‘ave an ‘ead!”
“I think it’s a very good effort,” I said, and found two pennies in my pocket which I handed to the boys. Their eyes lit up and they thanked me profusely as Holmes raised his voice slightly to speak over them.
“Indeed,” he remarked, “but it is not, I think, a winning entry. Success in such a contest requires individuality, don’t you agree, Doctor?”
I shrugged. “If you say so, Holmes.”
“What does that mean?” Ben asked, confused by the long words.
“It means, young man, that if you wish to win you will need some assistance,” Holmes told him, producing his house keys and proceeding to unlock the front door. He ushered the boys inside, much to their delight, and called to me over his shoulder, “Watson, do bring the guy.”
Charlie popped his head round the doorframe. “And the trolley, Doctor – if we leave it out ‘ere someone’ll ‘ave me wheels off!”
I sighed, and heaved the flour sacks into my arms. “And I thought this was such a nice neighbourhood...”
***
With an effort, I managed to manoeuvre the cart into the house, where it sat just inside the door waiting to trip unwary visitors.
Mrs Hudson was not best pleased to have such a ramshackle contraption littering her hall, but her manner softened when I explained its purpose.
“It will need some better clothes,” she said, examining the boys’ handiwork in much the same way as Holmes had. She regarded it thoughtfully for some moments before nodding. “I have that old suit you gave me for the jumble sale - I was going to patch the holes in the knees but it will do quite well for this. I’ll go and find it.”
As she bustled off I hauled the Guy up the stairs and dumped it with some satisfaction in Holmes’s armchair. It sat there, slumped, the straw with which it had been inexpertly stuffed leaking out of the holey shirt and trousers it wore. I couldn’t help agreeing with Holmes that it needed some work – a Guy was usually a representation of someone recognisable but this one resembled nothing so much as an inebriated tramp. For some minutes I stood pondering the problem while Ben and Charlie perched nervously on the sofa watching me.
Eventually Mrs Hudson appeared with the battered tweed suit I had abandoned after ruining the knees when I fell into a ditch on a night time chase across the Derbyshire moors. To my surprise, she also brought with her a heavy but irreparably stained greatcoat and a collar and tie. “Donations,” she explained, smiling when she noticed my puzzled frown, “I think this is as good a cause as any.”
As well as the clothes there was a pot of tea for Holmes and I and biscuits for the boys, who fell upon them eagerly. As they ate, stuffing a handful into their pockets for later, Holmes appeared from his room, where he had been noisily rummaging through drawers and cupboards. He carried a disreputable brown bowler and a pair of boots which had seen better days and also a small hinged box which when he opened it revealed a theatrical make-up kit. Untying the string which attached the head of the Guy to its body, he took the stuffed sack over to his desk and set to work with pencils and brushes. With the help of Mrs Hudson and the children I dressed the dummy in my old suit, removing some of the stuffing upon Holmes’s instructions.
By the time we had finished the Guy looked much more presentable, if a little under-nourished. Holmes turned from his work to bestow his approval upon our efforts.
“Excellent. Now we just need to add the finishing touch.” Carefully he placed the head back on the body and tied it tight. As he set the hat, the brim padded out with yesterday’s Times, upon it I could not help but feel that I was reminded of someone. Holmes had painted a face on the formerly blank sack, a thin, suspicious face which looked very familiar, the little black eyes peering out from beneath the slightly too big bowler and the mouth twisted in annoyance. I glanced at him and he smiled mischievously but said nothing.
“Cor, Mr ‘Olmes, that’s grand, that is,” Charlie announced, and Ben nodded enthusiastically. “’E looks like a right toff!”
“In that case, you had best win and make sure he fulfils his ultimate destiny,” said Holmes. He found a half crown in his pocket and flipped it to them. Ben caught it, much to Charlie’s annoyance, and quickly squirreled it away. They both chorused their thanks, but the detective merely waved a dismissive hand. “No, no, no. Off with you now!”
Mrs Hudson accompanied the boys down the stairs, fending off their excited chatter. Amused, I went to the window to watch them emerge into the street, trolley and Guy in tow. It was then that I realised exactly who it was I was reminded of by the dummy’s new features.
“Holmes,” I said, as he packed and lit his pipe, “Am I right in thinking that the face of that Guy was in actual fact a portrait of someone we know?”
He puffed at the old briar, surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke, and lifted his brows innocently. “You may think that, Watson, but I couldn’t possibly comment.”
***
And he stood by those words. Over the next three days he refused to be drawn upon the subject, despite my attempts to satisfy my curiosity. He would say nothing even when the boys’ Guy was deemed worthy of a spot on the huge bonfire on the fifth of November.
However, my suspicions were confirmed early on Saturday morning when an enraged Inspector Lestrade arrived at our door, demanding to know why he had apparently been burned in effigy in Regent’s Park the night before...
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1351
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson, two Baker Street Irregulars
Genre: Friendship, humour
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me. Ben and Charlie however, do.
Summary: A collection of scenes and fragments that are too long to be drabbles and too undisciplined to be 221Bs.
Author's Note: Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot...
piplover suggested using the Irregulars for the Halloween fic but another idea struck me so here they are for Bonfire Night instead. :)REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER
“Mr ‘Olmes! Mr ‘Olmes!”
We were almost at our door when we heard the small voice calling. Holmes turned from trying to extricate his keys from his pocket to find two of his Irregulars at his elbow, both looking at him expectantly. I noticed that one of them – Ben, the smaller in an oversized cap and what looked like his brother’s boots – was holding a knotted piece of string which was attached to a makeshift trolley.
Holmes had of course seen this and more, and he frowned. As far as I knew he had not set the boys upon any trail at present and it was unlike them to be hanging around Baker Street with no work to do. “What can I do for you, boys?” he enquired.
Charlie, the elder of the two, had removed his cap and was twisting it nervously between his thin hands. “Um...penny for the Guy, Mr ‘Olmes?”
“Guy?” Holmes raised an eyebrow and peered round the children at the rickety cart they were pulling behind them. Upon closer inspection I could see that it had been cobbled together from an old apple crate and a couple of ancient and rusting perambulator wheels. On it sat a vaguely human figure made out of flour sacks and assorted discarded clothing, listing alarmingly to one side as though it had been drinking heavily. A crude cardboard sign was slung around its neck, the scrawl upon it in pencil reading Gi Forks.
“There’s a prize,” Ben piped up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Charlie tried to shush him but he took no notice. “Fer the best Guy, I mean. It’s fer the – fer the bonfire, the one in the park on Friday!”
“I see.” The detective slowly ran a critical eye over their creation, and I felt quite sorry for them when he said, “And you hope to win with that, do you?”
Their little faces fell, and Charlie flushed. “We didn’t ‘ave too much to use, only a few things me mam could spare,” he said defensively, adding, “It’s better than what Wiggins ‘as got! ‘Is don’t even ‘ave an ‘ead!”
“I think it’s a very good effort,” I said, and found two pennies in my pocket which I handed to the boys. Their eyes lit up and they thanked me profusely as Holmes raised his voice slightly to speak over them.
“Indeed,” he remarked, “but it is not, I think, a winning entry. Success in such a contest requires individuality, don’t you agree, Doctor?”
I shrugged. “If you say so, Holmes.”
“What does that mean?” Ben asked, confused by the long words.
“It means, young man, that if you wish to win you will need some assistance,” Holmes told him, producing his house keys and proceeding to unlock the front door. He ushered the boys inside, much to their delight, and called to me over his shoulder, “Watson, do bring the guy.”
Charlie popped his head round the doorframe. “And the trolley, Doctor – if we leave it out ‘ere someone’ll ‘ave me wheels off!”
I sighed, and heaved the flour sacks into my arms. “And I thought this was such a nice neighbourhood...”
***
With an effort, I managed to manoeuvre the cart into the house, where it sat just inside the door waiting to trip unwary visitors.
Mrs Hudson was not best pleased to have such a ramshackle contraption littering her hall, but her manner softened when I explained its purpose.
“It will need some better clothes,” she said, examining the boys’ handiwork in much the same way as Holmes had. She regarded it thoughtfully for some moments before nodding. “I have that old suit you gave me for the jumble sale - I was going to patch the holes in the knees but it will do quite well for this. I’ll go and find it.”
As she bustled off I hauled the Guy up the stairs and dumped it with some satisfaction in Holmes’s armchair. It sat there, slumped, the straw with which it had been inexpertly stuffed leaking out of the holey shirt and trousers it wore. I couldn’t help agreeing with Holmes that it needed some work – a Guy was usually a representation of someone recognisable but this one resembled nothing so much as an inebriated tramp. For some minutes I stood pondering the problem while Ben and Charlie perched nervously on the sofa watching me.
Eventually Mrs Hudson appeared with the battered tweed suit I had abandoned after ruining the knees when I fell into a ditch on a night time chase across the Derbyshire moors. To my surprise, she also brought with her a heavy but irreparably stained greatcoat and a collar and tie. “Donations,” she explained, smiling when she noticed my puzzled frown, “I think this is as good a cause as any.”
As well as the clothes there was a pot of tea for Holmes and I and biscuits for the boys, who fell upon them eagerly. As they ate, stuffing a handful into their pockets for later, Holmes appeared from his room, where he had been noisily rummaging through drawers and cupboards. He carried a disreputable brown bowler and a pair of boots which had seen better days and also a small hinged box which when he opened it revealed a theatrical make-up kit. Untying the string which attached the head of the Guy to its body, he took the stuffed sack over to his desk and set to work with pencils and brushes. With the help of Mrs Hudson and the children I dressed the dummy in my old suit, removing some of the stuffing upon Holmes’s instructions.
By the time we had finished the Guy looked much more presentable, if a little under-nourished. Holmes turned from his work to bestow his approval upon our efforts.
“Excellent. Now we just need to add the finishing touch.” Carefully he placed the head back on the body and tied it tight. As he set the hat, the brim padded out with yesterday’s Times, upon it I could not help but feel that I was reminded of someone. Holmes had painted a face on the formerly blank sack, a thin, suspicious face which looked very familiar, the little black eyes peering out from beneath the slightly too big bowler and the mouth twisted in annoyance. I glanced at him and he smiled mischievously but said nothing.
“Cor, Mr ‘Olmes, that’s grand, that is,” Charlie announced, and Ben nodded enthusiastically. “’E looks like a right toff!”
“In that case, you had best win and make sure he fulfils his ultimate destiny,” said Holmes. He found a half crown in his pocket and flipped it to them. Ben caught it, much to Charlie’s annoyance, and quickly squirreled it away. They both chorused their thanks, but the detective merely waved a dismissive hand. “No, no, no. Off with you now!”
Mrs Hudson accompanied the boys down the stairs, fending off their excited chatter. Amused, I went to the window to watch them emerge into the street, trolley and Guy in tow. It was then that I realised exactly who it was I was reminded of by the dummy’s new features.
“Holmes,” I said, as he packed and lit his pipe, “Am I right in thinking that the face of that Guy was in actual fact a portrait of someone we know?”
He puffed at the old briar, surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke, and lifted his brows innocently. “You may think that, Watson, but I couldn’t possibly comment.”
***
And he stood by those words. Over the next three days he refused to be drawn upon the subject, despite my attempts to satisfy my curiosity. He would say nothing even when the boys’ Guy was deemed worthy of a spot on the huge bonfire on the fifth of November.
However, my suspicions were confirmed early on Saturday morning when an enraged Inspector Lestrade arrived at our door, demanding to know why he had apparently been burned in effigy in Regent’s Park the night before...
