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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 4/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 633
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor 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.
NO LEG TO STAND ON
Sherlock Holmes sat at the old deal table, surrounded by his chemical apparatus. One long-fingered hand held a test tube poised above the beaker that bubbled away over the Bunsen burner, concentration written in every line of his face. It was quite clear that this was a crucial moment.
Unfortunately, said moment happened to coincide with my finishing the article in The Lancet which had been consuming my attention for the last hour. I folded the periodical, got to my feet and announced, “It’s time I had a look at that ankle of yours.”
Behind me glass clinked against glass, followed by a puff of foul-smelling smoke and several muttered curses. I turned just as Holmes raised his head to glare at me from beneath hooded lids. “Watson, your timing is atrocious!” he snapped. “You have just ruined the reaction! Could we not save the doctoring for a more opportune moment?”
“No, we could not,” I said, ignoring the venom directed at me. “I am going out in a moment and as you have not let me near you all morning I wish to check on it before I leave.”
My friend sighed impatiently and pushed back his chair, reaching for the silver-topped walking stick which was propped against the table at his side. “You are fussing over nothing. It is merely a sprained ankle.”
“It was very nearly a broken ankle. A bad sprain can be just as painful.” I made to take his elbow, but he shook me off and hobbled to the sofa unaided, where he fell heavily against the cushions. “Has the swelling begun to subside?”
“As I have not looked at it myself, I really cannot say.”
“I very much doubt it, since you will not obey my orders to keep your weight off it,” I scolded, unwrapping the neat bandaging which I had wound round the offending limb the day before. “And don’t try to tell me that it doesn’t hurt – your face is quite eloquent upon the subject.”
Holmes shot me another glare, before the expression crumpled into a wince of discomfort. The bandage removed, I could see the damage in all its glory: his ankle and the top of his foot were a brilliant rainbow of bruising, the whole still swollen and puffy despite having been strapped up. He would be confined to the sofa for at least a week. My heart sank at the prospect.
“Landscape gardeners,” he muttered darkly. “Fancy leaving a ditch in such a position!”
I tried not to smile at the mention of his accident. “It was a ha-ha, Holmes. It had been there for over a hundred years to stop sheep straying onto the lawn. If you had not been so intent upon those footprints you would have seen it.”
“Ha-ha. Ha!” He folded his arms and glowered. “I do not find it amusing in the least. And now, thanks to some horticultural designer’s caprices, I shall be out of action for days. I should bring a case against him to compensate me for loss of earnings.”
Now I really did have to laugh. “Only through the services of a medium,” I said, and he glanced at me in surprise. “Capability Brown has been dead for nigh-on a century.”
More grumbling ensued, most of which I could not catch, but which seemed to be directed at ‘inconsiderate workmen dying and leaving others to suffer the consequences of their ridiculous notions’. I fetched fresh bandages and rebound the ankle, instructing him to call Mrs Hudson for some ice to reduce the swelling.
“I must make something of this unforeseen misfortune, Watson!” he exclaimed at last. “What have I gained?”
“A valuable lesson,” I said, putting on my hat. “Next time, watch where you are going!”
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 633
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor 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.
NO LEG TO STAND ON
Sherlock Holmes sat at the old deal table, surrounded by his chemical apparatus. One long-fingered hand held a test tube poised above the beaker that bubbled away over the Bunsen burner, concentration written in every line of his face. It was quite clear that this was a crucial moment.
Unfortunately, said moment happened to coincide with my finishing the article in The Lancet which had been consuming my attention for the last hour. I folded the periodical, got to my feet and announced, “It’s time I had a look at that ankle of yours.”
Behind me glass clinked against glass, followed by a puff of foul-smelling smoke and several muttered curses. I turned just as Holmes raised his head to glare at me from beneath hooded lids. “Watson, your timing is atrocious!” he snapped. “You have just ruined the reaction! Could we not save the doctoring for a more opportune moment?”
“No, we could not,” I said, ignoring the venom directed at me. “I am going out in a moment and as you have not let me near you all morning I wish to check on it before I leave.”
My friend sighed impatiently and pushed back his chair, reaching for the silver-topped walking stick which was propped against the table at his side. “You are fussing over nothing. It is merely a sprained ankle.”
“It was very nearly a broken ankle. A bad sprain can be just as painful.” I made to take his elbow, but he shook me off and hobbled to the sofa unaided, where he fell heavily against the cushions. “Has the swelling begun to subside?”
“As I have not looked at it myself, I really cannot say.”
“I very much doubt it, since you will not obey my orders to keep your weight off it,” I scolded, unwrapping the neat bandaging which I had wound round the offending limb the day before. “And don’t try to tell me that it doesn’t hurt – your face is quite eloquent upon the subject.”
Holmes shot me another glare, before the expression crumpled into a wince of discomfort. The bandage removed, I could see the damage in all its glory: his ankle and the top of his foot were a brilliant rainbow of bruising, the whole still swollen and puffy despite having been strapped up. He would be confined to the sofa for at least a week. My heart sank at the prospect.
“Landscape gardeners,” he muttered darkly. “Fancy leaving a ditch in such a position!”
I tried not to smile at the mention of his accident. “It was a ha-ha, Holmes. It had been there for over a hundred years to stop sheep straying onto the lawn. If you had not been so intent upon those footprints you would have seen it.”
“Ha-ha. Ha!” He folded his arms and glowered. “I do not find it amusing in the least. And now, thanks to some horticultural designer’s caprices, I shall be out of action for days. I should bring a case against him to compensate me for loss of earnings.”
Now I really did have to laugh. “Only through the services of a medium,” I said, and he glanced at me in surprise. “Capability Brown has been dead for nigh-on a century.”
More grumbling ensued, most of which I could not catch, but which seemed to be directed at ‘inconsiderate workmen dying and leaving others to suffer the consequences of their ridiculous notions’. I fetched fresh bandages and rebound the ankle, instructing him to call Mrs Hudson for some ice to reduce the swelling.
“I must make something of this unforeseen misfortune, Watson!” he exclaimed at last. “What have I gained?”
“A valuable lesson,” I said, putting on my hat. “Next time, watch where you are going!”
