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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 24/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Words: 793
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.
WEE WILLIE WINKIE
I awoke to the sound of running feet on the landing.
After so many years of sharing rooms with the world’s only private consulting detective, I was already rolling out of bed and groping for my dressing gown before I was aware of it. Blindly I found my way to the door and threw it open to see lights shining up the staircase and the entrance to Holmes’s chamber opposite my own standing wide open.
Below me, the noises which had disturbed my rest continued – raised voices, slammed doors and the high, keening wail of a woman in despair. Hurriedly I made my way down the broad stairs to the hall, the lights enabling me to orientate myself towards the library and the source of the commotion. As I reached the doorway I was almost bowled over by one of the young footmen flying from the room. He dashed off back the way I had come, urgency and panic evident in the tight lines of his body.
I crossed the threshold to find a disparate group of people gathered in the long room amongst the books and manuscripts. In a large armchair, his face a pale mask of shock, sat the duke. It appeared that the crisis had come just as he was about to retire, for he still wore his evening clothes though they were crumpled and dishevelled. Beside him and before the fireplace stood Lady Louisa, in her nightgown and with her shimmering hair loose about her shoulders, comforting the sobbing form of Mrs Banstead the housekeeper. An assorted gaggle of servants, all in various states of dress from their full uniform to clothes hurriedly dragged on when the alarm was raised, huddled in a corner, whispering amongst themselves and staring at the tableau at the other end of the room with wide eyes.
In the window embrasure, Holmes leant against the seat. To my surprise it appeared that he had also been roused from his bed for his dark hair was sleep-tumbled on his brow and he had pulled a blanket about his shoulders to ward off the very definite chill in the air. He met my questioning gaze and nodded towards the hearth.
Rounding the great mahogany desk, I caught my breath – sprawled upon his face on the rug was the unmistakable figure of Banstead the butler. From even a cursory glance it was obvious that he was dead: the back of his head had been all but smashed in, blood and brain matter staining the pale cloth beneath him in a brilliant semi-circular pattern of gore.
“If you would be so good, Watson,” Holmes said, and once again I found myself examining a corpse for him. It was one of the less pleasant aspects of our partnership.
I could tell him little more than that which was immediately obvious: Banstead had been attacked from behind with a heavy object wielded with some considerable force. From the rigidity of the limbs, he had been dead about two hours. That would have put the time of the murder at just after one o’clock.
“But why?” demanded the duke when I reported my findings. “Why would anyone wish to kill a member of my household? What did they want?”
“They don’t appear to have been burglars,” said Lady Louisa, glancing about the room. “Is anything missing, Papa?”
“Not that I can see,” he father replied, rising from his chair to do the same and falling back with a groan when he caught sight of the body on the rug once more.
“There is something,” said Holmes. All eyes turned to him, and he slowly pointed above his head, to the left of the window. Beneath an unremarkable Dutch landscape was a faded square where something had hung for some considerable time but did so no longer. “That.”
The duke blinked. “The Lely Duchess? But we have only just recovered her – why should someone return the painting only to steal it again?”
“That is what we have to determine.” Holmes stood, and drew his lens from the pocket of his dressing gown. His grey eyes were sharp and keen, all trace of sleep now banished.
The room fell silent as he made a detailed investigation of its contents, even Mrs Banstead ceasing in her weeping for her dead husband to watch in bemusement as Holmes crawled around the floor with his nose barely an inch from its surface. He examined the desk, bookshelves and even climbed the library ladder with slippered feet to take a closer look at the tall windows. As I observed his familiar methods, it struck me that it was the first time I had ever seen the great detective conduct a case in his nightclothes.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Words: 793
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.
WEE WILLIE WINKIE
I awoke to the sound of running feet on the landing.
After so many years of sharing rooms with the world’s only private consulting detective, I was already rolling out of bed and groping for my dressing gown before I was aware of it. Blindly I found my way to the door and threw it open to see lights shining up the staircase and the entrance to Holmes’s chamber opposite my own standing wide open.
Below me, the noises which had disturbed my rest continued – raised voices, slammed doors and the high, keening wail of a woman in despair. Hurriedly I made my way down the broad stairs to the hall, the lights enabling me to orientate myself towards the library and the source of the commotion. As I reached the doorway I was almost bowled over by one of the young footmen flying from the room. He dashed off back the way I had come, urgency and panic evident in the tight lines of his body.
I crossed the threshold to find a disparate group of people gathered in the long room amongst the books and manuscripts. In a large armchair, his face a pale mask of shock, sat the duke. It appeared that the crisis had come just as he was about to retire, for he still wore his evening clothes though they were crumpled and dishevelled. Beside him and before the fireplace stood Lady Louisa, in her nightgown and with her shimmering hair loose about her shoulders, comforting the sobbing form of Mrs Banstead the housekeeper. An assorted gaggle of servants, all in various states of dress from their full uniform to clothes hurriedly dragged on when the alarm was raised, huddled in a corner, whispering amongst themselves and staring at the tableau at the other end of the room with wide eyes.
In the window embrasure, Holmes leant against the seat. To my surprise it appeared that he had also been roused from his bed for his dark hair was sleep-tumbled on his brow and he had pulled a blanket about his shoulders to ward off the very definite chill in the air. He met my questioning gaze and nodded towards the hearth.
Rounding the great mahogany desk, I caught my breath – sprawled upon his face on the rug was the unmistakable figure of Banstead the butler. From even a cursory glance it was obvious that he was dead: the back of his head had been all but smashed in, blood and brain matter staining the pale cloth beneath him in a brilliant semi-circular pattern of gore.
“If you would be so good, Watson,” Holmes said, and once again I found myself examining a corpse for him. It was one of the less pleasant aspects of our partnership.
I could tell him little more than that which was immediately obvious: Banstead had been attacked from behind with a heavy object wielded with some considerable force. From the rigidity of the limbs, he had been dead about two hours. That would have put the time of the murder at just after one o’clock.
“But why?” demanded the duke when I reported my findings. “Why would anyone wish to kill a member of my household? What did they want?”
“They don’t appear to have been burglars,” said Lady Louisa, glancing about the room. “Is anything missing, Papa?”
“Not that I can see,” he father replied, rising from his chair to do the same and falling back with a groan when he caught sight of the body on the rug once more.
“There is something,” said Holmes. All eyes turned to him, and he slowly pointed above his head, to the left of the window. Beneath an unremarkable Dutch landscape was a faded square where something had hung for some considerable time but did so no longer. “That.”
The duke blinked. “The Lely Duchess? But we have only just recovered her – why should someone return the painting only to steal it again?”
“That is what we have to determine.” Holmes stood, and drew his lens from the pocket of his dressing gown. His grey eyes were sharp and keen, all trace of sleep now banished.
The room fell silent as he made a detailed investigation of its contents, even Mrs Banstead ceasing in her weeping for her dead husband to watch in bemusement as Holmes crawled around the floor with his nose barely an inch from its surface. He examined the desk, bookshelves and even climbed the library ladder with slippered feet to take a closer look at the tall windows. As I observed his familiar methods, it struck me that it was the first time I had ever seen the great detective conduct a case in his nightclothes.
