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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 17/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1311
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.
MANNERS MAKETH THE MAN
“That was a lovely evening, Holmes, thank you,” I said as we made our way down the stairs to the foyer.
Around us people were hurrying towards the exit to claim the waiting cabs to take them home, their movements more urgent than normal for it was an unpleasant night. The rain drove down hard upon the pavement, and I could hear its drumming even over the babble of conversation. I negotiated the steps with more care, still unsteady on my feet after a violent altercation with a forger and confidence trickster a few days before. My old wound had been aggravated, and, coupled with the effect of the wet weather, was making its presence felt with some force.
“I am glad you enjoyed it, my dear fellow. There is nothing like the right music to aid in recuperation.” Holmes, as usual after the successful conclusion of a case and a concert of violin music, was in a buoyant mood. The ennui and lethargy which would inevitably follow a period of intense employment had yet to draw in, and he had been positively chatty during the interval, expounding upon Joachim’s fingering and Tchaikovsky’s symphonies. He took the stairs at a pace which for him must have been frustratingly slow, one hand poised at my elbow in case I should require his assistance.
It must have been obvious to him that I was feeling rather tired – the hour was late and the steps seemed interminable. I would not however beg help from my friend in such a public place – I have my pride, and, pain or no pain, I would make it to the foyer by myself. Holmes knew this well, which was why he chose to make the gesture as unobtrusively as possible. It was just as well that he did, since I had not reckoned on the sudden appearance of a young couple from behind, pushing past us in their determination to beat the rest of the departing audience to the waiting transport. Such was the speed at which they moved that the young man quite bowled me over, sending me tumbling into Holmes, who thankfully was standing close and had the presence of mind to catch hold of my arm to stop me hitting the floor. So great was the momentum that, had I fallen, I am in no doubt I would have tumbled down the remaining stairs to land amongst the theatre patrons already jostling below.
The couple did not even slow down, having barrelled into us, the youth even having the temerity to call out an insincere “Frightfully sorry!” over his shoulder in my direction before resuming his previous unnecessary pace.
Holmes set me carefully back on my feet. “Are you all right, Watson?” he asked anxiously.
I nodded, trying to catch my breath. “Just… just a little shaken.”
“And no wonder.” My friend’s mouth set in a thin line, and his grey eyes flashed. He assisted me in descending the final steps and then almost leaned me against the wall in a corner away from the crowd. His quick gaze scanned the bustling throng for a few seconds before he caught sight of something and was moving away. “Wait here a moment, there’s a good chap.”
“Why? What are you going to do? Holmes!” I called after him, but he was gone, stalking through the crowd to where the young couple who had pushed past me were claiming their coats.
The crush of people eased a little as the first rank of cabs pulled away, and I could see them, talking animatedly about something or other as the young man helped his companion to put on her cloak. This done, they turned to leave, only to find the implacable figure of Sherlock Holmes blocking their path, arms folded across his chest and drawn up to his full imposing height.
“Out of my way, man,” the lad ordered in a superior tone, “my fiancée and I are in a considerable hurry.”
“So I observed,” Holmes replied, the ice in his voice audible even from such a distance. Feeling a little steadier, I straightened and limped towards the scene of the altercation as fast as I could given the number of people in the room.
“Then you’ll remove yourself from our path with alacrity,” said the young man, bristling with his own importance and not in the least bit cowed by the deadly glint in my friend’s eye. He waited, evidently expecting to be immediately obeyed, but Holmes did not move, much to his obvious irritation. “Well, go on, jump to it! What the devil are you waiting for?”
Holmes stared down his formidable nose at the youth, as though he were observing a particularly nasty specimen he had acquired for one of his experiments. “An apology,” he said simply.
My assailant bristled further. “I beg your pardon?”
“I believe you heard me well enough.”
“What’s happening, Peregrine? What is all this?” demanded the young lady at his side. “What does he mean?”
“Nothing, Clementina, nothing at all. Get out of my way, sir or I shall be forced to call a constable!” her fiancé snarled, taking a step towards Holmes.
The detective held his ground. “Please do. I have no doubt that the constable on this particular beat will have no hesitation in supporting me.” He turned to Clementina. “You must forgive me, madam, but your fiancé nearly knocked my friend down the stairs just now. I am merely requesting that he apologise to the gentleman in question forthwith. It is, I believe, a reasonable request, with which any honourable person would be happy to comply.”
“Oh,” she said, her pretty face crumpling into an annoyed frown, “that. How tiresome. Does it really matter? I want to get home.”
Holmes gave her a look of disgust before returning his attention to Peregrine. “Well, sir? Here is Doctor Watson – you may apologise to him now.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” the youth announced defiantly, aware, as I was myself, that people were beginning to stare and mutter amongst themselves as the confrontation dragged on. “And in any case,” he added, seeing me approach, “I did apologise.”
“I do not regard two words uttered an afterthought to be an adequate apology for almost seriously injuring a war hero,” said Holmes sharply. “You nearly knocked down a man who risked his life for queen and country under the baking sun, against almost insurmountable odds - something I doubt you would stand for more than a moment – all because you wished to be first to reach a cab. This man, who almost died in Afghanistan, and who saved the lives of dozens of others, could have been hurt because of your selfishness and lack of courtesy. What do you have to say to that?”
There was a pause. Young Peregrine glanced in my direction and his face beneath its extravagant whiskers visibly paled. I did not hear the rest of the exchange as I was too far from them and their voices were quite suddenly lowered. I saw both the young people look at me more than once, and then, a few moments later Peregrine crossed what remained of the gradually emptying foyer and made a somewhat reluctant but nonetheless appreciated apology. No sooner was it over than his red-faced fiancée pulled him away and they made their escape past the watching Holmes, who had returned to my side during the proceedings.
“Thank you, my dear fellow, but you really did not have to lay it on so thickly,” I said when they had gone. “My days of soldiering are long-since over.”
My friend smiled, holding out my coat. “Heroism is not confined merely to the battlefield, Watson,” was his reply, and together we headed out into the rain-soaked night to join the queue for a cab.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1311
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.
MANNERS MAKETH THE MAN
“That was a lovely evening, Holmes, thank you,” I said as we made our way down the stairs to the foyer.
Around us people were hurrying towards the exit to claim the waiting cabs to take them home, their movements more urgent than normal for it was an unpleasant night. The rain drove down hard upon the pavement, and I could hear its drumming even over the babble of conversation. I negotiated the steps with more care, still unsteady on my feet after a violent altercation with a forger and confidence trickster a few days before. My old wound had been aggravated, and, coupled with the effect of the wet weather, was making its presence felt with some force.
“I am glad you enjoyed it, my dear fellow. There is nothing like the right music to aid in recuperation.” Holmes, as usual after the successful conclusion of a case and a concert of violin music, was in a buoyant mood. The ennui and lethargy which would inevitably follow a period of intense employment had yet to draw in, and he had been positively chatty during the interval, expounding upon Joachim’s fingering and Tchaikovsky’s symphonies. He took the stairs at a pace which for him must have been frustratingly slow, one hand poised at my elbow in case I should require his assistance.
It must have been obvious to him that I was feeling rather tired – the hour was late and the steps seemed interminable. I would not however beg help from my friend in such a public place – I have my pride, and, pain or no pain, I would make it to the foyer by myself. Holmes knew this well, which was why he chose to make the gesture as unobtrusively as possible. It was just as well that he did, since I had not reckoned on the sudden appearance of a young couple from behind, pushing past us in their determination to beat the rest of the departing audience to the waiting transport. Such was the speed at which they moved that the young man quite bowled me over, sending me tumbling into Holmes, who thankfully was standing close and had the presence of mind to catch hold of my arm to stop me hitting the floor. So great was the momentum that, had I fallen, I am in no doubt I would have tumbled down the remaining stairs to land amongst the theatre patrons already jostling below.
The couple did not even slow down, having barrelled into us, the youth even having the temerity to call out an insincere “Frightfully sorry!” over his shoulder in my direction before resuming his previous unnecessary pace.
Holmes set me carefully back on my feet. “Are you all right, Watson?” he asked anxiously.
I nodded, trying to catch my breath. “Just… just a little shaken.”
“And no wonder.” My friend’s mouth set in a thin line, and his grey eyes flashed. He assisted me in descending the final steps and then almost leaned me against the wall in a corner away from the crowd. His quick gaze scanned the bustling throng for a few seconds before he caught sight of something and was moving away. “Wait here a moment, there’s a good chap.”
“Why? What are you going to do? Holmes!” I called after him, but he was gone, stalking through the crowd to where the young couple who had pushed past me were claiming their coats.
The crush of people eased a little as the first rank of cabs pulled away, and I could see them, talking animatedly about something or other as the young man helped his companion to put on her cloak. This done, they turned to leave, only to find the implacable figure of Sherlock Holmes blocking their path, arms folded across his chest and drawn up to his full imposing height.
“Out of my way, man,” the lad ordered in a superior tone, “my fiancée and I are in a considerable hurry.”
“So I observed,” Holmes replied, the ice in his voice audible even from such a distance. Feeling a little steadier, I straightened and limped towards the scene of the altercation as fast as I could given the number of people in the room.
“Then you’ll remove yourself from our path with alacrity,” said the young man, bristling with his own importance and not in the least bit cowed by the deadly glint in my friend’s eye. He waited, evidently expecting to be immediately obeyed, but Holmes did not move, much to his obvious irritation. “Well, go on, jump to it! What the devil are you waiting for?”
Holmes stared down his formidable nose at the youth, as though he were observing a particularly nasty specimen he had acquired for one of his experiments. “An apology,” he said simply.
My assailant bristled further. “I beg your pardon?”
“I believe you heard me well enough.”
“What’s happening, Peregrine? What is all this?” demanded the young lady at his side. “What does he mean?”
“Nothing, Clementina, nothing at all. Get out of my way, sir or I shall be forced to call a constable!” her fiancé snarled, taking a step towards Holmes.
The detective held his ground. “Please do. I have no doubt that the constable on this particular beat will have no hesitation in supporting me.” He turned to Clementina. “You must forgive me, madam, but your fiancé nearly knocked my friend down the stairs just now. I am merely requesting that he apologise to the gentleman in question forthwith. It is, I believe, a reasonable request, with which any honourable person would be happy to comply.”
“Oh,” she said, her pretty face crumpling into an annoyed frown, “that. How tiresome. Does it really matter? I want to get home.”
Holmes gave her a look of disgust before returning his attention to Peregrine. “Well, sir? Here is Doctor Watson – you may apologise to him now.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” the youth announced defiantly, aware, as I was myself, that people were beginning to stare and mutter amongst themselves as the confrontation dragged on. “And in any case,” he added, seeing me approach, “I did apologise.”
“I do not regard two words uttered an afterthought to be an adequate apology for almost seriously injuring a war hero,” said Holmes sharply. “You nearly knocked down a man who risked his life for queen and country under the baking sun, against almost insurmountable odds - something I doubt you would stand for more than a moment – all because you wished to be first to reach a cab. This man, who almost died in Afghanistan, and who saved the lives of dozens of others, could have been hurt because of your selfishness and lack of courtesy. What do you have to say to that?”
There was a pause. Young Peregrine glanced in my direction and his face beneath its extravagant whiskers visibly paled. I did not hear the rest of the exchange as I was too far from them and their voices were quite suddenly lowered. I saw both the young people look at me more than once, and then, a few moments later Peregrine crossed what remained of the gradually emptying foyer and made a somewhat reluctant but nonetheless appreciated apology. No sooner was it over than his red-faced fiancée pulled him away and they made their escape past the watching Holmes, who had returned to my side during the proceedings.
“Thank you, my dear fellow, but you really did not have to lay it on so thickly,” I said when they had gone. “My days of soldiering are long-since over.”
My friend smiled, holding out my coat. “Heroism is not confined merely to the battlefield, Watson,” was his reply, and together we headed out into the rain-soaked night to join the queue for a cab.
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no subject
Date: 2009-04-22 03:56 pm (UTC)wonderful piece of writing:)
no subject
Date: 2009-04-22 05:36 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it. Would that I were allowed to take rude people to task like Holmes...
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Date: 2009-04-22 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-23 06:20 am (UTC)