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charleygirlTitle: Jottings from a Doctor's Journal 26/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1444
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
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.
SUCH A PERFECT DAY
I was halfway through the troublesome final draft of my record of the Bulstrode murder case when I heard the front door slam, heralding Holmes’s return.
The day had so far not been an auspicious one, with my friend departing the house before I came down to breakfast. The sound of an altercation between Holmes and Mrs Hudson had come drifting up the stairs while I was dressing, but I had no idea of the cause until I entered the sitting room, smelt burning of a chemical rather than organic nature and saw the large acid hole in the carpet which had not been there upon my retiring the night before. Our landlady appeared soon afterwards bearing my kippers and toast, and treated me as an accompaniment to a tirade upon the subject of my fellow lodger’s eccentricity and carelessness. Though I could not entirely disagree with her grievances, I later spied traces of blood in Holmes’s bedroom basin and guessed that the accident had not been without injury to himself as well as the carpet.
Left to my own devices, I cannot truly say that the next few hours were completely successful. With the intention of spending my time in writing, I duly settled myself at my desk only to find that my concentration was continually interrupted by the raucous singing of the builders working on Camden House across the street. Several times during the course of the day did I throw down my pen in frustration and surge to my feet with the intention of storming over there to complain, only to have the noise cease the moment my ire was raised to the required pitch. Calming down in the ensuing silence, I wrote steadily for ten minutes before the next off-key serenade began.
As if this were not enough, just before five I was visited by a patient who objected in the strongest terms to my daring to send him a second bill when he refused to pay the first. So incensed was he at my apparent presumption and so violent did his manner become that I was goaded to responding in kind, and was only prevented from dealing the man a sharp right hook (which would have neatly solved the problem but done nothing to encourage him to pay his bill, nor enhance my professional reputation) by the timely arrival of Mrs Hudson and a broom, with which she drove him from the house. Shocked by such treatment from a lady and his ears ringing with her vociferous threats to call the police, the fellow was quite chastened by the time he reached the street and almost ran towards Regent’s Park, promising over his shoulder to settle the account within twenty-four hours.
I had, therefore, been able to concentrate upon my work for perhaps half an hour altogether before Holmes returned. By that time the day was almost entirely written off as a disaster and I had made the decision to abandon my manuscript for the more enticing prospect of a drink and my pipe. I was putting away my papers when, immediately after my friend’s entry to the house, I was startled by a loud crash and a yell from downstairs. This was followed by a strange high-pitched yapping and a shriek of alarm from Mrs Hudson. By the time the good lady called my name I was already halfway to the door, my reflexes moving my legs before I had any conscious thought of doing so.
I descended the stairs to find Holmes in a groaning heap at the bottom, one hand pressed to his nose, while Mrs Hudson stood by holding a squirming bundle of hair and teeth which tried to leap from her arms the moment I appeared upon the scene.
“What on earth has happened?” I demanded, reaching the crumpled form of the world’s only consulting detective and helping him to sit up.
“It was an attack, Watson!” Holmes mumbled through his fingers, glaring at our landlady. “A deliberate, vicious attack by that… that beast!”
“Beast?” I echoed, looking around and able only to see Mrs Hudson and her curious burden. “Which beast?”
“Mr Holmes wasn’t looking where he was going when he came into the hall,” Mrs Hudson said, trying to comfort the wriggling creature in her arms. It gave a very menacing growl, teeth bared, and I found myself flinching even though I was too far away to be in any danger. “He tripped right over poor little Hamish!”
“Poor little Hamish tried to sink his teeth into my ankle!” Holmes snapped. From the tone of his voice and the way he was protecting his face, I diagnosed a possible fracture of the nose. He had probably gone face-first into the banisters while trying to extricate himself from the jaws of what I finally realised was a very bad-tempered Highland terrier. I managed to haul him to his feet, and caught hold of his arm as he nearly toppled over again. “What the devil is that infernal creature doing in the house?”
Evidently disliking my friend’s disparaging description of him, Hamish gave an angry bark and made a concerted effort to escape from Mrs Hudson and hurl himself at Holmes. Thankfully, our landlady was able to restrain the animal, and fell to stroking and cooing to him as though he were a baby. An uglier and more disagreeable child I could not imagine. “I agreed to look after him for Mrs Astley at number 225 while she visits her granddaughter,” she said. “I would have told you this morning, Mr Holmes, had you not taken it upon yourself to destroy the house again. You should be more careful – look, you frightened the life out of the dear little man!”
A growl which would more than give that of Hamish a run for its money came from behind Holmes’s hand, and he would have argued over who was to blame, but as he took a step forward his left leg crumpled under him and I had to grab him around the waist to stop him hitting the floor again. He gave a sharp cry of pain, and his fingers flew from his face to catch hold of the banister for support. His features thus revealed, I could clearly see a bruise forming across his cheek, and the bridge of his nose was already swelling.
“I think perhaps you had better take Hamish somewhere a little less dangerous, Mrs Hudson,” I told her, slinging Holmes’s arm over my shoulders and starting to half walk, half drag him up the stairs. It was clear that if he were allowed to get anywhere near the dog, Hamish would find himself the subject of Holmes’s next experiment.
We made it to the sitting room and I dropped Holmes into his armchair before fetching my bag and starting to patch him up. His ankle was fortunately only slightly sprained – his nose appeared to have taken the brunt of the impact with the stairs. He yelled when I shifted it back into place.
“What a day, Watson, what a day!” he exclaimed half an hour later when he was settled with his dressing gown on and his foot elevated on the stool from his chemical bench. I handed him a glass of whisky and took my own seat on the opposite side of the fireplace. “I do not believe that anything has gone right. The spilt acid this morning was not even the beginning.” He ticked off the incidents on his long fingers as he spoke. “My razor was blunt and I cut myself shaving more than once; Lestrade called on me for assistance with a ‘complicated case’ an intelligent child could have solved and my tailor mixed up the measurements for my new suit so that the sleeves were six inches too long and the trousers looked as though they had shrunk in the wash. Then there was the broken E string on the Stradivarius which I could not replace because the shop was closed, and I do not even need to mention my altercation with that little monster of Mrs Hudson’s, which just put the crown on the most perfect ten hours known to man! ”
“It hasn’t exactly been plain sailing for me, either,” I said, and when he gave me a quizzical look told him about the builders and my belligerent patient.
“Dies Horribilus*,” he muttered, and arched an eyebrow at me over his glass.
I couldn’t help but laugh at that and, when we heard a muted yap from downstairs, so did he.
* Bastardised Latin for ‘horrible day’.
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1444
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
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.
SUCH A PERFECT DAY
I was halfway through the troublesome final draft of my record of the Bulstrode murder case when I heard the front door slam, heralding Holmes’s return.
The day had so far not been an auspicious one, with my friend departing the house before I came down to breakfast. The sound of an altercation between Holmes and Mrs Hudson had come drifting up the stairs while I was dressing, but I had no idea of the cause until I entered the sitting room, smelt burning of a chemical rather than organic nature and saw the large acid hole in the carpet which had not been there upon my retiring the night before. Our landlady appeared soon afterwards bearing my kippers and toast, and treated me as an accompaniment to a tirade upon the subject of my fellow lodger’s eccentricity and carelessness. Though I could not entirely disagree with her grievances, I later spied traces of blood in Holmes’s bedroom basin and guessed that the accident had not been without injury to himself as well as the carpet.
Left to my own devices, I cannot truly say that the next few hours were completely successful. With the intention of spending my time in writing, I duly settled myself at my desk only to find that my concentration was continually interrupted by the raucous singing of the builders working on Camden House across the street. Several times during the course of the day did I throw down my pen in frustration and surge to my feet with the intention of storming over there to complain, only to have the noise cease the moment my ire was raised to the required pitch. Calming down in the ensuing silence, I wrote steadily for ten minutes before the next off-key serenade began.
As if this were not enough, just before five I was visited by a patient who objected in the strongest terms to my daring to send him a second bill when he refused to pay the first. So incensed was he at my apparent presumption and so violent did his manner become that I was goaded to responding in kind, and was only prevented from dealing the man a sharp right hook (which would have neatly solved the problem but done nothing to encourage him to pay his bill, nor enhance my professional reputation) by the timely arrival of Mrs Hudson and a broom, with which she drove him from the house. Shocked by such treatment from a lady and his ears ringing with her vociferous threats to call the police, the fellow was quite chastened by the time he reached the street and almost ran towards Regent’s Park, promising over his shoulder to settle the account within twenty-four hours.
I had, therefore, been able to concentrate upon my work for perhaps half an hour altogether before Holmes returned. By that time the day was almost entirely written off as a disaster and I had made the decision to abandon my manuscript for the more enticing prospect of a drink and my pipe. I was putting away my papers when, immediately after my friend’s entry to the house, I was startled by a loud crash and a yell from downstairs. This was followed by a strange high-pitched yapping and a shriek of alarm from Mrs Hudson. By the time the good lady called my name I was already halfway to the door, my reflexes moving my legs before I had any conscious thought of doing so.
I descended the stairs to find Holmes in a groaning heap at the bottom, one hand pressed to his nose, while Mrs Hudson stood by holding a squirming bundle of hair and teeth which tried to leap from her arms the moment I appeared upon the scene.
“What on earth has happened?” I demanded, reaching the crumpled form of the world’s only consulting detective and helping him to sit up.
“It was an attack, Watson!” Holmes mumbled through his fingers, glaring at our landlady. “A deliberate, vicious attack by that… that beast!”
“Beast?” I echoed, looking around and able only to see Mrs Hudson and her curious burden. “Which beast?”
“Mr Holmes wasn’t looking where he was going when he came into the hall,” Mrs Hudson said, trying to comfort the wriggling creature in her arms. It gave a very menacing growl, teeth bared, and I found myself flinching even though I was too far away to be in any danger. “He tripped right over poor little Hamish!”
“Poor little Hamish tried to sink his teeth into my ankle!” Holmes snapped. From the tone of his voice and the way he was protecting his face, I diagnosed a possible fracture of the nose. He had probably gone face-first into the banisters while trying to extricate himself from the jaws of what I finally realised was a very bad-tempered Highland terrier. I managed to haul him to his feet, and caught hold of his arm as he nearly toppled over again. “What the devil is that infernal creature doing in the house?”
Evidently disliking my friend’s disparaging description of him, Hamish gave an angry bark and made a concerted effort to escape from Mrs Hudson and hurl himself at Holmes. Thankfully, our landlady was able to restrain the animal, and fell to stroking and cooing to him as though he were a baby. An uglier and more disagreeable child I could not imagine. “I agreed to look after him for Mrs Astley at number 225 while she visits her granddaughter,” she said. “I would have told you this morning, Mr Holmes, had you not taken it upon yourself to destroy the house again. You should be more careful – look, you frightened the life out of the dear little man!”
A growl which would more than give that of Hamish a run for its money came from behind Holmes’s hand, and he would have argued over who was to blame, but as he took a step forward his left leg crumpled under him and I had to grab him around the waist to stop him hitting the floor again. He gave a sharp cry of pain, and his fingers flew from his face to catch hold of the banister for support. His features thus revealed, I could clearly see a bruise forming across his cheek, and the bridge of his nose was already swelling.
“I think perhaps you had better take Hamish somewhere a little less dangerous, Mrs Hudson,” I told her, slinging Holmes’s arm over my shoulders and starting to half walk, half drag him up the stairs. It was clear that if he were allowed to get anywhere near the dog, Hamish would find himself the subject of Holmes’s next experiment.
We made it to the sitting room and I dropped Holmes into his armchair before fetching my bag and starting to patch him up. His ankle was fortunately only slightly sprained – his nose appeared to have taken the brunt of the impact with the stairs. He yelled when I shifted it back into place.
“What a day, Watson, what a day!” he exclaimed half an hour later when he was settled with his dressing gown on and his foot elevated on the stool from his chemical bench. I handed him a glass of whisky and took my own seat on the opposite side of the fireplace. “I do not believe that anything has gone right. The spilt acid this morning was not even the beginning.” He ticked off the incidents on his long fingers as he spoke. “My razor was blunt and I cut myself shaving more than once; Lestrade called on me for assistance with a ‘complicated case’ an intelligent child could have solved and my tailor mixed up the measurements for my new suit so that the sleeves were six inches too long and the trousers looked as though they had shrunk in the wash. Then there was the broken E string on the Stradivarius which I could not replace because the shop was closed, and I do not even need to mention my altercation with that little monster of Mrs Hudson’s, which just put the crown on the most perfect ten hours known to man! ”
“It hasn’t exactly been plain sailing for me, either,” I said, and when he gave me a quizzical look told him about the builders and my belligerent patient.
“Dies Horribilus*,” he muttered, and arched an eyebrow at me over his glass.
I couldn’t help but laugh at that and, when we heard a muted yap from downstairs, so did he.
* Bastardised Latin for ‘horrible day’.
