Fic: Not Waving but Being Drowned: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: Not Waving but Being Drowned
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
For: the monthly prompt (waving) and for the GYWO 7 Stories, 7 Days Day 4 prompt which was: Write a collection of five short pieces, each of 100 words, observing people and scenes in a city center. I chose a seaside pier inside of a city center.
Summary: Holmes and Watson at a seaside town investigating a case. Watson & the client on a pier.
The seagull looked just like the rest of the cawing flock which occupied the pier. He had a downy white chest and a dapper salt-and-pepper waistcoat of wings. His beak was exceptionally sharp, and his eyes were a shiny black obsidian. Perhaps it was the look in those eyes, a careful scrutiny, which caused me to notice him. Perhaps I saw something in that hard, inquisitive gaze which reminded me of Holmes when he was in his most intense state of observation. The seagull turned his head mechanically. He did not look at me, however, but rather at the girl.
The girl, like the seagull, looked much like one of her flock, but hers was the assembly of children gathered at the end of the pier before the red-and-pink curtained stage. When the girl wasn't laughing at the puppets, she was laughing at a boy beside her who shared her pert nose, slanted brow, and round, dimpled cheeks. Clutched in the girl’s hand was a brown paper cone stained and smelling of grease and fried potato. The girl erupted in giggles. The dark-eyed gull took its chance, leaping then diving upon the chips. The girl shrieked and dropped the cone.
Major Tindall and I had a front row seat to the drama of girl and gull. Though giving every appearance of whiskered bandit playing dress-up in soldier’s garb, Tindall was a kind-hearted man. He distracted the crying girl with a wave of his hand and produced, from behind her ear, a coin. She smiled and dried her tears and clapped her hands round the piece and immediately turned to ask to buy lemon drops. Tindall returned to my side. His eyes were bright and searching, but his gait was the steady, purposeful stride of man of business, which he was.
Sharp seabird cries gave way to applause from hands, small and large. There was the chatter of an audience dispersing mingled with particular conversations, about the weather, about the sea, about the boats, about what to do next. Or, in our case, about a string of robberies at Tindall’s seaside lodging house which Holmes was investigating. There was a repurposing of the puppet theatre, and after unlatching and unlocking and a tapping, the striking up of a jaunty march by a brass band. Tindall and I by unspoken agreement drifted away from the music towards the sounds of the surf.
We stood side-by-side gazing at the bathers.
“I’m not as confident as you are,” said Tindall. “that Mister Holmes is off chasing a lead. But on such a fine day, who can blame him for playing truant? Look, there he is, in the water.” He pointed.
“Yes, that’s Holmes,” I said, holding a sun-shielding hand to my brow and squinting.
“He’s waving,” said Tindall, returning the gesture with a broad arm. “Hullo! Hullo!” he cried.
“Call for help, Tindall.”
“What?”
“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t wave.”
In moments, I was out of my coat, hat, and boots and diving into the water.
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
For: the monthly prompt (waving) and for the GYWO 7 Stories, 7 Days Day 4 prompt which was: Write a collection of five short pieces, each of 100 words, observing people and scenes in a city center. I chose a seaside pier inside of a city center.
Summary: Holmes and Watson at a seaside town investigating a case. Watson & the client on a pier.
The seagull looked just like the rest of the cawing flock which occupied the pier. He had a downy white chest and a dapper salt-and-pepper waistcoat of wings. His beak was exceptionally sharp, and his eyes were a shiny black obsidian. Perhaps it was the look in those eyes, a careful scrutiny, which caused me to notice him. Perhaps I saw something in that hard, inquisitive gaze which reminded me of Holmes when he was in his most intense state of observation. The seagull turned his head mechanically. He did not look at me, however, but rather at the girl.
The girl, like the seagull, looked much like one of her flock, but hers was the assembly of children gathered at the end of the pier before the red-and-pink curtained stage. When the girl wasn't laughing at the puppets, she was laughing at a boy beside her who shared her pert nose, slanted brow, and round, dimpled cheeks. Clutched in the girl’s hand was a brown paper cone stained and smelling of grease and fried potato. The girl erupted in giggles. The dark-eyed gull took its chance, leaping then diving upon the chips. The girl shrieked and dropped the cone.
Major Tindall and I had a front row seat to the drama of girl and gull. Though giving every appearance of whiskered bandit playing dress-up in soldier’s garb, Tindall was a kind-hearted man. He distracted the crying girl with a wave of his hand and produced, from behind her ear, a coin. She smiled and dried her tears and clapped her hands round the piece and immediately turned to ask to buy lemon drops. Tindall returned to my side. His eyes were bright and searching, but his gait was the steady, purposeful stride of man of business, which he was.
Sharp seabird cries gave way to applause from hands, small and large. There was the chatter of an audience dispersing mingled with particular conversations, about the weather, about the sea, about the boats, about what to do next. Or, in our case, about a string of robberies at Tindall’s seaside lodging house which Holmes was investigating. There was a repurposing of the puppet theatre, and after unlatching and unlocking and a tapping, the striking up of a jaunty march by a brass band. Tindall and I by unspoken agreement drifted away from the music towards the sounds of the surf.
We stood side-by-side gazing at the bathers.
“I’m not as confident as you are,” said Tindall. “that Mister Holmes is off chasing a lead. But on such a fine day, who can blame him for playing truant? Look, there he is, in the water.” He pointed.
“Yes, that’s Holmes,” I said, holding a sun-shielding hand to my brow and squinting.
“He’s waving,” said Tindall, returning the gesture with a broad arm. “Hullo! Hullo!” he cried.
“Call for help, Tindall.”
“What?”
“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t wave.”
In moments, I was out of my coat, hat, and boots and diving into the water.
no subject
Date: 2020-04-25 06:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-04-25 06:41 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2020-04-26 04:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-04-26 04:37 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2020-04-27 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-04-27 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-05-24 11:22 pm (UTC)I love though, this is in fact a fic about Watson's powers of observation ^___^ You give us so many insightful and in-depth details through his eyes, before of course ending on Watson's vitally important observation that Holmes' gesture means he is in trouble.
no subject
Date: 2020-05-25 02:25 am (UTC)