charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2008-08-10 12:21 pm
charleygirl) wrote2008-08-10 12:21 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Sherlock Holmes | A Cause For Complaint
Title: A Cause For Complaint
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1099
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Humour
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: It's not just we sales assistants who have to deal with unsatisfied customers...
A CAUSE FOR COMPLAINT
Followers of these chronicles will be aware that on very few occasions during my long acquaintance with Mr Sherlock Holmes did I see him speechless. He invariably had an answer for everything, no matter how outlandish the circumstances.
However, one autumn morning before breakfast I had the opportunity to witness this rare phenomenon. As I entered the sitting room I observed that Holmes for once was at the table before me, sorting through the morning’s post with a paper-knife in one hand and an opened letter in the other. I was surprised when he did not respond to my greeting, but as this was not altogether unusual I merely seated myself and reached for the Morning Chronicle.
We sat there in silence for some time. Mrs Hudson came and went, leaving a loaded tray, and I abandoned the news in favour of a plate of kippers and some coffee. Still Holmes did not speak or divert his attention from the sheet of notepaper in his hand, not even when I enquired whether he would like some breakfast.
“I say, Holmes,” I said eventually, his manner now concerning me somewhat, “Is everything all right?”
At last he looked up, blinking in surprise as though he had not even realised I was in the room. With an abrupt motion, he flung the paper in my direction. “Read it.”
“Very well.” I picked up the letter, wondering what on earth could have caused such unusual behaviour, even for him. It was in a woman’s hand; that much I could deduce, and read:
Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,
Following our consultation of last Tuesday, you may rest assured that I will not be leaving the matter there.
Never before in my life have I been subjected to such rudeness and appalling manners, especially in a man quite old enough to know better. I hope that you are happy knowing that you have left two innocent children distraught in your refusal to assist in the search for poor little Timothy.
I shall be taking my complaint to the relevant authorities, and I have no doubt that they will be contacting you in due course to pursue the matter in whichever way they deem fit.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Annabel Carrington-Smythe
I stared at the letter in disbelief. “Holmes, who is this woman?”
“You recall the visitor last Tuesday morning? The lady arrived as you were going out to visit your patients,” he said, having taken a gulp of coffee which seemed to restore his powers of speech.
“The lady with the puce walking dress and the rather large…” I waved a hand vaguely in the vicinity of my chest.
Holmes nodded. “That is the one. She came without an appointment and insisted on barging her way into the house despite Mrs Hudson’s assurances that I was already occupied. I had some work to do regarding the Buckley case, if you remember. She spent a good half an hour haranguing me about her loss and demanding to know what I intended to do about it. I found her a most vulgar person, with very few manners of her own. Perhaps she has never heard the old adage that those who reside in glass houses should not throw stones.”
“Yes, of course. But this letter, Holmes – refusing ‘to assist in the search for poor little Timothy’. That does not sound like you.”
At that he leapt from his chair and began to pace the rug. “Poor little Timothy is a tortoise, Watson!” he exclaimed, whirling around to face me. “Has my practise descended so low that I am reduced to spending my days in the hunt for missing family pets?”
I tried to smother the smile that came to my face with the image my mind conjured up of my friend combing the streets of London looking for an escaped tortoise. “Definitely not, Holmes,” I said soberly, biting my lip. “Though you could perhaps have been a little more tactful and sympathetic.”
“To a woman who had just forced her way into my rooms and disturbed a vital experiment?”
“The children were obviously distressed.”
“I have no doubt that by now the children have a new pet and will be lavishing it with all the attention formerly reserved for the unfortunate Timothy,” Holmes replied acidly. “They are remarkable resilient creatures.”
“Tortoises?” I enquired, earning myself a glare.
“Children, Watson, as you very well knew.” He stalked to the mantelpiece and occupied himself in preparing his disgusting before-breakfast smoke from the remains of his previous pipes which were, as always, lined up there. The plugs and dottles were pushed into the bowl of the briar with more force than was perhaps necessary.
I returned to my kippers, casting the odd glance back at the letter, which lay upon the tablecloth, as I ate. “Holmes,” I said when he had joined me at the table once more, noxious fumes veiling him in a blue haze, “What will the lady do?”
“Report me to the - ” He reached a long arm over for the letter and scanner its contents for a moment “ – ‘relevant authorities’”
“But who are the relevant authorities? You have said yourself that you are the only private consulting detective in the world. Surely that would therefore make you yourself the ‘relevant authorities’.”
He looked at me for a long second as the idea took effect, and then quite suddenly burst into ringing laughter, throwing his head back with the force of it. “Oh, Watson, that is simply delicious!”
I smiled, his merriment being contagious. “Thank you, Holmes.”
“Of course I am in sole charge and authority over my own created profession. And as that authority, I intend to treat Mrs Carrington-Smythe’s complaint with all the consideration it requires.”
I frowned, hoping that his idea of consideration would not involve penning a letter back to the lady. “And what would that be?”
“The filing of her letter in the appropriate place,” he replied, getting up and crossing the room to his desk. As I watched, he carefully folded the letter, and again, before dropping it decisively into the waste paper basket beside his chair. He looked at me and arched an eyebrow.
“And if we should come across a wandering tortoise in our travels?” I asked.
“Enquire whether it answers to the name of Timothy, and if so, advertise for a new home for the animal. I am sure even the humblest of children would be a relief after the offspring of Mrs Carrington-Smythe,” he said, and went back to his breakfast.
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1099
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Genre: Humour
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: It's not just we sales assistants who have to deal with unsatisfied customers...
A CAUSE FOR COMPLAINT
Followers of these chronicles will be aware that on very few occasions during my long acquaintance with Mr Sherlock Holmes did I see him speechless. He invariably had an answer for everything, no matter how outlandish the circumstances.
However, one autumn morning before breakfast I had the opportunity to witness this rare phenomenon. As I entered the sitting room I observed that Holmes for once was at the table before me, sorting through the morning’s post with a paper-knife in one hand and an opened letter in the other. I was surprised when he did not respond to my greeting, but as this was not altogether unusual I merely seated myself and reached for the Morning Chronicle.
We sat there in silence for some time. Mrs Hudson came and went, leaving a loaded tray, and I abandoned the news in favour of a plate of kippers and some coffee. Still Holmes did not speak or divert his attention from the sheet of notepaper in his hand, not even when I enquired whether he would like some breakfast.
“I say, Holmes,” I said eventually, his manner now concerning me somewhat, “Is everything all right?”
At last he looked up, blinking in surprise as though he had not even realised I was in the room. With an abrupt motion, he flung the paper in my direction. “Read it.”
“Very well.” I picked up the letter, wondering what on earth could have caused such unusual behaviour, even for him. It was in a woman’s hand; that much I could deduce, and read:
Following our consultation of last Tuesday, you may rest assured that I will not be leaving the matter there.
Never before in my life have I been subjected to such rudeness and appalling manners, especially in a man quite old enough to know better. I hope that you are happy knowing that you have left two innocent children distraught in your refusal to assist in the search for poor little Timothy.
I shall be taking my complaint to the relevant authorities, and I have no doubt that they will be contacting you in due course to pursue the matter in whichever way they deem fit.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Annabel Carrington-Smythe
I stared at the letter in disbelief. “Holmes, who is this woman?”
“You recall the visitor last Tuesday morning? The lady arrived as you were going out to visit your patients,” he said, having taken a gulp of coffee which seemed to restore his powers of speech.
“The lady with the puce walking dress and the rather large…” I waved a hand vaguely in the vicinity of my chest.
Holmes nodded. “That is the one. She came without an appointment and insisted on barging her way into the house despite Mrs Hudson’s assurances that I was already occupied. I had some work to do regarding the Buckley case, if you remember. She spent a good half an hour haranguing me about her loss and demanding to know what I intended to do about it. I found her a most vulgar person, with very few manners of her own. Perhaps she has never heard the old adage that those who reside in glass houses should not throw stones.”
“Yes, of course. But this letter, Holmes – refusing ‘to assist in the search for poor little Timothy’. That does not sound like you.”
At that he leapt from his chair and began to pace the rug. “Poor little Timothy is a tortoise, Watson!” he exclaimed, whirling around to face me. “Has my practise descended so low that I am reduced to spending my days in the hunt for missing family pets?”
I tried to smother the smile that came to my face with the image my mind conjured up of my friend combing the streets of London looking for an escaped tortoise. “Definitely not, Holmes,” I said soberly, biting my lip. “Though you could perhaps have been a little more tactful and sympathetic.”
“To a woman who had just forced her way into my rooms and disturbed a vital experiment?”
“The children were obviously distressed.”
“I have no doubt that by now the children have a new pet and will be lavishing it with all the attention formerly reserved for the unfortunate Timothy,” Holmes replied acidly. “They are remarkable resilient creatures.”
“Tortoises?” I enquired, earning myself a glare.
“Children, Watson, as you very well knew.” He stalked to the mantelpiece and occupied himself in preparing his disgusting before-breakfast smoke from the remains of his previous pipes which were, as always, lined up there. The plugs and dottles were pushed into the bowl of the briar with more force than was perhaps necessary.
I returned to my kippers, casting the odd glance back at the letter, which lay upon the tablecloth, as I ate. “Holmes,” I said when he had joined me at the table once more, noxious fumes veiling him in a blue haze, “What will the lady do?”
“Report me to the - ” He reached a long arm over for the letter and scanner its contents for a moment “ – ‘relevant authorities’”
“But who are the relevant authorities? You have said yourself that you are the only private consulting detective in the world. Surely that would therefore make you yourself the ‘relevant authorities’.”
He looked at me for a long second as the idea took effect, and then quite suddenly burst into ringing laughter, throwing his head back with the force of it. “Oh, Watson, that is simply delicious!”
I smiled, his merriment being contagious. “Thank you, Holmes.”
“Of course I am in sole charge and authority over my own created profession. And as that authority, I intend to treat Mrs Carrington-Smythe’s complaint with all the consideration it requires.”
I frowned, hoping that his idea of consideration would not involve penning a letter back to the lady. “And what would that be?”
“The filing of her letter in the appropriate place,” he replied, getting up and crossing the room to his desk. As I watched, he carefully folded the letter, and again, before dropping it decisively into the waste paper basket beside his chair. He looked at me and arched an eyebrow.
“And if we should come across a wandering tortoise in our travels?” I asked.
“Enquire whether it answers to the name of Timothy, and if so, advertise for a new home for the animal. I am sure even the humblest of children would be a relief after the offspring of Mrs Carrington-Smythe,” he said, and went back to his breakfast.
FIN
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