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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 12/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 722
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.
Author's Note: I spent some considerable time yesterday walking the length of Baker Street looking for a particular restaurant. With hindsight, pinpointing its exact location on a map would have been useful...
ARE WE THERE YET?
Sherlock Holmes lengthened his stride and swung round the corner, impatiently swiping at the railings on his left with his stick. A frown creased his face, as indeed it had done for the past twenty minutes, ever since he had decided to take a ‘short cut’ through the back alleys and mews of Mayfair.
“Holmes,” I panted, trying to keep up with his furious pace despite the twinge in my leg, “How much further is this restaurant?”
He ignored me, increasing his speed once again; his head turning from side to side as though searching for something. For nearly an hour now we had been walking about the metropolis, first on a leisurely before-dinner stroll but latterly striding forth with great purpose as my friend insisted on taking me to a ‘marvellous continental eatery’ he had discovered a few weeks before. After such vigorous exercise I should have been content with a pie and a glass of beer in the nearest public house, but Holmes had decided and to the restaurant we would go.
That was, if we managed to find it.
“If I had known you were going to take me on a march I would have brought my knapsack and worn hiking boots,” I remarked breathlessly, drawing level with him at last. “Where the devil is this establishment?”
No reply. Holmes’s frown had deepened into something fast approaching a scowl. His gloved hand gripped the handle of his stick with far more force than was necessary as he drove the end into the pavement almost hard enough to chip the stone.
“Holmes?”
The stick rattled along another set of railings, setting my teeth on edge and making a maid who had stepped into the area below for some air start in surprise.
“Holmes!”
At last he glanced in my direction and growled, “What’s wrong?”
I stopped, forcing him to stop as well. For a moment I stood rubbing at the stitch in my side, trying to get my breath back.
“I don’t wish to complain, old man, given that this meal is meant to be your treat, but where exactly is the restaurant?” I asked, straightening.
He glared at me for several seconds before his shoulders suddenly slumped in defeat. “I don’t know,” he said, to my astonishment.
“Don’t know?” I repeated, not sure that I had heard him aright.
I had, however. “I thought it was just around the corner, but that was fifteen minutes ago and since then…well, I have been attempting to get my bearings.”
“In other words,” I said slowly, “you are lost.”
There was silence for some time. Holmes looked at his shoes, tapping restlessly at his calf with his stick. Eventually he raised his head to meet my gaze, chin raised defiantly.
“Yes,” he admitted. “My knowledge of London appears to have failed me on this occasion.”
I will confess that I was quite staggered by this revelation, for Holmes knew the city intimately, its streets, alleys and lanes all meticulously committed to memory. Many was the time during the course of an investigation when I had owed my life to that knowledge, my friend’s quick thinking causing him to take a turning not anticipated by our pursuers and thus lead us to safety. That he should be flummoxed by the location of a restaurant was so surprising that I remained speechless for several moments.
“Well,” I said at last, when his obvious anger with himself threatened to sink into melancholy, “Even a genius makes mistakes sometimes, Holmes.”
He nodded, and sighed. “Perhaps. But what are we to do now? I promised you dinner.”
My stomach rumbled as if in reply, and I was suddenly reminded of the tavern we had passed not two streets back. A most delicious smell had been wafting from the doorway, a spicy, tantalising smell which had almost set my mouth watering as I chased after Holmes. A choice between a good drink and a plate of hearty fare and the prospect of another hour of traipsing through the cold, damp streets was no choice at all.
“Dinner we shall have,” I said, turning and starting to lead the bemused detective back the way we had come, “and then you can put that great brain of yours to the task of finding the way home!”
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 722
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.
Author's Note: I spent some considerable time yesterday walking the length of Baker Street looking for a particular restaurant. With hindsight, pinpointing its exact location on a map would have been useful...
ARE WE THERE YET?
Sherlock Holmes lengthened his stride and swung round the corner, impatiently swiping at the railings on his left with his stick. A frown creased his face, as indeed it had done for the past twenty minutes, ever since he had decided to take a ‘short cut’ through the back alleys and mews of Mayfair.
“Holmes,” I panted, trying to keep up with his furious pace despite the twinge in my leg, “How much further is this restaurant?”
He ignored me, increasing his speed once again; his head turning from side to side as though searching for something. For nearly an hour now we had been walking about the metropolis, first on a leisurely before-dinner stroll but latterly striding forth with great purpose as my friend insisted on taking me to a ‘marvellous continental eatery’ he had discovered a few weeks before. After such vigorous exercise I should have been content with a pie and a glass of beer in the nearest public house, but Holmes had decided and to the restaurant we would go.
That was, if we managed to find it.
“If I had known you were going to take me on a march I would have brought my knapsack and worn hiking boots,” I remarked breathlessly, drawing level with him at last. “Where the devil is this establishment?”
No reply. Holmes’s frown had deepened into something fast approaching a scowl. His gloved hand gripped the handle of his stick with far more force than was necessary as he drove the end into the pavement almost hard enough to chip the stone.
“Holmes?”
The stick rattled along another set of railings, setting my teeth on edge and making a maid who had stepped into the area below for some air start in surprise.
“Holmes!”
At last he glanced in my direction and growled, “What’s wrong?”
I stopped, forcing him to stop as well. For a moment I stood rubbing at the stitch in my side, trying to get my breath back.
“I don’t wish to complain, old man, given that this meal is meant to be your treat, but where exactly is the restaurant?” I asked, straightening.
He glared at me for several seconds before his shoulders suddenly slumped in defeat. “I don’t know,” he said, to my astonishment.
“Don’t know?” I repeated, not sure that I had heard him aright.
I had, however. “I thought it was just around the corner, but that was fifteen minutes ago and since then…well, I have been attempting to get my bearings.”
“In other words,” I said slowly, “you are lost.”
There was silence for some time. Holmes looked at his shoes, tapping restlessly at his calf with his stick. Eventually he raised his head to meet my gaze, chin raised defiantly.
“Yes,” he admitted. “My knowledge of London appears to have failed me on this occasion.”
I will confess that I was quite staggered by this revelation, for Holmes knew the city intimately, its streets, alleys and lanes all meticulously committed to memory. Many was the time during the course of an investigation when I had owed my life to that knowledge, my friend’s quick thinking causing him to take a turning not anticipated by our pursuers and thus lead us to safety. That he should be flummoxed by the location of a restaurant was so surprising that I remained speechless for several moments.
“Well,” I said at last, when his obvious anger with himself threatened to sink into melancholy, “Even a genius makes mistakes sometimes, Holmes.”
He nodded, and sighed. “Perhaps. But what are we to do now? I promised you dinner.”
My stomach rumbled as if in reply, and I was suddenly reminded of the tavern we had passed not two streets back. A most delicious smell had been wafting from the doorway, a spicy, tantalising smell which had almost set my mouth watering as I chased after Holmes. A choice between a good drink and a plate of hearty fare and the prospect of another hour of traipsing through the cold, damp streets was no choice at all.
“Dinner we shall have,” I said, turning and starting to lead the bemused detective back the way we had come, “and then you can put that great brain of yours to the task of finding the way home!”
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HA!
Date: 2009-03-01 08:15 pm (UTC)i sort of expected this one ;)
Re: HA!
Date: 2009-03-02 06:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-11 12:44 pm (UTC)Don't misunderstand me it's no criticism, and it does make for an amusing read at his and Watson's different reactions to such an unprecedented event. It just seem hard to swallow when London's his own territory. Maybe they built that section and didn't tell him about it? =3
no subject
Date: 2009-03-11 06:34 pm (UTC)Ah, well, everyone has their off days, and those back streets do all start to look alike after a while... ;)