In Practice

I was taking the night shift at Barts, supervising, when a Lacerated Lower Leg came in, sopping wet and reeking of oil and Thames-water, accompanied by flotilla of Street Arabs. They hovered anxiously and chirped unwanted questions as I coached my students through the process of disinfecting the wounds and placing the sutures so as to minimize the damage. I didn't even look at the patient's face until he caught one of the boys and sent him off to tell "Holmes" that he was in good hands.

I looked then all right, and found him smiling back. "Hello, Stamford."

"Watson?"









written for the Watsons Woes July 1 prompt. Beta by gayalondiel

In Practice

I was taking the night shift at Barts, supervising, when a Lacerated Lower Leg came in, sopping wet and reeking of oil and Thames-water, accompanied by flotilla of Street Arabs. They hovered anxiously and chirped unwanted questions as I coached my students through the process of disinfecting the wounds and placing the sutures so as to minimize the damage. I didn't even look at the patient's face until he caught one of the boys and sent him off to tell "Holmes" that he was in good hands.

I looked then all right, and found him smiling back. "Hello, Stamford."

"Watson?"









written for the Watsons Woes July 1 prompt. Beta by gayalondiel

John the Ogre Killer

He sat a while longer, but there was no sign that any more creatures like the thing which lay dead at his feet were going to appear. It was raining now, melting away the deep snow. His footprints were devolving, flowers pushing up through the muddy gaps with unnatural alacrity. There'd be no tracing them soon. He wiped off his sword with his handkerchief before sliding it back into the cane he would need on this uncertain ground.

That way to the Lamp-post, he told himself, and beyond it, with luck, will be the wardrobe and Mrs. Hudson's spare room.












written for the July 2 prompt at Watson's Woes -- with thanks to gayalondiel who encouraged me to post it

John the Ogre Killer

He sat a while longer, but there was no sign that any more creatures like the thing which lay dead at his feet were going to appear. It was raining now, melting away the deep snow. His footprints were devolving, flowers pushing up through the muddy gaps with unnatural alacrity. There'd be no tracing them soon. He wiped off his sword with his handkerchief before sliding it back into the cane he would need on this uncertain ground.

That way to the Lamp-post, he told himself, and beyond it, with luck, will be the wardrobe and Mrs. Hudson's spare room.












written for the July 2 prompt at Watson's Woes -- with thanks to gayalondiel who encouraged me to post it