stonepicnicking_okapi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
holmes_minor2022-10-02 11:23 am
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote in holmes_minor2022-10-02 11:23 am
Entry tags:
Fic: The Cottage of the Scotch Broom: Gen
Title: The Cottage of the Scotch Broom
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Notes: Holmes is a vampire. Watson is a werewolf. Supernatural AU. Use of the language of flowers.
Summary: Colonel Hayter asks Holmes & Watson to investigate a curious old gamekeeper's cottage.
London may be a behemoth metropolis, but sometimes it feels like a village. Word got round after Holmes had captured what became known as the Phantom of the Old Red Schoolhouse, and soon demand was so high, he had to set down an interdiction on his services.
“No ghosts need apply,” he pronounced.
But exceptions prove the rule, and my old army pal Colonel Hayter made a special request regarding an old gamekeeper’s cottage on his estate.
“It was abandoned twenty years ago. There was gossip even when I was a boy. It was said that the cottage wouldn’t keep a woman or a girl. Every gamekeeper’s wife, daughter, sister, even mistress, they all ended up wasting away. We had bachelors there for a while, but that didn’t last.”
“There might be a rational explanation,” said Holmes. “The walls aren’t, by chance, painted green?”
“No, indeed. Have a look. You tell me if there isn’t anything peculiar going on.”
So Holmes and I were about one fine moonlit night.
As we approached, Holmes whispered, “Observe, Watson, the earth is untouched.”
We reached the window and peered through it.
In contrast to the dilapidated exterior, the interior of the cottage was as neat as a pin.
“Holmes! Someone has been squatting here with the Colonel unawares!”
I could see a table covered in a pristine cloth. On the table was a bottle in which were stuck some lovely yellow flowers.
“Those blossoms, Watson?”
“Scotch broom. Or common broom. To distinguish it from the French or Spanish versions which are—”
“Yes, yes, broom for…”
“Neatness,” I replied. “Apt. I never seen so clean a residence in all my life. It almost doesn’t look real.”
“Exactly.”
Holmes looked about, then gave a noise of approval.
I saw his gaze had landed on a patch of mud.
“What are you about?” I asked as I watched Holmes stomp.
“I’m about to make something very angry. Be careful.” He marched off towards the front door of the cottage, then he entered it without preamble.
I followed.
The shrieks were near deafening.
“How dare you bring track your muddy boots across my rug?!” hissed something.
“I dare,” countered Holmes.
A fight ensued, a wrestling match of the supernatural persuasion.
At last, however, the cottage’s inhabitant was trapped in the bottle with the yellow blossoms. Holmes had produced a cork from his voluminous cape and sealed it.
“Well,” he said, looking at the bottle and nodding. “That’s that. A little dust devil. Or demonus domesticus if you prefer the Latin.”
I looked about the cottage. The melee had caused some damage, overturned chairs, more of Holmes’s mud smeared about, but the moment Holmes had sealed the bottle, a whole transformation occurred.
It was as if the cottage aged twenty years before my eyes.
Dust. Cobwebs. Rust. Mould. Insects.
“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“Take it somewhere appropriate.”
“Not 221B?” I expressed with some horror.
“No. I was thinking of the Diogenes Club.”
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Notes: Holmes is a vampire. Watson is a werewolf. Supernatural AU. Use of the language of flowers.
Summary: Colonel Hayter asks Holmes & Watson to investigate a curious old gamekeeper's cottage.
London may be a behemoth metropolis, but sometimes it feels like a village. Word got round after Holmes had captured what became known as the Phantom of the Old Red Schoolhouse, and soon demand was so high, he had to set down an interdiction on his services.
“No ghosts need apply,” he pronounced.
But exceptions prove the rule, and my old army pal Colonel Hayter made a special request regarding an old gamekeeper’s cottage on his estate.
“It was abandoned twenty years ago. There was gossip even when I was a boy. It was said that the cottage wouldn’t keep a woman or a girl. Every gamekeeper’s wife, daughter, sister, even mistress, they all ended up wasting away. We had bachelors there for a while, but that didn’t last.”
“There might be a rational explanation,” said Holmes. “The walls aren’t, by chance, painted green?”
“No, indeed. Have a look. You tell me if there isn’t anything peculiar going on.”
So Holmes and I were about one fine moonlit night.
As we approached, Holmes whispered, “Observe, Watson, the earth is untouched.”
We reached the window and peered through it.
In contrast to the dilapidated exterior, the interior of the cottage was as neat as a pin.
“Holmes! Someone has been squatting here with the Colonel unawares!”
I could see a table covered in a pristine cloth. On the table was a bottle in which were stuck some lovely yellow flowers.
“Those blossoms, Watson?”
“Scotch broom. Or common broom. To distinguish it from the French or Spanish versions which are—”
“Yes, yes, broom for…”
“Neatness,” I replied. “Apt. I never seen so clean a residence in all my life. It almost doesn’t look real.”
“Exactly.”
Holmes looked about, then gave a noise of approval.
I saw his gaze had landed on a patch of mud.
“What are you about?” I asked as I watched Holmes stomp.
“I’m about to make something very angry. Be careful.” He marched off towards the front door of the cottage, then he entered it without preamble.
I followed.
The shrieks were near deafening.
“How dare you bring track your muddy boots across my rug?!” hissed something.
“I dare,” countered Holmes.
A fight ensued, a wrestling match of the supernatural persuasion.
At last, however, the cottage’s inhabitant was trapped in the bottle with the yellow blossoms. Holmes had produced a cork from his voluminous cape and sealed it.
“Well,” he said, looking at the bottle and nodding. “That’s that. A little dust devil. Or demonus domesticus if you prefer the Latin.”
I looked about the cottage. The melee had caused some damage, overturned chairs, more of Holmes’s mud smeared about, but the moment Holmes had sealed the bottle, a whole transformation occurred.
It was as if the cottage aged twenty years before my eyes.
Dust. Cobwebs. Rust. Mould. Insects.
“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.
“Take it somewhere appropriate.”
“Not 221B?” I expressed with some horror.
“No. I was thinking of the Diogenes Club.”