Fic: Mischief: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: Mischief
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Summary: Holmes & Watson play pranks on the elder Holmes.
A/N. For the October prompt (just under the wire!)
It was an evening in late October when, upon depositing my dinner before me, Berkshire, even more swiftly and silently than was his custom, removed himself, leaving me to my consternation.
A turnip carved in my likeness stared back at me aside the leg of lamb, spinach, and carrots.
I was annoyed, naturally.
But I was also heartened because it seemed like my brother’s youthful impishness, which the years had eroded, had been restored by his association with Doctor Watson.
I toasted to this development and ate my turnip, which was as expertly prepared as it was carved.
The next year, on the morning of the same day, upon crossing the threshold to my office, I was showered from above by an overturned basket of Michaelmas daises; the event caused a ripple of ribald amusement to surge along the professional corridors of the most stoic and recalcitrant of government accountants. The looks I received at the club were ones of relief and seemed to convey, one and all, ‘at least it wasn’t a turnip.’
The next year, on the evening I was met by a stranger who thrust upon my person a goodish sized salmon and when I entered my rooms, I found myself host to no fewer than seven felines of spirited constitutions and ravenous states.
But the fifth October found me under the weather and news of my illness reached my brother’s ears. We corresponded quite cordially, and he vowed there would be no mischief that year to aggravate my weakened state.
I rallied on the final day of the month and invited Sherlock and Doctor Watson to dine with me at the club. We ate early but feasted handsomely. It was very late when I finally bundled them into a hansom cab, filled to their hat brims of our cellar’s finest vintage port, and sent them on their way.
The cabman took them to 321 Baker Street and, after much argument that there were no residences at 221, left them there. They tottered the remaining distance on foot, but their fury and indignation turned to astonishment when they saw where once their residence had been, a piano store and a place of worship, from which a few devotees of a highly evangelical nature were issuing. Once they managed to disentangle themselves from a crusade to help them ‘see the light,’ they walked to the Savoy and took a room for the night. In the morning, they returned and found their residence as they knew it to be. They received a warm greeting from their landlady.
I had a full account from that good woman much later. And, oh, how we cackled! The expense was great, of course, but well worth it.
I received this curt missive from my brother, a bit of Shakespeare’s Othello.
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone / Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
Impishness is learned at mother’s knee, and I have always been the more apt.
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Summary: Holmes & Watson play pranks on the elder Holmes.
A/N. For the October prompt (just under the wire!)
It was an evening in late October when, upon depositing my dinner before me, Berkshire, even more swiftly and silently than was his custom, removed himself, leaving me to my consternation.
A turnip carved in my likeness stared back at me aside the leg of lamb, spinach, and carrots.
I was annoyed, naturally.
But I was also heartened because it seemed like my brother’s youthful impishness, which the years had eroded, had been restored by his association with Doctor Watson.
I toasted to this development and ate my turnip, which was as expertly prepared as it was carved.
The next year, on the morning of the same day, upon crossing the threshold to my office, I was showered from above by an overturned basket of Michaelmas daises; the event caused a ripple of ribald amusement to surge along the professional corridors of the most stoic and recalcitrant of government accountants. The looks I received at the club were ones of relief and seemed to convey, one and all, ‘at least it wasn’t a turnip.’
The next year, on the evening I was met by a stranger who thrust upon my person a goodish sized salmon and when I entered my rooms, I found myself host to no fewer than seven felines of spirited constitutions and ravenous states.
But the fifth October found me under the weather and news of my illness reached my brother’s ears. We corresponded quite cordially, and he vowed there would be no mischief that year to aggravate my weakened state.
I rallied on the final day of the month and invited Sherlock and Doctor Watson to dine with me at the club. We ate early but feasted handsomely. It was very late when I finally bundled them into a hansom cab, filled to their hat brims of our cellar’s finest vintage port, and sent them on their way.
The cabman took them to 321 Baker Street and, after much argument that there were no residences at 221, left them there. They tottered the remaining distance on foot, but their fury and indignation turned to astonishment when they saw where once their residence had been, a piano store and a place of worship, from which a few devotees of a highly evangelical nature were issuing. Once they managed to disentangle themselves from a crusade to help them ‘see the light,’ they walked to the Savoy and took a room for the night. In the morning, they returned and found their residence as they knew it to be. They received a warm greeting from their landlady.
I had a full account from that good woman much later. And, oh, how we cackled! The expense was great, of course, but well worth it.
I received this curt missive from my brother, a bit of Shakespeare’s Othello.
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone / Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
Impishness is learned at mother’s knee, and I have always been the more apt.
