Still on the Quest

Sherlock Holmes, John suspected, was precisely the sort of person who always shook his Christmas presents to determine what was inside, and would, if foiled by ludicrous amounts of styrofoam and bubblewrap, resort to other measures. Therefore, it was incumbent on John to take the appropriate precautions.

Even if it did make the box too damn heavy to get up the stairs without borrowing the two-wheeler from the cafe downstairs.

Still, with a bit of grunting, and a lot of swearing, he managed it, with only the sacrifice of a barked knuckle to show for it, too. And the effort paid itself back when Sherlock tried to shift the meter-high box on the sly that Monday evening and threw his back out.

"Rocks?" he guessed, as John applied a basic knowledge of chiropracty and tiger balm to the injured area.

"Wait till Christmas," John said.

It was Wednesday night before John was levitated out of a sound sleep by a short sharp cry of pain. He dashed down to the sitting room, his revolver in his hand, to find Sherlock frantically trying to reassemble the wrapping paper on his box, despite the mousetrap clinging to one hand.

"Nevermind," John said, going over to unlatch the device.

"That was unfair, John," Sherlock said, sulkily, when John had brought him an icepack for the bruised fingers.

"Was it?" John laughed. He pulled off the wrapping paper and slit down the sides of the box, uncovering a second box, wrapped in even brighter colors. "Just wait until Christmas."

Thursday John came home from the clinic to find Sherlock still trying to scrub away the inkstains on his face. "Hmm," John said, finding the bottle of remover and beginning to apply it with balls of cotton. "How did it manage to splash so high?"

"It didn't," Sherlock grumbled. "I had my head too close, trying to see the connections for the alarm system so I could disable it."

John laughed. "Wait until Christmas," he said fondly.

Friday morning, Sherlock managed to drop the lead weights in the bottom of the third box on his bare foot. All of them.

"Why is he limping?" Lestrade asked in aside to John after Sherlock had proven beyond a doubt that it was "Santa's elves" smuggling out jewelry from the department store in the bags of candycanes.

"Can't wait until Christmas," John said mildly.

"Ah."

Saturday Sherlock came home grumbling because Molly wouldn't lend him any X-ray equipment. Sunday John caught him probing at the package with one of Mrs. Hudson's knitting needles, and had to mention the possibility of damaging the present before Sherlock would give over.

Sherlock was disappointed on Monday when the assault on the corner of the wrapping paper didn't reveal a brighter color underneath, but his eyes widened when he realized that the next layer was an actual safe. With a combination lock.

"Wait until Christmas," John told him, but made no further protests as Sherlock attacked the combination.

It was Wednesday before he thought to tilt the thing on its side, revealing the true door with the ordinary lock. No key, of course.

"I know, I know," he growled, when John came out with a cup of hot cocoa for him. "Wait until Christmas."

Thursday he picked the lock. Of course. And then threatened John with mayhem for having planted a spring-snake behind it right before collapsing into giggles alongside the helpless doctor. "I know, I know," he gasped when he could, drawing out the small red and green box from the safe. "Wait until Christmas."

And he did too, only to discover three more boxes, tucked one inside the other. (Banger from a Christmas cracker, packet of smelly powder, whoopie cushion) He looked up from the last of them to John, who was holding out a slim flat package wrapped in ordinary tissue paper. "Here," said John. "You might want this."

"John," he exclaimed, taking it without unwrapping it, his eyes aglow with delight. He weighed the gift in his hand. "New mobile phone," he deduced immediately. "The latest model." But then his smile faltered. "But if you were going to give me a phone," he said, "what was all this?" He gestured to the scattered wrapping paper.

"Something I thought you'd like better," John said, grinning. "A mystery."

The boots caught it first and then the maid, which proved how convenient it was to have a valetudinarian physician for a tenant, confined to the house though he was by wind-blown snow. A tenant who confined his chemical experiments to concoctions found in Squire's Companion to the British Pharmacopoeia for the duration of the foul weather was useful too, although he was next to succumb to cough and fever. The coal cellar was full, the larder well-stocked. They muddled along quite adequately until the landlady took to her bed.

The Army does not teach its surgeons to make coffee.






xposted to Watson's Woes.

Once upon an evening dreary
While I pondered sick and weary
Sick and weary of the healthy
broth upon my dinner tray --
Wishing for a proper pudding
Or a roast beef sandwich swimming
In a lovely lake of gravy
Mashed potatoes by the score,
Suddenly there came a tapping
Of some person gently rapping
Shave and haircut came the signal
Signal on my chamber door
“Who’s that knocking?” soft I whispered,
Lest the Ranger-Healer heard me
Came the answer, “Only me,” and nothing more.

“Have you brought me apple dumplings?
Pease and lentils, eggs and bacon?
Have you brought me something tasty?
Beer and pretzels, to my door?”
Wide the chamber door it opened,
Standing there was faithful Samwise,
With his pockets bulging sidewise,
In his hands a plate of sausage,
Sausage pink and raw and horrid,
Nothing like my dreams of yore.

“I shall starve,” I groaned in sorrow,
Looking at that uncooked sausage,
Knowing that I could not eat it,
Without repercussions, repercussions by the score.
But “Hush” he said and nothing more.

To the hearth he crept so quickly
That I did not catch his meaning,
There beside the fire he brought out
Toasting forks and rolls of bread.
“Just you wait,” my Samwise said.

Soon the smells of sausage cooking
Filled my room with golden promise
Out of bed I clambered quickly
Stuffed a bolster ‘gainst the door,
Lest the scent betray our feasting
Bring some scolding, meddling wizard,
Bring some cousins wanting shares
From our small and precious store.
Propped a chair beneath the handle,
Knew we two would soon by candle-
Light be eating all our plunder,
Nice and hot, and full of grease.

Bother Rangers! Bother Wizards!
They have not a Shireling’s knowledge,
Nor a halfling’s common sense,
Forget the trays of simple fare
Broth and toast and tasteless cheese.
Full stomachs do a hobbit ease!



Just a bit of silliness I wrote for febobe

suggested revisions/improvements/additions are perfectly welcome!

ever have a piece of fluff that wrote itself for forty minutes and then absolutely and utterly refused to tell you what comes next?

Well...

( I need a plot -- or do I just need an ending? )