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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 18/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1588
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, fluff, angst
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.
TEA AND SYMPATHY
“Please, Watson, it is of no use. Leave me be, I beg of you.”
Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled across our sofa, still in his nightclothes and dressing gown despite the evening drawing in. He had been listless all day, barely bothering to raise his head to take notice of what was happening around him. The combination of an unexpected failure to solve a case and an early recourse to the dreaded cocaine bottle had sunk him into the depths of a black fit. My gentle cajoling for him to eat something had been to no avail, eventually eliciting a response that was unfortunately not the one for which I had been hoping.
“You can’t take it personally, Holmes,” I said, crouching down at his side. “There was nothing more you could have done.”
“I failed. That is what matters here. Two men died and a murderer escaped because I overlooked a detail which should have been obvious to a logician such as myself.” Holmes’s face contracted, his hands clenching into fists. “At present I rate myself below even the worst bunglers at Scotland Yard. Save your sympathy, for I do not deserve it.”
I sighed, climbing awkwardly to my feet. “Starving yourself will not help matters.”
“There is little point in eating when everything turns to ashes in your mouth.” He was silent following this morbid pronouncement, eyes turned inward once again. I hated to see him in the depths of such despair. For the moment my friend had disappeared, leaving a lethargic, unkempt stranger in his place: his clothing was crumpled, his hair an untidy, uncombed mop. Black circles lurked beneath his eyes; his hollow cheeks were adorned with at least three days’ worth of stubble. Usually a man of cat-like neatness with regards to his personal appearance, when depression came upon him he cared nothing to be seen in such a state; moreover he did not even appear to notice how far he had fallen. Nothing mattered beyond the desolation which consumed that great brain, wrapping around and stifling the emotion he claimed not to possess but which I knew was very real indeed. The cocaine only exacerbated matters, leaving him sluggish and exhausted, prey to all kinds of mental demons. He lay there, a shell of the man I knew, barely even aware of my presence.
I turned, unable to look upon him any longer, and went to pull the curtains for darkness was falling swiftly around us. As I shut out the wintry twilight, there was a knock at the door.
“I’m just off now, Doctor,” our landlady said when I answered it. “Is there anything you need before I go?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. We’ll be fine,” I replied, closing the door behind me and accompanying her down the stairs. “Let me call you a cab.”
“Oh, no, sir, it’s quite all right. My nephew will be here in a moment.” The good lady glanced in the hall mirror to check that her hat was securely pinned, and then turned back to me with a concerned frown. “I’m not entirely happy about leaving Mr Holmes. Is he still in one of his moods?”
“I’m afraid so. He is terribly depressed over the Lawrence case.”
Mrs Hudson shook her head with a cluck of the tongue. “He needs something to lift him out of it. I don’t want to have another week like that one a year ago when he refused to leave his bed for days on end. It’s not healthy, Doctor, truly it’s not.”
“I very much hope it won’t come to that,” I said, even though I was not entirely optimistic about the situation. “I - ”
There was a sharp ring on the front doorbell. Mrs Hudson pulled her shawl up about her shoulders. “Do try, sir won’t you?” she asked, resting a hand briefly on my arm. “We can’t let him go to pieces because of one mistake. Try and make him eat something, at least – he’s nothing but skin and bones.”
“I will certainly do my best, Mrs Hudson, I promise,” I said, opening the door for her. She nodded, satisfied, and departed with the young man who was standing upon the steps.
Left alone in the hall, I turned to climb the stairs, and as I did my eye fell upon a brown paper parcel lying upon the table. Accepting any excuse to delay the long, painful journey back to the sitting room, I realised that Mrs Hudson must have left the package behind. I snatched it up and looked out of the front door, intending to follow her, but there was no sign of the good lady or her nephew in the street. Surmising that they must have taken a cab after all I withdrew indoors once more with the intention of replacing the parcel upon the table. However, the string which bound it decided at that particular moment to snap, and the whole thing unravelled, its contents tumbling to the floor. Thankfully there was another, more carefully wrapped package inside, but that too ripped slightly and something soft, round and rather familiar rolled out onto the parquet.
“Crumpets!” I exclaimed involuntarily. Things had been so hectic recently, with so much coming and going at odd hours, that I had not seen a crumpet in some time, much less eaten one. I found myself overcome by a sudden urge to cover one with jam and dripping butter, and could feel my mouth watering at the thought. It seemed that Mrs Hudson must have bought the crumpets to take to her niece’s for tea, but since she had left them behind it would be a shame to waste them. I considered for a moment before scooping up the remainder of the parcel and carrying it through to the kitchen. There I boiled the kettle and procured a few essential items before making my return to the sitting room.
Holmes had not moved in my absence. He lay staring up at the ceiling, one hand trailing limply over the side of the sofa into the mess of discarded newspapers and other detritus which covered the floor. Mrs Hudson had not been allowed into the room to clean for a week and the place was in a disgraceful state. I said as much to Holmes, but he was too caught up in his own misery to even care. The sleeve of his dressing gown had ridden up and I could see the mottling of needle marks, old and new, disfiguring his sinewy forearm. I bit back my usual disapproval and put down the tray I was carrying on his desk.
He made no reaction as I went to the fire and gave it a good stirring with the poker. The blaze obligingly sprang into renewed life, casting a cosy, ruddy glow over the room. Pleased, I retrieved the tray and brought it and its contents to the little table beside Holmes’s armchair. There I settled myself, pouring a cup of tea from the pot I had made before coming upstairs.
Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and crackling of the leaping flames in the grate. After a while I heard a rustling of fabric in addition to this and glanced up to see that Holmes had finally rolled onto his side and was watching me with a frown of confusion. The clinking of china in the course of my activities had evidently managed to rouse his interest where nothing else could.
“Watson,” he said hoarsely, “What are you doing?”
“Making supper,” I replied, spearing one of the crumpets with the toasting fork and offering it to the blaze. “Mrs Hudson has gone out, so we must fend for ourselves. Would you like some?”
Eyes wide from insomnia and cocaine, he considered the offer for a moment before shaking his head and lowering it back down onto the cushions. The heavy lids closed and he wearily murmured, “No, thank you.”
“Not even a cup of tea?” I tried, lifting the pot and causing it to deliberately chink invitingly against the cups.
Another tired shake of the head served as an answer. Sighing inwardly, I returned to my task. My mouth watered anew at the delicious smell of toasted crumpets which was soon wafting through the room, and I quickly had three piled upon a plate, liberally smothered with melting butter. I reached for the jam pot, but could not resist taking a bite first – as my teeth sank into the hot, buttery treat I became aware that Holmes had opened his eyes and was watching me again.
His dull grey gaze met mine, and the question contained within it needed no words. My mouth still full from the bite I had taken, I slid one of the crumpets onto a fresh plate and held it out to him. He hesitated for a long moment before reaching out one thin, trembling hand to take it.
The tiny ghost of a smile which touched his face as he bit into the plate’s contents lifted my heart just a little. A further attempt on my part coaxed him into having a cup of tea as well, and by the time we had finished our meal I dared to hope that he might be starting to emerge from the black fit’s clutches after all.
“Thank you,” he said, and I wondered whether Mrs Hudson had left the crumpets behind entirely by accident…
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1588
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: Friendship, fluff, angst
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.
TEA AND SYMPATHY
“Please, Watson, it is of no use. Leave me be, I beg of you.”
Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled across our sofa, still in his nightclothes and dressing gown despite the evening drawing in. He had been listless all day, barely bothering to raise his head to take notice of what was happening around him. The combination of an unexpected failure to solve a case and an early recourse to the dreaded cocaine bottle had sunk him into the depths of a black fit. My gentle cajoling for him to eat something had been to no avail, eventually eliciting a response that was unfortunately not the one for which I had been hoping.
“You can’t take it personally, Holmes,” I said, crouching down at his side. “There was nothing more you could have done.”
“I failed. That is what matters here. Two men died and a murderer escaped because I overlooked a detail which should have been obvious to a logician such as myself.” Holmes’s face contracted, his hands clenching into fists. “At present I rate myself below even the worst bunglers at Scotland Yard. Save your sympathy, for I do not deserve it.”
I sighed, climbing awkwardly to my feet. “Starving yourself will not help matters.”
“There is little point in eating when everything turns to ashes in your mouth.” He was silent following this morbid pronouncement, eyes turned inward once again. I hated to see him in the depths of such despair. For the moment my friend had disappeared, leaving a lethargic, unkempt stranger in his place: his clothing was crumpled, his hair an untidy, uncombed mop. Black circles lurked beneath his eyes; his hollow cheeks were adorned with at least three days’ worth of stubble. Usually a man of cat-like neatness with regards to his personal appearance, when depression came upon him he cared nothing to be seen in such a state; moreover he did not even appear to notice how far he had fallen. Nothing mattered beyond the desolation which consumed that great brain, wrapping around and stifling the emotion he claimed not to possess but which I knew was very real indeed. The cocaine only exacerbated matters, leaving him sluggish and exhausted, prey to all kinds of mental demons. He lay there, a shell of the man I knew, barely even aware of my presence.
I turned, unable to look upon him any longer, and went to pull the curtains for darkness was falling swiftly around us. As I shut out the wintry twilight, there was a knock at the door.
“I’m just off now, Doctor,” our landlady said when I answered it. “Is there anything you need before I go?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. We’ll be fine,” I replied, closing the door behind me and accompanying her down the stairs. “Let me call you a cab.”
“Oh, no, sir, it’s quite all right. My nephew will be here in a moment.” The good lady glanced in the hall mirror to check that her hat was securely pinned, and then turned back to me with a concerned frown. “I’m not entirely happy about leaving Mr Holmes. Is he still in one of his moods?”
“I’m afraid so. He is terribly depressed over the Lawrence case.”
Mrs Hudson shook her head with a cluck of the tongue. “He needs something to lift him out of it. I don’t want to have another week like that one a year ago when he refused to leave his bed for days on end. It’s not healthy, Doctor, truly it’s not.”
“I very much hope it won’t come to that,” I said, even though I was not entirely optimistic about the situation. “I - ”
There was a sharp ring on the front doorbell. Mrs Hudson pulled her shawl up about her shoulders. “Do try, sir won’t you?” she asked, resting a hand briefly on my arm. “We can’t let him go to pieces because of one mistake. Try and make him eat something, at least – he’s nothing but skin and bones.”
“I will certainly do my best, Mrs Hudson, I promise,” I said, opening the door for her. She nodded, satisfied, and departed with the young man who was standing upon the steps.
Left alone in the hall, I turned to climb the stairs, and as I did my eye fell upon a brown paper parcel lying upon the table. Accepting any excuse to delay the long, painful journey back to the sitting room, I realised that Mrs Hudson must have left the package behind. I snatched it up and looked out of the front door, intending to follow her, but there was no sign of the good lady or her nephew in the street. Surmising that they must have taken a cab after all I withdrew indoors once more with the intention of replacing the parcel upon the table. However, the string which bound it decided at that particular moment to snap, and the whole thing unravelled, its contents tumbling to the floor. Thankfully there was another, more carefully wrapped package inside, but that too ripped slightly and something soft, round and rather familiar rolled out onto the parquet.
“Crumpets!” I exclaimed involuntarily. Things had been so hectic recently, with so much coming and going at odd hours, that I had not seen a crumpet in some time, much less eaten one. I found myself overcome by a sudden urge to cover one with jam and dripping butter, and could feel my mouth watering at the thought. It seemed that Mrs Hudson must have bought the crumpets to take to her niece’s for tea, but since she had left them behind it would be a shame to waste them. I considered for a moment before scooping up the remainder of the parcel and carrying it through to the kitchen. There I boiled the kettle and procured a few essential items before making my return to the sitting room.
Holmes had not moved in my absence. He lay staring up at the ceiling, one hand trailing limply over the side of the sofa into the mess of discarded newspapers and other detritus which covered the floor. Mrs Hudson had not been allowed into the room to clean for a week and the place was in a disgraceful state. I said as much to Holmes, but he was too caught up in his own misery to even care. The sleeve of his dressing gown had ridden up and I could see the mottling of needle marks, old and new, disfiguring his sinewy forearm. I bit back my usual disapproval and put down the tray I was carrying on his desk.
He made no reaction as I went to the fire and gave it a good stirring with the poker. The blaze obligingly sprang into renewed life, casting a cosy, ruddy glow over the room. Pleased, I retrieved the tray and brought it and its contents to the little table beside Holmes’s armchair. There I settled myself, pouring a cup of tea from the pot I had made before coming upstairs.
Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and crackling of the leaping flames in the grate. After a while I heard a rustling of fabric in addition to this and glanced up to see that Holmes had finally rolled onto his side and was watching me with a frown of confusion. The clinking of china in the course of my activities had evidently managed to rouse his interest where nothing else could.
“Watson,” he said hoarsely, “What are you doing?”
“Making supper,” I replied, spearing one of the crumpets with the toasting fork and offering it to the blaze. “Mrs Hudson has gone out, so we must fend for ourselves. Would you like some?”
Eyes wide from insomnia and cocaine, he considered the offer for a moment before shaking his head and lowering it back down onto the cushions. The heavy lids closed and he wearily murmured, “No, thank you.”
“Not even a cup of tea?” I tried, lifting the pot and causing it to deliberately chink invitingly against the cups.
Another tired shake of the head served as an answer. Sighing inwardly, I returned to my task. My mouth watered anew at the delicious smell of toasted crumpets which was soon wafting through the room, and I quickly had three piled upon a plate, liberally smothered with melting butter. I reached for the jam pot, but could not resist taking a bite first – as my teeth sank into the hot, buttery treat I became aware that Holmes had opened his eyes and was watching me again.
His dull grey gaze met mine, and the question contained within it needed no words. My mouth still full from the bite I had taken, I slid one of the crumpets onto a fresh plate and held it out to him. He hesitated for a long moment before reaching out one thin, trembling hand to take it.
The tiny ghost of a smile which touched his face as he bit into the plate’s contents lifted my heart just a little. A further attempt on my part coaxed him into having a cup of tea as well, and by the time we had finished our meal I dared to hope that he might be starting to emerge from the black fit’s clutches after all.
“Thank you,” he said, and I wondered whether Mrs Hudson had left the crumpets behind entirely by accident…
no subject
Date: 2009-04-25 05:45 pm (UTC)And personally I hope the fluff bunny has made himself at home on your desk, because I absolutely adore your fluff.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-25 05:50 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it, as always. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-04-25 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-26 05:19 am (UTC)