Fic: A Sussex Carol: G
Dec. 3rd, 2019 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapi posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmes_minorTitle: A Sussex Carol
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Characters: Holmes/Watson, OFC
Notes: for the monthly prompt: wait, Retirement!lock
Summary: Watson cannot go to the village winter concert because he has twisted his ankle.
“I’ll just have to wait for next year’s winter concert,” I said, letting my eyes rest on my treacherous ankle which had decided to twist itself on the previous afternoon, thereby sentencing its owner into a most ill-timed state of immobility.
I was dreadfully disappointed to miss the concert, but I had vowed to put on as stoic front as possible so that Holmes might not have doubts about his own participation. I knew just how many of the concert organisers were depending on him and how many of the villagers were looking forward to hearing him play.
“I shall return bearing a great mince pie of your very own,” said Holmes, tucking his violin case under his arm.
“Then I shall wait up.”
“Do.” Holmes paused before leaving out the front door. “Oh, and I asked Mrs. Gilchrist to come and sit with you.”
“Holmes!” I protested. “It’s a twisted ankle, not the plague!”
“Even so. She’ll be here shortly,” said Holmes, adding placatingly, “There’s the three you wanted from the lending library.”
Though secretly pleased at new reading material, I harrumphed on principle.
I was well into my first selection when Mrs. Gilchrist arrived with enough Yuletide spirit for an army of seraphim and cherubim and the largest hamper I had ever seen.
“Mister Holmes said your stocks were low,” she said by way of explanation as she passed with her cargo. When she reached the kitchen, I distinctly heard a noise of disgust and something that sounded like “Gentlemen keeping their own house!”
What followed was a symphony of domestic sounds of the hygiene-restoring variety. It ought not to be as soothing as it was, but I was quite comfortable in my convalescent’s cocoon on the sofa before the fire, and I soon nodded off.
I woke to an overwhelming heat.
It was Mrs. Gilchrist adding blankets to my already-well-swaddled form.
“I’m quite all right!” I said, then I noted a delicious aroma of sugar and nutmeg. “Are you baking?” I asked.
“Coffee, too,” she said with a wink.
I looked at the clock and was astounded to find that I’d been asleep for almost three hours.
“Ah, here they come,” said Mrs. Gilchrist.
She lumbered to the front door and threw it open, allowing an icy winter blast to invade the cosy cottage, and then, just when I thought my outrage complete, that good lady, who must’ve once been charwoman to family of bears, grabbed me bodily and hauled me to the threshold.
Down the lane, I heard them.
“Christmas night all Christians sing to hear the news the angels bring!”
Holmes was standing the middle of open cart, playing his violin. He was surrounded by five members of the choir, and several more following individually on horseback, proclaiming their melodious joy.
“You do not have to wait until next year!” cried Holmes. “I brought the concert to you!”
It was the perfect Christmas gift.
“And there’s coffee and mince pie for everyone,” added Mrs. Gilchrist.
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Characters: Holmes/Watson, OFC
Notes: for the monthly prompt: wait, Retirement!lock
Summary: Watson cannot go to the village winter concert because he has twisted his ankle.
“I’ll just have to wait for next year’s winter concert,” I said, letting my eyes rest on my treacherous ankle which had decided to twist itself on the previous afternoon, thereby sentencing its owner into a most ill-timed state of immobility.
I was dreadfully disappointed to miss the concert, but I had vowed to put on as stoic front as possible so that Holmes might not have doubts about his own participation. I knew just how many of the concert organisers were depending on him and how many of the villagers were looking forward to hearing him play.
“I shall return bearing a great mince pie of your very own,” said Holmes, tucking his violin case under his arm.
“Then I shall wait up.”
“Do.” Holmes paused before leaving out the front door. “Oh, and I asked Mrs. Gilchrist to come and sit with you.”
“Holmes!” I protested. “It’s a twisted ankle, not the plague!”
“Even so. She’ll be here shortly,” said Holmes, adding placatingly, “There’s the three you wanted from the lending library.”
Though secretly pleased at new reading material, I harrumphed on principle.
I was well into my first selection when Mrs. Gilchrist arrived with enough Yuletide spirit for an army of seraphim and cherubim and the largest hamper I had ever seen.
“Mister Holmes said your stocks were low,” she said by way of explanation as she passed with her cargo. When she reached the kitchen, I distinctly heard a noise of disgust and something that sounded like “Gentlemen keeping their own house!”
What followed was a symphony of domestic sounds of the hygiene-restoring variety. It ought not to be as soothing as it was, but I was quite comfortable in my convalescent’s cocoon on the sofa before the fire, and I soon nodded off.
I woke to an overwhelming heat.
It was Mrs. Gilchrist adding blankets to my already-well-swaddled form.
“I’m quite all right!” I said, then I noted a delicious aroma of sugar and nutmeg. “Are you baking?” I asked.
“Coffee, too,” she said with a wink.
I looked at the clock and was astounded to find that I’d been asleep for almost three hours.
“Ah, here they come,” said Mrs. Gilchrist.
She lumbered to the front door and threw it open, allowing an icy winter blast to invade the cosy cottage, and then, just when I thought my outrage complete, that good lady, who must’ve once been charwoman to family of bears, grabbed me bodily and hauled me to the threshold.
Down the lane, I heard them.
“Christmas night all Christians sing to hear the news the angels bring!”
Holmes was standing the middle of open cart, playing his violin. He was surrounded by five members of the choir, and several more following individually on horseback, proclaiming their melodious joy.
“You do not have to wait until next year!” cried Holmes. “I brought the concert to you!”
It was the perfect Christmas gift.
“And there’s coffee and mince pie for everyone,” added Mrs. Gilchrist.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-04 03:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-04 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-04 07:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-04 02:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-04 04:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-04 06:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-06 06:05 pm (UTC)That's so delightfully and vividly drawn ^___^ Some favourite lines:
“Holmes!” I protested. “It’s a twisted ankle, not the plague!”
Though secretly pleased at new reading material, I harrumphed on principle.
When she reached the kitchen, I distinctly heard a noise of disgust and something that sounded like “Gentlemen keeping their own house!” What followed was a symphony of domestic sounds of the hygiene-restoring variety.
She lumbered to the front door and threw it open, allowing an icy winter blast to invade the cosy cottage, and then, just when I thought my outrage complete, that good lady, who must’ve once been charwoman to family of bears, grabbed me bodily and hauled me to the threshold. ^___^
no subject
Date: 2019-12-06 08:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-07 08:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-07 01:08 pm (UTC)