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holmes_minorTitle: The Answer Is…
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Rating: PG (a little profanity)
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: Some stupid questions cannot be given a brief reply.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor September 2019 prompt: Ask a Stupid Question.
He walked into their parlour and tamped down the relief and sense of home that washed over him. There was no time for that. While he'd been a captive in the locked back room of the pub he'd overheard Henderson's plans; he had managed to free himself via the coal-scuttle's narrow chute, tearing his clothing and his person not a little in the escape. Now he had to act on his knowledge. The pain was a mere distraction, he had vital work to–
"Oh, my dear fellow, you're hurt!"
He unspooled the whole story to his ready listener with a relief like exhaling, and the antiseptic sting as the other man tended his scrapes cleared his mind as much as did the doctor's ministrations.
#
The spider had slipped through his fingers once again. Case dismissed, Judge Chiswick had said; the vile Professor could once again walk the London streets while the decent man who'd promised to give evidence was being fished from the Thames. The law had so very many limits, it was downright—
"Unjust," harrumphed his companion in the hansom, "a disgrace. In an earlier time you could challenge the bounder to a duel and have done with the whole mess, and make London a better place. It would almost be worth a few days behind bars to land one on that villain's nose. He'd still be a free man dammit, but he'd feel that for a few days! Just give the word."
Mirth bubbled up from his Slough of Despond; his companion's blazing indignation, mirroring his own thoughts, felt like the summer sun. He patted the other man's arm. "You're no use to me in gaol, old man."
#
Macfarland was for the gallows if he couldn't put everything together, but nothing would stay put in his tumbling brain. All night he'd gone over and over the data, but the clay sat in a useless lump in his brain. The smug tone of Lestrade's message was the icing on this poisonous cake. It was there, the solution was there if he could only see it. He would never forgive himself if his blindness got an innocent man hanged.
His hands were filled with warmth, and fragrant steam from the teacup wafted around his nose. More warmth stroked over the top of his head. He blinked at the light as the curtains were pulled back; the sun had risen at some point.
His benefactor's voice was as steady and calm as when he gave a patient bad news. "Let's have some breakfast. And then we will go out, and do what we can."
#
After stringing the facts of the case together, utterly disproving his crestfallen flatmate's own theory, he swept out of the room where the man's body had been found and past the two constables on duty at the crime scene.
It was very fortunate for them that Sherlock Holmes did not hear one say to the other, "George, why does Mr. Holmes keep that Dr. Watson imbecile around?"
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Rating: PG (a little profanity)
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: Some stupid questions cannot be given a brief reply.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor September 2019 prompt: Ask a Stupid Question.
He walked into their parlour and tamped down the relief and sense of home that washed over him. There was no time for that. While he'd been a captive in the locked back room of the pub he'd overheard Henderson's plans; he had managed to free himself via the coal-scuttle's narrow chute, tearing his clothing and his person not a little in the escape. Now he had to act on his knowledge. The pain was a mere distraction, he had vital work to–
"Oh, my dear fellow, you're hurt!"
He unspooled the whole story to his ready listener with a relief like exhaling, and the antiseptic sting as the other man tended his scrapes cleared his mind as much as did the doctor's ministrations.
#
The spider had slipped through his fingers once again. Case dismissed, Judge Chiswick had said; the vile Professor could once again walk the London streets while the decent man who'd promised to give evidence was being fished from the Thames. The law had so very many limits, it was downright—
"Unjust," harrumphed his companion in the hansom, "a disgrace. In an earlier time you could challenge the bounder to a duel and have done with the whole mess, and make London a better place. It would almost be worth a few days behind bars to land one on that villain's nose. He'd still be a free man dammit, but he'd feel that for a few days! Just give the word."
Mirth bubbled up from his Slough of Despond; his companion's blazing indignation, mirroring his own thoughts, felt like the summer sun. He patted the other man's arm. "You're no use to me in gaol, old man."
#
Macfarland was for the gallows if he couldn't put everything together, but nothing would stay put in his tumbling brain. All night he'd gone over and over the data, but the clay sat in a useless lump in his brain. The smug tone of Lestrade's message was the icing on this poisonous cake. It was there, the solution was there if he could only see it. He would never forgive himself if his blindness got an innocent man hanged.
His hands were filled with warmth, and fragrant steam from the teacup wafted around his nose. More warmth stroked over the top of his head. He blinked at the light as the curtains were pulled back; the sun had risen at some point.
His benefactor's voice was as steady and calm as when he gave a patient bad news. "Let's have some breakfast. And then we will go out, and do what we can."
#
After stringing the facts of the case together, utterly disproving his crestfallen flatmate's own theory, he swept out of the room where the man's body had been found and past the two constables on duty at the crime scene.
It was very fortunate for them that Sherlock Holmes did not hear one say to the other, "George, why does Mr. Holmes keep that Dr. Watson imbecile around?"
