Fic: Wednesday's Toast: Gen
Jun. 24th, 2020 02:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmes_minorTitle: Wednesday's Toast
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Notes: Follows some time after Tuesday's toast. Use of the Navy's toast of the day. For the monthly prompt: vessel
Warning: Drunkenness
Summary: Holmes and Watson get carried away celebrating Watson's recovery from pneumonia.
“S’too bad,” Doctor Watson slurred.
“Indeed, indeed,” agreed Mister Holmes, sniffing. His eyes were closed, and his face a mask of theatrical solemnity. The fingers of one of his hands were wrapped round the neck of a bottle, but he seemed to have forgotten about it.
“S’been a long time since I’ve been evis-evic-evac, that is to say, kicked out of a dining establishment,” said Watson.
“Very, very sorry, my good man,” murmured Holmes, “but it couldn’t be helped. That gentleman and his many, many cigars made the air in the room positively…”
“Venom-venomo-venomous,” mumbled Watson.
“Poisonous, dear thing, poisonous. ‘Specially with your dear, dear lungs in their conva-conva-convalescent condition. It could not stand. It. Could. Not. Stand.”
“And now neither can we!” cried Watson.
They giggled and looked about them, noticing as if for the first time that they were sitting on the ground, on the edge of a footpath.
“A toast?” prompted Holmes.
Watson grunted, then he frowned. “What’s today?” he asked the moon.
Holmes shrugged. He tilted to one side then righted himself. “Wednesday? Wednesday.”
“Oh, Holmes, I haven’t a…”
Watson stared blankly at his own empty palm. He wiggled his fingers, then curled them.
“…vessel,” he concluded.
“We’ll take turns, old thing. Perfectly acceptable. Now, if we only had,” Holmes turned his head to the left and squeaked, “Watson! The port! There’s still port!” He raised the bottle he’d been clutching triumphantly.
“Hurrah!” cheered Watson.
“To ourselves!” cried Holmes. He took a swig and offered the bottle to Watson.
Watson took the bottle and raised it and countered, in one long garbled utterance, “For nobody else will concern themselves with our well-being!” He took a long sip, too, then set the bottle on the ground between them.
“S’not true, Watson,” said Holmes. He turned his head and made a mock bow in Watson’s direction. “I’ll always concern myself with your being-well.”
Watson smiled at him. “As I’ll with you-you, too-too, my dear man.”
Holmes cackled. “As you proved when you tackle-rugby-ed that cigar-tootin’ blackguard!”
“He was about to pull a knife on you!” protested Watson, with huffed righteous indignation, then he dissolved into good-natured drunken chuckles and shook his head. “He wasn’t a gentleman.”
“No,” agreed Holmes. He picked up the bottle, drank deeply, then offered the bottle to Watson, who also drank.
Watson sighed and looked at Holmes. Holmes sighed and looked at Watson.
Then the sky above them sighed and unleashed a torrent of rain.
Holmes and Watson squealed and scrambled to their feet, which took three attempts. The slope they’d chosen for sitting quickly became a slippery mud slide. In their states of inebriation, they clung to one another, each making a valiant attempt to retrieve the bottle and each only succeeding in spilling the dregs of the vessel on each other’s clothing.
“Home, Holmes, and don’t spare the horses!”
“We’re in Regency, luv. Only steps to Baker Street.”
Wet, muddy, and stinking of port, they stumbled on their way through the rain.
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Notes: Follows some time after Tuesday's toast. Use of the Navy's toast of the day. For the monthly prompt: vessel
Warning: Drunkenness
Summary: Holmes and Watson get carried away celebrating Watson's recovery from pneumonia.
“S’too bad,” Doctor Watson slurred.
“Indeed, indeed,” agreed Mister Holmes, sniffing. His eyes were closed, and his face a mask of theatrical solemnity. The fingers of one of his hands were wrapped round the neck of a bottle, but he seemed to have forgotten about it.
“S’been a long time since I’ve been evis-evic-evac, that is to say, kicked out of a dining establishment,” said Watson.
“Very, very sorry, my good man,” murmured Holmes, “but it couldn’t be helped. That gentleman and his many, many cigars made the air in the room positively…”
“Venom-venomo-venomous,” mumbled Watson.
“Poisonous, dear thing, poisonous. ‘Specially with your dear, dear lungs in their conva-conva-convalescent condition. It could not stand. It. Could. Not. Stand.”
“And now neither can we!” cried Watson.
They giggled and looked about them, noticing as if for the first time that they were sitting on the ground, on the edge of a footpath.
“A toast?” prompted Holmes.
Watson grunted, then he frowned. “What’s today?” he asked the moon.
Holmes shrugged. He tilted to one side then righted himself. “Wednesday? Wednesday.”
“Oh, Holmes, I haven’t a…”
Watson stared blankly at his own empty palm. He wiggled his fingers, then curled them.
“…vessel,” he concluded.
“We’ll take turns, old thing. Perfectly acceptable. Now, if we only had,” Holmes turned his head to the left and squeaked, “Watson! The port! There’s still port!” He raised the bottle he’d been clutching triumphantly.
“Hurrah!” cheered Watson.
“To ourselves!” cried Holmes. He took a swig and offered the bottle to Watson.
Watson took the bottle and raised it and countered, in one long garbled utterance, “For nobody else will concern themselves with our well-being!” He took a long sip, too, then set the bottle on the ground between them.
“S’not true, Watson,” said Holmes. He turned his head and made a mock bow in Watson’s direction. “I’ll always concern myself with your being-well.”
Watson smiled at him. “As I’ll with you-you, too-too, my dear man.”
Holmes cackled. “As you proved when you tackle-rugby-ed that cigar-tootin’ blackguard!”
“He was about to pull a knife on you!” protested Watson, with huffed righteous indignation, then he dissolved into good-natured drunken chuckles and shook his head. “He wasn’t a gentleman.”
“No,” agreed Holmes. He picked up the bottle, drank deeply, then offered the bottle to Watson, who also drank.
Watson sighed and looked at Holmes. Holmes sighed and looked at Watson.
Then the sky above them sighed and unleashed a torrent of rain.
Holmes and Watson squealed and scrambled to their feet, which took three attempts. The slope they’d chosen for sitting quickly became a slippery mud slide. In their states of inebriation, they clung to one another, each making a valiant attempt to retrieve the bottle and each only succeeding in spilling the dregs of the vessel on each other’s clothing.
“Home, Holmes, and don’t spare the horses!”
“We’re in Regency, luv. Only steps to Baker Street.”
Wet, muddy, and stinking of port, they stumbled on their way through the rain.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-24 07:02 pm (UTC)I really liked Watson tackle rugby-ing the blackguard, and the sighs of Holmes, Watson and the sky.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-24 07:39 pm (UTC)Thank you! I wanted them to be funny drunk.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-27 04:26 pm (UTC)My favourite bits:
Watson doing his "Latin conjugation" of evis-evic-evac and then giving up and choosing a different word altogether, and also not being able to retrieve "glass" and having to use "vessel" instead.
Holmes finding to his great surprise that he's holding a bottle of port.
And the fact they used “Home, Holmes, and don’t spare the horses!” "Home, James, and don't spare the horses!" was often used in my family when we were children ^___^
no subject
Date: 2020-06-27 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-06-30 09:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-06-30 12:37 pm (UTC)