holmes_minor | Fic: Shared Chicken: Gen

Title: Shared Chicken
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: for WritersHQ 12 Days of Flashmas Day 3: French hen and

newyearcntdown prompt: shared
Summary: Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner share a chicken (and a bottle) on Christmas.

“I think we should make a toast,” slurred Mrs. Hudson. She raised her glass.

“Another?” countered Mrs. Turner with a hiccup.

“Yes. To the gentlemen who pro…provision…provide…who gave us this magnificent…sh…chi…pou…”

“Poulet?” suggested Mrs. Turner helpfully.

“Just so,” agreed Mrs. Hudson quickly. “To the men who gave us this bird!”

“Hear, hear,” cheered Mrs. Turner. She raised her own glass and clicked the rim of it against her companion’s. “To Mister Holmes and Doctor…oh, what’s his name?”

“Watson!”

“Yes! To Doctor Watson!”

They drank. Then they set their glasses heavily upon the kitchen table and went back to enjoying their meal.

“Parsnips are divine,” rumbled Mrs. Turner. “You outdid yourself, Martha.”

“Thank you.”

“Chicken, too,” added Mrs. Turner.

Mrs. Hudson grunted. “Another?”

“Please.” Mrs. Turner pushed her empty glass in Mrs. Hudson’s direction with one hand and continued to shovel food into her mouth with the other.

Mrs. Hudson poured. Then they drank, clinking glasses once more.

Mrs. Hudson looked at what was left of the main course. “If I were a chicken, I would be a French hen.”

Mrs. Turner tried to whistle. “Pou…pou…poulet.”

Encouraged, Mrs. Hudson continued, “I’d be baked golden brown, just like this one.”

Mrs. Turner giggled. “And served with divine parsnips?”

“Gallic parsnips. I would be plu…mp.” She shot Mrs. Turner a knowing glance and made a gesture to indicate what part of her anatomy would be ample.

Mrs. Turner giggled again. “If I were a chicken…hmm…I would be boiled into soup and served to the poor.”

“Oh, Marie, you’re too good for this world,” sighed Mrs. Hudson. Then she raised her voice as if addressing an audience. “The poor we shall always have with us, but this chicken,” she turned her gaze to the table, “not for much longer.”

Mrs. Turner hiccupped.

---

“What is that noise, Watson?”

“It sounds like a hibernating bear.”

“Indeed.”

“I would say it was snoring but…”

“Mrs. Hudson doesn’t snore.”

“Oh. Do you think…I mean…she might have company, snoring company.”

“Perhaps. She said she and Mrs. Turner were going to enjoy the chicken we procured, but…”

“I don’t suppose a thief would just make himself at home.”

Holmes quickly slipped out of his shoes and grabbed his weighted stick like a club. “Let’s investigate.”

---

“Oh, dear,” whispered Watson, gazing ruefully at the two sleeping landladies and remnants of the Christmas meal.

Holmes picked up the bottle of gin and brought it to eye level. The bottle was empty.

“There is your Christmas spirit,” he said dryly.

Watson chuckled. “At least, they seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the chicken. It’s nothing but bones.” He shook his head. “But we can’t just leave them here. Those chairs are very uncomfortable, and they might do themselves a mischief sooner or later.”

“True. All right, you tend to Mrs. Hudson, and I will see that Mrs. Turner gets safely home. Then we can set this kitchen to rights.”

“Yes, if we work together, it shouldn’t take long. Then we can enjoy our own celebration.”