Characters/Pairings: Mary Watson, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Summary: That’s for remembrance.
Author's Notes: For the May 2017 Holmes Minor Monthly Prompt, “Flowers.” A vignette in my Oubliette series.
( Story below the cut. )
Content Notes: Hopkins/Holmes; Lestrade/Watson; part of the Broom Cupboard 'verse by thesmallhobbit
Summary: Mrs. Hudson has a quiet Mother's Day.
Author's Note: for monthly prompt: flowers & Mother's Day in the US is next Sunday.
Prompt by thesmallhobbit: Sherlock Holmes (ACD): It's gone very quiet in the broom cupboard lately. Have the Holmes/Hopkins and Watson/Lestrade partnerships moved elsewhere, or has Mrs Hudson finally bought the unpickable lock?
( Read more... )
Summary: Holmes & Watson swimming in a flooded Piazza San Marco (Venice).
Author's Note: At getyourwordsout
“Watson, our Venetian holiday has certainly taken a singular turn,” remarked Holmes as he emerged, hair flattened to his head. He stood, revealing a pallid, thin chest. The thinness and the pallor were, of course, part of what had brought us here.
A murky wave slapped my face like the rattle of an unruly infant. The water was that drab olive-brown colour that water always is when is exists in large quantities where it should not be. And in this case, it should definitely not have risen to the level of concealing my bare chest in the Piazza San Marco.
The water—and the air—were curiously warm. In England, such an overcast day would have had us layering wools, not stripping to our drawers and practicing our backstroke in ‘the drawing room of Europe.’
The grand basilica rose behind us, grey stone arch stacked within grey stone arch like nesting dolls. Above, bells tolled its grandeur while below, amongst us fishes, the intruding army of lapping water continued its occupation.
I cast aside my concerns about the effect that the turbid stream was having on my coiffure and simply enjoyed the surreal—and singular, as Holmes described it—experience. I suspected Holmes was far more keen that his head not be used as a perch for pigeons or sea birds
Summary: Mrs. Hudson's Valentine's Day is everything she dreamed of.
Author's Note: Greenaway's Language of Flowers gives 'patience' as the meaning of the ox-eye, which is an American daisy, white with yellow centre. Also, for those who don't want to click on the link. One Night Cough Syrup contains morphine, cannabis, alcohol, and chloroform. So pretty good for a cough :) For the monthly prompt: card.
Mrs. Hudson coughed.
“I can’t rest, Doctor Watson. Bessie’s worse than I am. I had to send her home. There’s the washing-up from breakfast and lunch; there’s curtains to replace, and the fire brigade’s so wonderful but they do track in so much mud!”
“At least take some medicine.”
“I’ve no taste for brandy, sir.”
He held up a spoon and a bottle. “One Night Cough Syrup.”
The light trickling into Mrs. Hudson’s room was much brighter than morning-light.
She sat up.
A bouquet of white-and-yellow daisies and a card sat on the bedside table.
“’For our most beloved on the day of love,’” she read. “No! That would mean I’ve missed a whole day!” She jumped out of bed, threw on her dressing gown, and ran to the kitchen.
It was clean, every pot and pan, scrubbed and shining.
“SURPRISE! HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!”
“Gentlemen! Oh, heavens!”
Her skin warmed; she dropped her head, catching sight of the stairs.
The mud was gone.
“And the curtains are replaced as well,” said Doctor Watson.
“And once you dress, you and your sister will be escorted to Simpson’s for lunch,” said Mister Holmes.
“And we will be taking care of ourselves.”
“And not destroying anything for the rest of the day.”
She beamed. “And my cough is so much better!”
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, Violet Holmes, Siger Holmes
Warnings/Content: Death ahead.
Summary: Victorian women only wished they had the rights given to prison convicts.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor September prompt: Seven.
He wanted a normal son – not the one he’d gotten.
Even as an infant the boy looked at everything, eyes open, and spoke before he could walk. His favourite word, “Why?” soon drove Siger into impotent rage. The prodigy he had sired and I had borne frightened him and when he was frightened he beat all of us. (Even then, through my lad’s tears of pain, would come another “Why?” – this one, to ask a reason for his father’s cruelty.)
Another child, an ordinary one, please God, to still his hand and his words.
It was not to be. I miscarried nearly a dozen times.
“No baby, Mummy,” my boy would say – not to state the obvious but to beg me to stop. I could feel myself wearing away with every involuntary abortion.
I was fated to be wed till death to a brute. But if only I could stop his brutality against his own child I would bear it all with serenity.
This one. This one feels the way the first one did – strong, thriving, enduring. If this one takes every bit of my will and life force to bring to term, so be it.
Such an ordinary-looking baby. A sweet final sight – better than the tear-filled eyes of little Mycroft beholding his new brother and his mother’s last breath.
Fandom: ACD Holmes
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Alternate Links: AO3 or LJ
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes JWP 2016 Musical Prompt #28: "In July the sun is hot; is it shining? No it's not." Unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any errors.
Summary: On the hottest nights of the year, Londoners from guttersnipes to grumbling shop-keepers and the pretty ladies in their carriages know that the violin can be heard on Baker Street until the weather turns.
Read The Notorious Night-time Concerts of Sherlock Holmes
Fandom: ACD Sherlock Holmes
Characters: SherlockHolmes, John Watson
Alternate Link: AO3 or LJ
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes JWP 2016 Prompt #12: Picture Prompt Unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any errors.
Summary: It is often said that the character of a man can be learned in just 5 minutes of fencing with him.
En Garde, Prêt, Allez
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson
Author’s Notes: Written for the watsons_woes June 2016 prompt: Anticipation.
Holmes and Watson were sitting huddled together.
Watson shifted awkwardly. “How much longer to wait?”
“Not too long now.”
Holmes glanced back at the few scattered people seated behind them.
“Is she there?” whispered Watson.
“Not yet.” Holmes turned round again.
Watson drummed his fingers on his knee.
“Perhaps,” he said abruptly, “I should have brought my gun.”
Holmes looked at him. “I do feel in this situation a gun might be an overreaction.”
“I simply meant I might feel a little more confident with it!”
People were starting to look. Holmes patted Watson’s arm and leant closer. “You do not need the gun.”
There was a faint noise, and Holmes turned to see Lestrade and Gregson taking their places behind.
Holmes gave them a brief smile. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. There weren’t many others we could ask.”
Lestrade raised an eyebrow at Watson, who was now staring fixedly ahead.
“Is the Doctor all right?”
“He’s fine,” said Holmes. “The waiting is beginning to tell and— Ah!”
Ahead of them, a man in vestments entered.
The organ began to play, while behind them another door opened.
Holmes glanced round.
And gave a reassuring smile to the newly arrived Miss Mary Morstan.
Holmes turned back to Watson.
“Do try and pull yourself together, old fellow,” he whispered. “Here comes your bride.”
Title: A Journey
Form/Length: 221, [a homemade variation on the 221B form with ‘A’ being the first word and 221b (counted as 1 word) being the final]; acrostic poem spelling out the May prompt
Summary: Watson reflects on the journey from Jezail bullet to Baker Street.
A journey of four thousand miles begins with one step, mine, into the path of a
Jezail bullet. That step, misstep, might have been journey’s first and last, save for the brave heart of an
Orderly and the strong back of a pack-horse upon which I narrowly escaped,
Under a snarling Afghan sun, the clutches of the murderous Ghazis.
Removed was I, on that loping, lumbering caravan of suffering, to Peshawur,
Not suspecting that my pain, my prolonged hardship was far from over.
Every step about the wards, every breath of air enjoyed upon the verandah, was one of a finite set,
Yawning before me lay the perils of enteric
Fever. Once again, journey’s end seemed near, but the curse of our Indian possessions lifted, and I was
Removed once more, less man than walking bones, in the troopship
Orontes to Portsmouth Jetty. Unmoored, untethered, I drained alongside my fellow idlers to London,
My pockets heavy with eleven shilling, sixpence of paternal concern. Under such a sail, I drifted
A few hundred steps from hotel to Bar, one gasp of recognition from shoulder-tap to smile, a hansom
To a bleak stone staircase of a great hospital, then the grasp of a plaster-mottled, acid-stained hand.
Oh arduous was the voyage in its undertaking, but so sweet the reckoning! My home-coming to
Form/Wordcount: Fic, 221b
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Inspector Lestrade
Author’s Notes: Everyone’s clearly a little bored when this case crops up. For the April prompt for Holmes Minor.
The old man who’d shouted in such a hale fashion sprinted after the receding hansom bearing a silhouetted figure, with a spryness that belied his decrepit appearance.
Watson and Lestrade watched this spectacle in stunned wonder for seven seconds before turning to look at each other. Lestrade reached for his waistcoat.
Much later Holmes related to his two friends the chase he’d had to make as no cabs would stop for him – through mud and street-filth, nearly waylaid by pedestrians and police alike, nearly running straight into a lamp-post at one point.
“A full mile, at least,” the sleuth responded when the Inspector asked how long he’d managed to keep up the chase. “But in ten minutes I’d caught up enough to climb aboard the rear of the cab, for the remainder of the ride to the station, where I lost myself in the crowd to follow him.”
“Ten minutes for a mile or so, you say?” Watson said, and grinned. Lestrade's face fell.
Holmes looked at both. “What the deuce is wrong with you two?”
Watson turned to the police inspector and held out his hand as a chagrined Lestrade fumbled with another waistcoat pocket. “Told you he’d keep that pace up for at least a mile, and he’d do it under a quarter-hour. You lose the bet.”
Characters/Pairings: Holmes, Mathews
Warnings/Content: Canon-typical violence
Author’s Notes: "My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross…” Written for the March 2016 Prompt: Small but perfectly formed. Also on AO3.
“Been waiting long, Mr. Holmes..?”
Holmes lowered his newspaper and stared with distaste at the man who had just joined him in the waiting room of Charing Cross station.
Holmes returned his gaze to his paper.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time to waste on you at the moment. I have a train to catch and a most interesting case to investigate. Our… appointment… will have to wait for another time.”
Holmes turned the page and Mathews stepped nearer.
“But that’s not good enough, Mr. Holmes. You wanted to see me…”
Mathews leaned forward.
“Well, then. Here I am.”
There was a pause.
Then Holmes threw the paper aside and leapt to his feet, just as Mathews reached inside his coat pocket.
A fist connected smartly with Mathews’ jaw. Mathews staggered but rallied.
He grabbed Holmes round the throat, there was a flash of metal in Holmes’s mouth and—
Mathews smiled in satisfaction. “There. All done.”
Holmes clutched at his face. “You bloody dentists!”
“Well, it had to be done! It was cracked! Rotten!”
Mathews looked down at the tooth clutched in his hand.
Which was whole.
He looked up at Holmes.
“Er… I think you might need another appointment.”
Mathews smiled weakly.
“I’ve removed your left upper canine. It should have been the one on the bottom.”