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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 20/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1381
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.
A CHANGE IS AS GOOD AS A REST
“Is Mr Holmes not enjoying himself?” Mrs Grimesthorpe asked, reaching for the teapot having taken it upon herself to be mother. The terrace was quiet at this time, most of the other guests having made an excursion into town, or to see some of the local sights. My wound was paining me, having trekked ten miles over the hills with Holmes the previous day, and I will admit that I was quite grateful for the respite.
I accepted the cup she passed me. “What makes you say that?”
She glanced at the tall figure leaning some distance away upon the stone balustrade, looking down into the gardens below. He had declined the offer of tea, and gone to watch the few people taking a turn about the herbaceous borders. “Well, he does not appear to be very happy at present. Last night he barely said a word all through dinner, and took himself off before the coffee was served. Is it true that you are both here for a rest cure, and not upon a case?”
“I am,” I said, telling myself that it was only a white lie. Holmes would be mortified if I revealed that it was really he who was in need of recuperation. “Mr Holmes kindly agreed to accompany me.”
“Ah.” The lady nodded. “He does not like holidays. My dear James was much the same. He called seaside hotels such as this Idlers’ Retreats – always had to be engaged upon some worthwhile pursuit. Nothing to shoot by the sea - unless one wishes to take pot-shots at the seagulls, of course.”
“It is true that Mr Holmes does not feel himself able to relax unless there has been a murder or robbery in the vicinity,” I admitted, and she smiled.
“In that case perhaps we should engineer some minor crime, just to distract him,” she said mischievously. “Then I might be permitted some conversation with him over an aperitif. I freely admit that I find him quite fascinating.”
Knowing that Holmes would be horrified at the thought of a rich widow taking an interest in him, I took a sip of my tea, and turned my gaze briefly towards my friend. Holmes had abandoned his habitual black in deference to the heat and the countryside, and even after all these years I found it difficult to get used to seeing him in a linen suit and panama. Outwardly he looked cool and calm, but his brow was stormy, and I was well aware that the situation and the company at the hotel did not please him at all.
Though I had on occasion taken myself off for a holiday, this was only the second time in our long acquaintance that I ever persuaded my friend to accompany me, and once again it had been the threat of damaging ill-health which proved the deciding factor. The first years of the new century coincided with a flurry of activity on the criminal front, and Holmes was once again teetering upon the threshold of a breakdown. Nervous exhaustion was my diagnosis, and I prescribed a complete change of scene at once. Thankfully this time the illness was not as extreme as his collapse of ’97, when I had taken him off to a remote part of Cornwall to recover, and the sea air and exercise were already producing a marked improvement. Without work, however, my mercurial friend was convinced that his mind would stagnate, and to my disappointment not even the interesting collection of characters which made up our fellow guests could lift his profound black humour.
It was my idea to make the journey north to Whitby, a plan with which Holmes fell in with the greatest reluctance. Only when Mrs Hudson informed us that she was going away for a week and we would either have to endure a temporary cook or fend for ourselves did he eventually agree to the trip. Since then his moods varied between listlessness, irritation and furious energy, during which he either remained locked in his room or led me upon marches across the moors a few miles outside the town. The ruined abbey on the cliff top seemed to attract him in this bleak state of mind, and I had found him more than once wandering between the stark stone arches, listening to the sea pounding below. When I asked him if he wished to talk to me about anything, he merely smiled sadly and shook his head, no more able to share his feelings with me than he had been in Cornwall.
Now, as I watched him standing there alone, deliberately keeping himself aloof from the little knots of people which surrounded him, I wondered whether removing him from London and the possibility of more work had been the right thing to do. His physical health might suffer, but what of his mental state? It had always been fragile, though he would never admit it, and he had told me more than once that he could not live without problems to unravel, puzzles to solve. Where were puzzles to be found amidst this gathering of widows, retired colonels and young lovebirds?
“Oh, look: it’s Mrs Slingsby,” Mrs Grimesthorpe remarked, sitting back in her chair and lowering her parasol better to see the young woman hurrying up the steps from the garden. Mrs Slingsby and her husband were newlyweds, honeymooning at the hotel – I had observed them many times taking walks along the promenade completely wrapped up in each other. It was delightful to see, such a devoted couple just setting out upon their life together.
However, Mrs Slingsby did not look like a blissfully happy bride as she virtually ran the length of the terrace, her skirts hitched well above her ankles so as not to impede her steps and her hair flying as it came loose from its pins. She called out, and it was then that I became aware she was heading straight towards Holmes, who turned at the sound of her running feet upon the gravel.
“Mr Holmes! Oh, Mr Holmes, whatever shall I do?” she cried. “It’s Algernon - he’s…he’s…” Her voice caught and she gave a great sob, burying her face in her hands.
I started to my feet automatically, but to my surprise Holmes took the distraught young woman gently by the elbow and led her to an unoccupied table by the conservatory. There they both sat, Mrs Slingsby gulping out an explanation through her tears, and accepting the handkerchief Holmes offered her. He listened gravely, and nodded several times – I could make out nothing of the conversation, for it was conducted in low voices, and I would not venture nearer unless requested for Mrs Slingsby had approached Holmes, and Holmes alone.
Mrs Grimesthorpe was watching them with open curiosity. “Well, Doctor,” she said, glancing at me and raising an eyebrow, “it seems that Mr Holmes may have got his distraction after all. Whatever can have happened to put that poor little bride in such a state?”
I wondered as well, but it did not take long for me to discover the truth. Holmes, having spoken some words of evident reassurance to Mrs Slingsby, got to his feet and strode briskly across to our table. I knew immediately that some terrible crime must have been committed, for his face, though grim, was positively animated, the life back in the keen grey eyes.
“The game’s afoot, Watson,” he said, taking my arm and turning me abruptly away from Mrs Grimesthorpe, who was listening avidly. “Algernon Slingsby has been murdered.”
“Good God!”
“We must move swiftly, before the local police comes bumbling in. I need you to come and examine the body - ”
He continued to speak, but I heard little. Instead I looked up at him, saw that the drawn, unhappy aspect which had haunted his features for the past few weeks had gone as though it had been washed away, and sighed inwardly, realising anew that which I had first divined many years ago: to prescribe a change of scenery, sea air and exercise was one thing, but no doctor could ever provide Sherlock Holmes with a better tonic than a new case to solve.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1381
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.
A CHANGE IS AS GOOD AS A REST
“Is Mr Holmes not enjoying himself?” Mrs Grimesthorpe asked, reaching for the teapot having taken it upon herself to be mother. The terrace was quiet at this time, most of the other guests having made an excursion into town, or to see some of the local sights. My wound was paining me, having trekked ten miles over the hills with Holmes the previous day, and I will admit that I was quite grateful for the respite.
I accepted the cup she passed me. “What makes you say that?”
She glanced at the tall figure leaning some distance away upon the stone balustrade, looking down into the gardens below. He had declined the offer of tea, and gone to watch the few people taking a turn about the herbaceous borders. “Well, he does not appear to be very happy at present. Last night he barely said a word all through dinner, and took himself off before the coffee was served. Is it true that you are both here for a rest cure, and not upon a case?”
“I am,” I said, telling myself that it was only a white lie. Holmes would be mortified if I revealed that it was really he who was in need of recuperation. “Mr Holmes kindly agreed to accompany me.”
“Ah.” The lady nodded. “He does not like holidays. My dear James was much the same. He called seaside hotels such as this Idlers’ Retreats – always had to be engaged upon some worthwhile pursuit. Nothing to shoot by the sea - unless one wishes to take pot-shots at the seagulls, of course.”
“It is true that Mr Holmes does not feel himself able to relax unless there has been a murder or robbery in the vicinity,” I admitted, and she smiled.
“In that case perhaps we should engineer some minor crime, just to distract him,” she said mischievously. “Then I might be permitted some conversation with him over an aperitif. I freely admit that I find him quite fascinating.”
Knowing that Holmes would be horrified at the thought of a rich widow taking an interest in him, I took a sip of my tea, and turned my gaze briefly towards my friend. Holmes had abandoned his habitual black in deference to the heat and the countryside, and even after all these years I found it difficult to get used to seeing him in a linen suit and panama. Outwardly he looked cool and calm, but his brow was stormy, and I was well aware that the situation and the company at the hotel did not please him at all.
Though I had on occasion taken myself off for a holiday, this was only the second time in our long acquaintance that I ever persuaded my friend to accompany me, and once again it had been the threat of damaging ill-health which proved the deciding factor. The first years of the new century coincided with a flurry of activity on the criminal front, and Holmes was once again teetering upon the threshold of a breakdown. Nervous exhaustion was my diagnosis, and I prescribed a complete change of scene at once. Thankfully this time the illness was not as extreme as his collapse of ’97, when I had taken him off to a remote part of Cornwall to recover, and the sea air and exercise were already producing a marked improvement. Without work, however, my mercurial friend was convinced that his mind would stagnate, and to my disappointment not even the interesting collection of characters which made up our fellow guests could lift his profound black humour.
It was my idea to make the journey north to Whitby, a plan with which Holmes fell in with the greatest reluctance. Only when Mrs Hudson informed us that she was going away for a week and we would either have to endure a temporary cook or fend for ourselves did he eventually agree to the trip. Since then his moods varied between listlessness, irritation and furious energy, during which he either remained locked in his room or led me upon marches across the moors a few miles outside the town. The ruined abbey on the cliff top seemed to attract him in this bleak state of mind, and I had found him more than once wandering between the stark stone arches, listening to the sea pounding below. When I asked him if he wished to talk to me about anything, he merely smiled sadly and shook his head, no more able to share his feelings with me than he had been in Cornwall.
Now, as I watched him standing there alone, deliberately keeping himself aloof from the little knots of people which surrounded him, I wondered whether removing him from London and the possibility of more work had been the right thing to do. His physical health might suffer, but what of his mental state? It had always been fragile, though he would never admit it, and he had told me more than once that he could not live without problems to unravel, puzzles to solve. Where were puzzles to be found amidst this gathering of widows, retired colonels and young lovebirds?
“Oh, look: it’s Mrs Slingsby,” Mrs Grimesthorpe remarked, sitting back in her chair and lowering her parasol better to see the young woman hurrying up the steps from the garden. Mrs Slingsby and her husband were newlyweds, honeymooning at the hotel – I had observed them many times taking walks along the promenade completely wrapped up in each other. It was delightful to see, such a devoted couple just setting out upon their life together.
However, Mrs Slingsby did not look like a blissfully happy bride as she virtually ran the length of the terrace, her skirts hitched well above her ankles so as not to impede her steps and her hair flying as it came loose from its pins. She called out, and it was then that I became aware she was heading straight towards Holmes, who turned at the sound of her running feet upon the gravel.
“Mr Holmes! Oh, Mr Holmes, whatever shall I do?” she cried. “It’s Algernon - he’s…he’s…” Her voice caught and she gave a great sob, burying her face in her hands.
I started to my feet automatically, but to my surprise Holmes took the distraught young woman gently by the elbow and led her to an unoccupied table by the conservatory. There they both sat, Mrs Slingsby gulping out an explanation through her tears, and accepting the handkerchief Holmes offered her. He listened gravely, and nodded several times – I could make out nothing of the conversation, for it was conducted in low voices, and I would not venture nearer unless requested for Mrs Slingsby had approached Holmes, and Holmes alone.
Mrs Grimesthorpe was watching them with open curiosity. “Well, Doctor,” she said, glancing at me and raising an eyebrow, “it seems that Mr Holmes may have got his distraction after all. Whatever can have happened to put that poor little bride in such a state?”
I wondered as well, but it did not take long for me to discover the truth. Holmes, having spoken some words of evident reassurance to Mrs Slingsby, got to his feet and strode briskly across to our table. I knew immediately that some terrible crime must have been committed, for his face, though grim, was positively animated, the life back in the keen grey eyes.
“The game’s afoot, Watson,” he said, taking my arm and turning me abruptly away from Mrs Grimesthorpe, who was listening avidly. “Algernon Slingsby has been murdered.”
“Good God!”
“We must move swiftly, before the local police comes bumbling in. I need you to come and examine the body - ”
He continued to speak, but I heard little. Instead I looked up at him, saw that the drawn, unhappy aspect which had haunted his features for the past few weeks had gone as though it had been washed away, and sighed inwardly, realising anew that which I had first divined many years ago: to prescribe a change of scenery, sea air and exercise was one thing, but no doctor could ever provide Sherlock Holmes with a better tonic than a new case to solve.
