Fic: The Hudson Plumber: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: The Hudson Plumber
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: sick!fic. Mrs. Hudson is in the Jeeves family tree (or vice versa)
Summary: Watson is sick. Mrs. Hudson offers a remedy.
“Doctor Watson!” The strident call was accompanied by a firm, insistent knock at my bedroom door.
“I have a Plumber for you!”
“An undertaker might be more appropriate under the circumstances, Mrs. Hudson.”
The circumstances were that I was living out the axiom that physicians make the worst patients.
Despite oaths taken, members of the medical profession are, I must admit, sorely inadequate at healing themselves.
The first day I had ignored it, the cough, the worsening congestion of the respiratory system, the headache, and the fatigue. The second day I had administered therapies of various types and persuasion, only to suffer more. Doubling down on the third day had rendered me bedridden and wishing for an untimely end.
The only saving grace was that Holmes was in Edinburgh, and thus, our long-suffering landlady and the housemaid Bessie were the only witnesses to my condition and my failed attempts to remedy it.
“Doctor!” The knock was firmer and more insistent. “Please attend to the door!”
I obliged, but not before issuing a warning. “My good lady, keep your distance unless you wish to know similar affliction.”
She might have harrumphed. She might not have harrumphed. It was difficult to say given the condition of my ears, my wet hacking, and my garbled groans.
“Doctor.” Mrs. Hudson stood on the landing with a small tray and a glass. “Drink this.”
The tone allowed for no negotiations were I even strong enough to muster them.
I drank.
I was not in possession of a functioning olfactory or tasting organs. Nevertheless, I detected egg, paprika, Worcestershire sauce as well as several other mystery components.
I drained the glass and placed it empty on the tray.
Mrs. Hudson addressed me, thusly.
“Our of professional courtesy, I have allowed you to seek your own counsel, but this morning I felt compelled to intervene. You’re welcome. There is soup simmering when you are able to partake of it—downstairs.”
At least, I believe that’s what she said, but I could be mistaken as I am quite certain the top of my head had severed itself from the rest of me. Indeed, sensation-wise, I was resembled nothing so much as a firework, an incendiary device, dare I say it, a bomb.
My body exploded.
But in a matter of about thirty seconds, it had reassembled into a whole.
My lungs and my nasal and sinus cavities evacuated themselves for the last time, and air flowed freely. The species of London particular which had taken up residence in my cranium decided to immediately relocate to more hospitable climes. I sweated then ceased to sweat.
In about twenty minutes, I had washed, shaved, and dressed, and was ready to rejoin the living.
“Mrs. Hudson,” I exclaimed before I dug into a hearty bowl of soup, “that Plumber of yours!”
“Yes,” she said with a proud smile, “a secret that has been in my family for generations. It unclogs the pipes, doesn’t it?”
“A professional bit of alchemy, I swear!”
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: sick!fic. Mrs. Hudson is in the Jeeves family tree (or vice versa)
Summary: Watson is sick. Mrs. Hudson offers a remedy.
“Doctor Watson!” The strident call was accompanied by a firm, insistent knock at my bedroom door.
“I have a Plumber for you!”
“An undertaker might be more appropriate under the circumstances, Mrs. Hudson.”
The circumstances were that I was living out the axiom that physicians make the worst patients.
Despite oaths taken, members of the medical profession are, I must admit, sorely inadequate at healing themselves.
The first day I had ignored it, the cough, the worsening congestion of the respiratory system, the headache, and the fatigue. The second day I had administered therapies of various types and persuasion, only to suffer more. Doubling down on the third day had rendered me bedridden and wishing for an untimely end.
The only saving grace was that Holmes was in Edinburgh, and thus, our long-suffering landlady and the housemaid Bessie were the only witnesses to my condition and my failed attempts to remedy it.
“Doctor!” The knock was firmer and more insistent. “Please attend to the door!”
I obliged, but not before issuing a warning. “My good lady, keep your distance unless you wish to know similar affliction.”
She might have harrumphed. She might not have harrumphed. It was difficult to say given the condition of my ears, my wet hacking, and my garbled groans.
“Doctor.” Mrs. Hudson stood on the landing with a small tray and a glass. “Drink this.”
The tone allowed for no negotiations were I even strong enough to muster them.
I drank.
I was not in possession of a functioning olfactory or tasting organs. Nevertheless, I detected egg, paprika, Worcestershire sauce as well as several other mystery components.
I drained the glass and placed it empty on the tray.
Mrs. Hudson addressed me, thusly.
“Our of professional courtesy, I have allowed you to seek your own counsel, but this morning I felt compelled to intervene. You’re welcome. There is soup simmering when you are able to partake of it—downstairs.”
At least, I believe that’s what she said, but I could be mistaken as I am quite certain the top of my head had severed itself from the rest of me. Indeed, sensation-wise, I was resembled nothing so much as a firework, an incendiary device, dare I say it, a bomb.
My body exploded.
But in a matter of about thirty seconds, it had reassembled into a whole.
My lungs and my nasal and sinus cavities evacuated themselves for the last time, and air flowed freely. The species of London particular which had taken up residence in my cranium decided to immediately relocate to more hospitable climes. I sweated then ceased to sweat.
In about twenty minutes, I had washed, shaved, and dressed, and was ready to rejoin the living.
“Mrs. Hudson,” I exclaimed before I dug into a hearty bowl of soup, “that Plumber of yours!”
“Yes,” she said with a proud smile, “a secret that has been in my family for generations. It unclogs the pipes, doesn’t it?”
“A professional bit of alchemy, I swear!”
