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holmes_minor2021-03-11 07:38 pm
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote in holmes_minor2021-03-11 07:38 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Chips: Gen
Title: Chips
Length: 221b
Rating: Gen
Notes: for the monthly prompt: code. also inspired thedrawesome March prompt: toned paper
Summary: After a long day on one of Holmes' errands, Watson is peckish.
When I alit at Paddington, I was cursing the name of Sherlock Holmes.
That morning, he’d knocked me up, and I’d been sent out without so much as a cup of tea to warm my belly on an urgent quest. I’d spent the day running hither and thither with no time for nourishment. Thus, upon return at dusk, I exited Paddington station in a ravenous state. I immediately spied a maid selling chips, lovely chips, hot and greasy.
I was not the only one drawn to this siren. A man in a green Homburg was queued in front of me and taking far too long with it. Finally, it was my turn, and so dire was my state that I was brusque to the point of rudeness. Nevertheless, the maid must’ve recognised my condition and taken pity for she gave me a double portion.
As I ate, I noticed on the interior of the brown was scratched a message in a familiar code of dancing men. It read:
FOLLOW GREEN HAT.
“Oh Lord,” I grumbled. I looked over my shoulder, but, of course, the maid had disappeared.
Then I caught a second part to the message.
TAKE CHIPS.
“Damn right I will,” I muttered, shoving a hot bit of potato in my maw and setting my sights on that green bowler.
Length: 221b
Rating: Gen
Notes: for the monthly prompt: code. also inspired the
drawesome March prompt: toned paperSummary: After a long day on one of Holmes' errands, Watson is peckish.
When I alit at Paddington, I was cursing the name of Sherlock Holmes.
That morning, he’d knocked me up, and I’d been sent out without so much as a cup of tea to warm my belly on an urgent quest. I’d spent the day running hither and thither with no time for nourishment. Thus, upon return at dusk, I exited Paddington station in a ravenous state. I immediately spied a maid selling chips, lovely chips, hot and greasy.
I was not the only one drawn to this siren. A man in a green Homburg was queued in front of me and taking far too long with it. Finally, it was my turn, and so dire was my state that I was brusque to the point of rudeness. Nevertheless, the maid must’ve recognised my condition and taken pity for she gave me a double portion.
As I ate, I noticed on the interior of the brown was scratched a message in a familiar code of dancing men. It read:
FOLLOW GREEN HAT.
“Oh Lord,” I grumbled. I looked over my shoulder, but, of course, the maid had disappeared.
Then I caught a second part to the message.
TAKE CHIPS.
“Damn right I will,” I muttered, shoving a hot bit of potato in my maw and setting my sights on that green bowler.