[identity profile] okapi1895.livejournal.com
Title: Overdose
Rating: Gen
Length: 300
Notes: Crack, Holmes & Watson, dialogue only
Summary: Holmes suffers an overdose on a hot summer’s day.
Author’s Note: Inspired by this cracky tumblr, which has Victorian suggestions (e.g., wax lachrymose, be indisposed, tighten your corset, etc.).


Read more... )
[identity profile] okapi1895.livejournal.com
Title: The Gift of Luck
Rating: Gen
Length: 300
Content Notes: Holmes & Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Bessie the maid, fluff
Summary: Christmas 1894. Mrs. Hudson makes a miniature plum pudding for the gentlemen upstairs. Who will get the bachelor's button and who will get the ring?
Author's Note: For the monthly prompt: gift

Merry Christmas )
[identity profile] gardnerhill.livejournal.com
Title: Embedded
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: Tribble (triple-drabble), 300 words
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Author’s Notes: For June prompts: “Beds,” and the following two illustrations:


                                                                                     
***

“Mr. Holmes, I was so upset by that terrible scream that I ran outside in my night attire save my cap – my hair was all ruffled up, like this!”

Holmes reached out to placate the agitated client. “Sir, you need not re-create your morning dishevelment for me to believe your story.”

I stood behind my friend, looking as solemn as possible to keep from bursting into laughter at the poor fellow’s antics. I could tell by the rigid set of Holmes’ shoulders and the tone of his voice that he, too, was endeavouring not to succumb to mirth at Mr. Sanders’ expense.

“Pray continue, sir. What was missing from your bedroom when you returned? For that can be the only reason for someone to produce that horrific cry that drove you completely from your home early this morning.”

Mr. Sanders stared at us, his eyes bulging, waving his hands. He shook his head in disbelief.

“Your bed,” I said. “Your very bed was missing.”

***

At two in the morning of the next day, both of us, ensconced in Mr. Sanders’ hall, were likewise serenaded by a terrible shriek, like that of a man being murdered.

Sherlock Holmes stepped forward and said sternly, “That’s quite enough, Billis. Your game is up.”

The footman jerked bolt upright from his crouch at his master’s makeshift-bedroom’s keyhole, but Holmes had already snapped on the cuffs. The two women behind him shrieked as well – not in the same bloodcurdling style as Billis.

My friend continued his denouncement. “Throw your voice and drive your master from his room – long enough to let the maids dismantle the antique four-poster and cart it off piecemeal to sell.”

I studied the three faithless servants. They’d soon learn that a stony cot at Scotland Yard was a profitless bed indeed.

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