Yes, I've been in a funk...
Jun. 20th, 2008 08:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanAnd everything I've tried to write lately has gone wandering into the dark recesses of my psyche in ways that I'm not ever likely to finish or share. But I managed something cheerful at last, so here it is.
(If you don't remember, in "A Decided Genius" I set it up that Watson had spent mid-1883 to late 1886 back in the Army, and had damaged his Achilles tendon at the end of that span, giving Holmes a reason to invite him back to Baker Street.)
What with one thing and another, we left Portsmouth in the single passenger car attached to the late goods train and got into London nearer dawn than midnight, but in spite of the chill in the air and the late hour I have seldom enjoyed a journey more. Holmes was in high good humor, and I was giddy with relief, for I'd had no desire at all to spend my convalescence in a Portsmouth boarding house. Our conversation darted from one topic to another and Holmes' sardonic commentary on everything from the latest music hall shows in London to the ineffective investigation of a recent bank robbery had me laughing more than I had in months.
Waterloo station, however, was an ordeal. The crutches I'd taken from the dispensary were at least an inch too long for me, and dodging the crowds of carters and costermongers busily collecting their goods from the freight cars, left me weary and aching from my damaged ankle up to my old wound. By the time Holmes saw me and my luggage into a growler I was pale and shaking – an observation my companion made no bones about sharing as he joined me. "Never mind, Doctor. We'll soon have you tucked up in bed so you can rest," he added, and then took on a look of mischief. "I can scarce wait to find out what Mrs. Hudson will say when she lays eyes on you."
I smiled, despite my discomfort. "Have you not wired to tell her I am coming?"
He shook his head. "And deprive her of a lovely surprise?" he asked, with an air of innocence, and then laughed. "Truth to tell I hadn't thought of it until just now. It shan't be any trouble, though, for you can take my room tonight and I can clear off a place to sleep on the settee."
"Clear off a place?" I enquired, although I remembered Holmes' tendency to create a clutter of papers near his favorite chair quite well.
A mischievous glint lit his eye. "Just a few papers and books, my dear fellow," he said cheerfully. "It shan't take a moment."
I hated the thought of putting him out, but I had no desire to begin an argument so I thanked him and leaned back against the seat, nursing my aching shoulder as we travelled through the dark streets. The rain was threatening, and the wind was rising, as if intimating some malign consequence I could not foresee. My conscience troubled me, for when I had allowed Holmes to inveigle me back to Baker Street, I had not given a thought to the extra work it would cause Mrs. Hudson, nor to the inevitable disruption my presence would cause to Holmes' career. I could hardly retreat easily upstairs to my room at the arrival of a client in my present condition!
But before my thoughts could circle downwards Holmes touched my elbow and offered his flask. "A little brandy then?"
"Thank you," I said, accepting it and taking a mouthful.
"That's hardly enough to numb that shoulder," Holmes said, indicating that I should drink again. "Or to stave off those second thoughts. Come now, Watson, what hotel would take you at this hour? And how am I to make this month's rent without chasing through this infernal weather unless you nobly offer me compensation for my trouble?"
I could not help but laugh. "You're incorrigible, Holmes," I told him. "And of course I mean to recompense you for your trouble. I can do that much, ankle or no."
"And I shall appreciate it, no end. No – finish the flask. It will help you stand the trip. It's near four miles to Baker Street."
"It will have me drunk if I finish it on an empty stomach."
"Hmm. We can do something about that." Holmes put his head out the window and shouted something to the driver and the cab turned on the next corner. Holmes sat back in again. "I know a pie shop near Covent Garden that keeps topsy turvy hours for the men who work there. A bite to eat wouldn't go amiss with me either. And besides, they serve a very fine cider this time of year."
--- ## ---
The storm which came that morning had made sleep near impossible, so that I had already risen and making my ablutions when the front doorbell rang.
"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" came the familiar cry, not ten seconds afterwards. I pulled on my wrapper, shaking my head, and wondering just why it was I put up with my eccentric lodger. He'd have the neighbors complaining if he kept on like that, he would, and never mind a minute that he'd disturbed them. And wasn't it just like him not to send word to me that he would be home for breakfast?
"I've got it, Missus," the new bootboy said, coming barefooted up from the kitchen, soot from the grates on his face and hands.
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, shooing him back again. "You get the stove going and find your shoes." He was a well-meaning lad, and he'd make a better servant than you might have expected given his background, but soap and water were still strangers to him. Unlike Mr. Holmes, who would no doubt want hot water for a bath before the day was out. "And don't forget to fill the boiler!" I added as I went to take off the chain.
I opened the door to discover Sherlock Holmes standing in the downpour with a box of Covent Garden fruit at his feet, a second figure wrapped in a sodden cloak on his back, and a cabdriver making heavy work of maneuvering a trunk off a growler behind him. "Mrs. Hudson, we've brought you apples!" cried Holmes, sweeping in the door.
"Ouch!" said his burden as a bandaged foot bumped against the newel post and then raised his head from Holmes' shoulder and blinked at me. "Apples," he repeated. "Thought you might like to make pie."
In the shadow of the cloak I could barely make out the man's features, but the voice I recognized, for all that he was drunk as an owl. "Is that the doctor?" I exclaimed, although I knew it was. "What on earth?"
"He's come to stay until his foot's better," Mr. Holmes told me, nodding at the bandage, and it occurred to me that he was what my father always called "a trifle disguised" as well. Whether it was an improvement on his usual sort of disguise I reserved judgment.
"And how long will that be?" I asked, eying the size of the trunk that the cabdriver was wrestling onto his back.
"A month, not much more," Dr. Watson answered, "Jus' a sprain."
"It looks like you've brought half your worldly goods with you," I observed, tugging Holmes out of the way as the cabdriver came in. "Up two flights," I told the man. "The door on the left." I'd have to go up and light the fire and then air the mattress before the room was inhabitable, but it would do for the luggage.
"All of them," the doctor said simply, as I took the soggy cloak from his back and placed it on the hook to dry. "No place else to keep them." I remembered belatedly how little he had brought with him before, and how few of the items he'd acquired in the years of his residence he had bothered to pack when he returned to the service. There were still books of his on the bookshelves in that sitting room, I was sure, for all that he'd told Mr. Holmes to feel free to dispose of them. Poor man, he'd been ill again, for the bones stood out in his thin face.
"He's brung everything home," explained Mr. Holmes, putting on his most charming air. "You don't object, do you, Mrs. Hudson?"
And now you think to ask my permission? I thought, but that ineffable smile was the reason I hadn't asked for the latchkey back, and no doubt he knew it. I tried to remember the last time I'd seen that smile on Sherlock Holmes' face. It had been far too long. But then I knew. He and the doctor had reeled in after a late dinner served with only they knew how much wine, arguing gleefully about the merits of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and the doctor had regaled me with the patter song from the play to illustrate the clever use of words while Mr. Holmes had pretended to be unimpressed, and then he corrected a line which the doctor had sung wrong and tried to convince me that the only reason why the operettas enjoyed so much popularity was because of the music. I'd shooed them off to bed that night, and for all that the sun was probably rising beyond the clouds I could see that they were hoping I'd do it again. The doctor, in particular, was looking at me with a bitten lip and an air of uncertainty.
"Of course I don't object," I said, answering his look as much as Mr. Holmes' question. How could I object, when the pair of them made me feel as if I were about to undertake the civilization of yet another one of Mr. Holmes' street sparrows? "You're always welcome, doctor, even if you are dripping on my good carpet. Will you be wanting some tea while you wait for me to make your room ready for you?"
"Tea would only keep him awake and I promised him a good sleep. He'll have my room for now," decided Mr. Holmes imperiously, "and I shall have coffee."
"No, you won't, Holmes," Dr. Watson corrected him blithely. "You'll have a nap on the settee and then we'll both have coffee when we wake up. And pie." He tilted his head on his neck and smiled at me sweetly. "I've missed your pie, Mrs. Hudson. And we brought apples."
I laughed, as much at the bemused expression on Mr. Holmes face at being thwarted as at the doctor's blatant cajolery. "Indeed you did. Now go on upstairs and get some sleep, the pair of you." With the doctor as my ally it took no temerity on my part to override my autocratic tenant, and I must admit I relished the rare opportunity. "Coffee and pie it shall be, and some luncheon too, when it's ready for you. Go on," I said again, when Mr. Holmes didn't move. "And for heaven's sake don't drop the doctor on your way up the stairs."
(If you don't remember, in "A Decided Genius" I set it up that Watson had spent mid-1883 to late 1886 back in the Army, and had damaged his Achilles tendon at the end of that span, giving Holmes a reason to invite him back to Baker Street.)
What with one thing and another, we left Portsmouth in the single passenger car attached to the late goods train and got into London nearer dawn than midnight, but in spite of the chill in the air and the late hour I have seldom enjoyed a journey more. Holmes was in high good humor, and I was giddy with relief, for I'd had no desire at all to spend my convalescence in a Portsmouth boarding house. Our conversation darted from one topic to another and Holmes' sardonic commentary on everything from the latest music hall shows in London to the ineffective investigation of a recent bank robbery had me laughing more than I had in months.
Waterloo station, however, was an ordeal. The crutches I'd taken from the dispensary were at least an inch too long for me, and dodging the crowds of carters and costermongers busily collecting their goods from the freight cars, left me weary and aching from my damaged ankle up to my old wound. By the time Holmes saw me and my luggage into a growler I was pale and shaking – an observation my companion made no bones about sharing as he joined me. "Never mind, Doctor. We'll soon have you tucked up in bed so you can rest," he added, and then took on a look of mischief. "I can scarce wait to find out what Mrs. Hudson will say when she lays eyes on you."
I smiled, despite my discomfort. "Have you not wired to tell her I am coming?"
He shook his head. "And deprive her of a lovely surprise?" he asked, with an air of innocence, and then laughed. "Truth to tell I hadn't thought of it until just now. It shan't be any trouble, though, for you can take my room tonight and I can clear off a place to sleep on the settee."
"Clear off a place?" I enquired, although I remembered Holmes' tendency to create a clutter of papers near his favorite chair quite well.
A mischievous glint lit his eye. "Just a few papers and books, my dear fellow," he said cheerfully. "It shan't take a moment."
I hated the thought of putting him out, but I had no desire to begin an argument so I thanked him and leaned back against the seat, nursing my aching shoulder as we travelled through the dark streets. The rain was threatening, and the wind was rising, as if intimating some malign consequence I could not foresee. My conscience troubled me, for when I had allowed Holmes to inveigle me back to Baker Street, I had not given a thought to the extra work it would cause Mrs. Hudson, nor to the inevitable disruption my presence would cause to Holmes' career. I could hardly retreat easily upstairs to my room at the arrival of a client in my present condition!
But before my thoughts could circle downwards Holmes touched my elbow and offered his flask. "A little brandy then?"
"Thank you," I said, accepting it and taking a mouthful.
"That's hardly enough to numb that shoulder," Holmes said, indicating that I should drink again. "Or to stave off those second thoughts. Come now, Watson, what hotel would take you at this hour? And how am I to make this month's rent without chasing through this infernal weather unless you nobly offer me compensation for my trouble?"
I could not help but laugh. "You're incorrigible, Holmes," I told him. "And of course I mean to recompense you for your trouble. I can do that much, ankle or no."
"And I shall appreciate it, no end. No – finish the flask. It will help you stand the trip. It's near four miles to Baker Street."
"It will have me drunk if I finish it on an empty stomach."
"Hmm. We can do something about that." Holmes put his head out the window and shouted something to the driver and the cab turned on the next corner. Holmes sat back in again. "I know a pie shop near Covent Garden that keeps topsy turvy hours for the men who work there. A bite to eat wouldn't go amiss with me either. And besides, they serve a very fine cider this time of year."
--- ## ---
The storm which came that morning had made sleep near impossible, so that I had already risen and making my ablutions when the front doorbell rang.
"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" came the familiar cry, not ten seconds afterwards. I pulled on my wrapper, shaking my head, and wondering just why it was I put up with my eccentric lodger. He'd have the neighbors complaining if he kept on like that, he would, and never mind a minute that he'd disturbed them. And wasn't it just like him not to send word to me that he would be home for breakfast?
"I've got it, Missus," the new bootboy said, coming barefooted up from the kitchen, soot from the grates on his face and hands.
"Oh, no, you don't," I said, shooing him back again. "You get the stove going and find your shoes." He was a well-meaning lad, and he'd make a better servant than you might have expected given his background, but soap and water were still strangers to him. Unlike Mr. Holmes, who would no doubt want hot water for a bath before the day was out. "And don't forget to fill the boiler!" I added as I went to take off the chain.
I opened the door to discover Sherlock Holmes standing in the downpour with a box of Covent Garden fruit at his feet, a second figure wrapped in a sodden cloak on his back, and a cabdriver making heavy work of maneuvering a trunk off a growler behind him. "Mrs. Hudson, we've brought you apples!" cried Holmes, sweeping in the door.
"Ouch!" said his burden as a bandaged foot bumped against the newel post and then raised his head from Holmes' shoulder and blinked at me. "Apples," he repeated. "Thought you might like to make pie."
In the shadow of the cloak I could barely make out the man's features, but the voice I recognized, for all that he was drunk as an owl. "Is that the doctor?" I exclaimed, although I knew it was. "What on earth?"
"He's come to stay until his foot's better," Mr. Holmes told me, nodding at the bandage, and it occurred to me that he was what my father always called "a trifle disguised" as well. Whether it was an improvement on his usual sort of disguise I reserved judgment.
"And how long will that be?" I asked, eying the size of the trunk that the cabdriver was wrestling onto his back.
"A month, not much more," Dr. Watson answered, "Jus' a sprain."
"It looks like you've brought half your worldly goods with you," I observed, tugging Holmes out of the way as the cabdriver came in. "Up two flights," I told the man. "The door on the left." I'd have to go up and light the fire and then air the mattress before the room was inhabitable, but it would do for the luggage.
"All of them," the doctor said simply, as I took the soggy cloak from his back and placed it on the hook to dry. "No place else to keep them." I remembered belatedly how little he had brought with him before, and how few of the items he'd acquired in the years of his residence he had bothered to pack when he returned to the service. There were still books of his on the bookshelves in that sitting room, I was sure, for all that he'd told Mr. Holmes to feel free to dispose of them. Poor man, he'd been ill again, for the bones stood out in his thin face.
"He's brung everything home," explained Mr. Holmes, putting on his most charming air. "You don't object, do you, Mrs. Hudson?"
And now you think to ask my permission? I thought, but that ineffable smile was the reason I hadn't asked for the latchkey back, and no doubt he knew it. I tried to remember the last time I'd seen that smile on Sherlock Holmes' face. It had been far too long. But then I knew. He and the doctor had reeled in after a late dinner served with only they knew how much wine, arguing gleefully about the merits of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and the doctor had regaled me with the patter song from the play to illustrate the clever use of words while Mr. Holmes had pretended to be unimpressed, and then he corrected a line which the doctor had sung wrong and tried to convince me that the only reason why the operettas enjoyed so much popularity was because of the music. I'd shooed them off to bed that night, and for all that the sun was probably rising beyond the clouds I could see that they were hoping I'd do it again. The doctor, in particular, was looking at me with a bitten lip and an air of uncertainty.
"Of course I don't object," I said, answering his look as much as Mr. Holmes' question. How could I object, when the pair of them made me feel as if I were about to undertake the civilization of yet another one of Mr. Holmes' street sparrows? "You're always welcome, doctor, even if you are dripping on my good carpet. Will you be wanting some tea while you wait for me to make your room ready for you?"
"Tea would only keep him awake and I promised him a good sleep. He'll have my room for now," decided Mr. Holmes imperiously, "and I shall have coffee."
"No, you won't, Holmes," Dr. Watson corrected him blithely. "You'll have a nap on the settee and then we'll both have coffee when we wake up. And pie." He tilted his head on his neck and smiled at me sweetly. "I've missed your pie, Mrs. Hudson. And we brought apples."
I laughed, as much at the bemused expression on Mr. Holmes face at being thwarted as at the doctor's blatant cajolery. "Indeed you did. Now go on upstairs and get some sleep, the pair of you." With the doctor as my ally it took no temerity on my part to override my autocratic tenant, and I must admit I relished the rare opportunity. "Coffee and pie it shall be, and some luncheon too, when it's ready for you. Go on," I said again, when Mr. Holmes didn't move. "And for heaven's sake don't drop the doctor on your way up the stairs."
