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holmes_minor2020-09-17 02:10 pm
gardnerhill) wrote in holmes_minor2020-09-17 02:10 pm
Entry tags:
"The Speckled Bird" (ACD, WWI-Era, September 2020 Holmes Minor Monthly Prompt)
Title: The Speckled Bird
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: The cottage receives a visitor.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor September 2020 prompt: Pigeon.
Author's Further Note: This is set in the same series as my other 2020 Holmes Minor stories, which take place in Sussex after Watson returns from WWI.
John's walk in the garden had halted; I did not hear his footsteps on the gravel. Unconcerned, I continued taking notes at Hive Box D. But when I heard a soft throaty birdcall, curiosity sent me to see what he was doing.
John's back was to mine and he was crouched down on the path, unmoving. At my approach (he'd heard and possibly felt my footsteps on the lawn), he held his hand out behind him, palm up, like a policeman halting traffic. I obligingly stopped; only then did John beckon with his fingers to have me come forward, soundlessly; he continued making a startlingly-realistic pigeon-coo. Smiling, I glided up and rested my fingertips on his shoulder to announce my presence, looking past him.
I was not surprised to see a pigeon standing on the garden walkway near our raspberry bramble, regarding us both.
John sniffed. "You like our raspberries, do you?" I laughed soundlessly, for the red-stained beak and half-pecked fruit near the bird told me the truth of Watson's olfactory deduction.
I recognised the markings. I kept my voice low. "It's one of George Tobias' birds from his dovecote. White, with blue-grey speckles all over and a single dark spot over the left eye."
"Beautiful creature," my blind spouse said. "Does Tobias race them or eat them?"
"Race."
"Which means it would carry a note back, wouldn't it?"
"It would indeed." I grinned.
"Then if you'd oblige me."
A bit of crumbled biscuit and an orchard basket later, I had caught our squawking visitor and stowed it safely in a fishing creel. "Now for the note," I said as we headed into the house.
John grinned. "Let me write it – it'll add a bit of mystery."
We decided on a brief message ("Found in our garden. Returning. Hyacinth Lodge") and John scrolled a fresh piece of paper into his Braille writer.
I remembered that flawless pigeon-call. "You've gained an appreciation of Columbidae since leaving London." Watson's only remarks about the ubiquitous city birds had been profanity when one of them soiled a prized hat.
"Magnificent creatures, pigeons. Brave and intelligent." John thumped out the message nearly as quickly has he had once used a regular typewriter. "They carried messages at the front. Flew through gunfire and bombs, never stopping until they were dead or their task completed. I shall never call a cowardly man pigeon-livered again. Here we are."
I rolled up the lumpy note and bound it to our small postman's leg, and released the speckled bird at the doorway to fly home.
When I turned around, I saw John with the fishing basket still slung across him. "I'm going to try my hand at raspberry-picking this afternoon, before the birds have them all. No, go on with your hives – I want to see if I can collect them by touch and smell."
John's hands got bramble-scratched, but his berries were flawlessly ripe; we brought them to George Tobias' when the pigeon's owner invited us to tea.
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: The cottage receives a visitor.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor September 2020 prompt: Pigeon.
Author's Further Note: This is set in the same series as my other 2020 Holmes Minor stories, which take place in Sussex after Watson returns from WWI.
John's walk in the garden had halted; I did not hear his footsteps on the gravel. Unconcerned, I continued taking notes at Hive Box D. But when I heard a soft throaty birdcall, curiosity sent me to see what he was doing.
John's back was to mine and he was crouched down on the path, unmoving. At my approach (he'd heard and possibly felt my footsteps on the lawn), he held his hand out behind him, palm up, like a policeman halting traffic. I obligingly stopped; only then did John beckon with his fingers to have me come forward, soundlessly; he continued making a startlingly-realistic pigeon-coo. Smiling, I glided up and rested my fingertips on his shoulder to announce my presence, looking past him.
I was not surprised to see a pigeon standing on the garden walkway near our raspberry bramble, regarding us both.
John sniffed. "You like our raspberries, do you?" I laughed soundlessly, for the red-stained beak and half-pecked fruit near the bird told me the truth of Watson's olfactory deduction.
I recognised the markings. I kept my voice low. "It's one of George Tobias' birds from his dovecote. White, with blue-grey speckles all over and a single dark spot over the left eye."
"Beautiful creature," my blind spouse said. "Does Tobias race them or eat them?"
"Race."
"Which means it would carry a note back, wouldn't it?"
"It would indeed." I grinned.
"Then if you'd oblige me."
A bit of crumbled biscuit and an orchard basket later, I had caught our squawking visitor and stowed it safely in a fishing creel. "Now for the note," I said as we headed into the house.
John grinned. "Let me write it – it'll add a bit of mystery."
We decided on a brief message ("Found in our garden. Returning. Hyacinth Lodge") and John scrolled a fresh piece of paper into his Braille writer.
I remembered that flawless pigeon-call. "You've gained an appreciation of Columbidae since leaving London." Watson's only remarks about the ubiquitous city birds had been profanity when one of them soiled a prized hat.
"Magnificent creatures, pigeons. Brave and intelligent." John thumped out the message nearly as quickly has he had once used a regular typewriter. "They carried messages at the front. Flew through gunfire and bombs, never stopping until they were dead or their task completed. I shall never call a cowardly man pigeon-livered again. Here we are."
I rolled up the lumpy note and bound it to our small postman's leg, and released the speckled bird at the doorway to fly home.
When I turned around, I saw John with the fishing basket still slung across him. "I'm going to try my hand at raspberry-picking this afternoon, before the birds have them all. No, go on with your hives – I want to see if I can collect them by touch and smell."
John's hands got bramble-scratched, but his berries were flawlessly ripe; we brought them to George Tobias' when the pigeon's owner invited us to tea.
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ETA: And extra points for that title ^___^
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The title was a complete accident - I didn't know the pigeon was speckled till Holmes described it, and during the release of "the speckled bird" I stared at the phrase that had just handed me the title.