Fic: Score of Zinnias: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: Score of Zinnia
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Summary: In Sussex, Watson is tending the zinnias when a letter arrives.
It must be said that of an ordinary summer day in our Sussex retirement, Holmes and I saw very little of each other. Perhaps this is typical or perhaps we are an anomaly, I cannot say.
I can say that Holmes was always up early with the bees. I rose later and made myself a leisurely cuppa, and by the time I was ready to tackle my latest project in the garden, well, he was coming inside to break his fast. The rest of the day often proceeded in the same manner, with luncheon, when taken at all, taken separately. It wasn’t until dusk had fallen and we were ready to end our toils, or when weather spoiled both our plans, that we spent much time together.
We’d made an exception to this rule the previous week, a fishing expedition on which I was inordinately keen and had spent no little time on its planning and preparation. But as luck would have it, Holmes and I spent more time fishing for clues to the bizarre death of one of our campsite mates than we did coaxing scaled and finned adversaries to bite our lines. We’d returned home with a tale, but not of the kind I’d hoped for. Holmes could only sympathise, not empathise, with my disappointment.
But on that particular morning, as Holmes approached me, letter open in his hand, I wasn’t thinking of the fish I hadn’t caught, I was thinking of zinnias.
Really, the little bed of flowers for which I hadn’t had much expectation was defying everything to be the centrepiece of my garden. They were scores of them. They were practically bursting the bed allotted as well as a second bed I’d been forced to make as a result of their sheer determination to multiply.
Yes, the zinnias were abundant, a riot of colour, hearty and wonderful, and I could only marvel at them and remember what the poet Burns had warned us about the best laid plans of mice and men.
“Watson!”
My eyebrows rose at the note of excitement in Holmes’ voice.
“Yes?”
“It is fitting that you are tending those,” he waved a hand at the zinnias, “zinnias mean thought of someone distant, and here we have a letter from our old friend Lestrade.”
“Ah,” I cried with a warm chuckle, “and how is the silver-haired Yarder?”
“He is well…”
“And?”
“…and is wondering if you’d like to ready your rod and join him on a jaunt to the Scottish highlands.”
I sprang to my feet with as much alacrity as old knees would permit.
“Fishing!” I cried, joy undisguised.
“Yes, yes,” said Holmes with a nod and a smirk. “It seems someone had to bow out of the trip at the last minute.”
“Holmes!”
“Go,” urged Holmes with a grin.
“And you are staying home?!” I frowned, being of two minds about it.
“Yes.”
“If you insist.”
Holmes chuckled. “Someone has to keep those zinnias from overrunning us in our sleep.”
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Summary: In Sussex, Watson is tending the zinnias when a letter arrives.
It must be said that of an ordinary summer day in our Sussex retirement, Holmes and I saw very little of each other. Perhaps this is typical or perhaps we are an anomaly, I cannot say.
I can say that Holmes was always up early with the bees. I rose later and made myself a leisurely cuppa, and by the time I was ready to tackle my latest project in the garden, well, he was coming inside to break his fast. The rest of the day often proceeded in the same manner, with luncheon, when taken at all, taken separately. It wasn’t until dusk had fallen and we were ready to end our toils, or when weather spoiled both our plans, that we spent much time together.
We’d made an exception to this rule the previous week, a fishing expedition on which I was inordinately keen and had spent no little time on its planning and preparation. But as luck would have it, Holmes and I spent more time fishing for clues to the bizarre death of one of our campsite mates than we did coaxing scaled and finned adversaries to bite our lines. We’d returned home with a tale, but not of the kind I’d hoped for. Holmes could only sympathise, not empathise, with my disappointment.
But on that particular morning, as Holmes approached me, letter open in his hand, I wasn’t thinking of the fish I hadn’t caught, I was thinking of zinnias.
Really, the little bed of flowers for which I hadn’t had much expectation was defying everything to be the centrepiece of my garden. They were scores of them. They were practically bursting the bed allotted as well as a second bed I’d been forced to make as a result of their sheer determination to multiply.
Yes, the zinnias were abundant, a riot of colour, hearty and wonderful, and I could only marvel at them and remember what the poet Burns had warned us about the best laid plans of mice and men.
“Watson!”
My eyebrows rose at the note of excitement in Holmes’ voice.
“Yes?”
“It is fitting that you are tending those,” he waved a hand at the zinnias, “zinnias mean thought of someone distant, and here we have a letter from our old friend Lestrade.”
“Ah,” I cried with a warm chuckle, “and how is the silver-haired Yarder?”
“He is well…”
“And?”
“…and is wondering if you’d like to ready your rod and join him on a jaunt to the Scottish highlands.”
I sprang to my feet with as much alacrity as old knees would permit.
“Fishing!” I cried, joy undisguised.
“Yes, yes,” said Holmes with a nod and a smirk. “It seems someone had to bow out of the trip at the last minute.”
“Holmes!”
“Go,” urged Holmes with a grin.
“And you are staying home?!” I frowned, being of two minds about it.
“Yes.”
“If you insist.”
Holmes chuckled. “Someone has to keep those zinnias from overrunning us in our sleep.”
