holmes_minor | Fic: July: Gen

Title: July by I. Quill
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Notes: Inky Quill, Ferret, Doctor Watson, Toby
Summary: Why Ferret’s one rodent-show, Julius Caesar, was pre-emptively cancelled.
Author’s Note: For the July prompt: dog days.

In my last missive, I briefly mentioned Ferret’s one-rodent show, his performance of the great Shakespearean drama Julius Caesar, with himself as all three of the play’s main characters (one half of him as Cleopatra, the other half as Marc Anthony and a puppet Caesar perched on his dexterous tail). I dismissed it as a story for another day.

Well, gentle readers, another day has arrived.

In hindsight, even my mustelid friend acknowledges that events were a blessing in that they made way for his hit show The Importance of Being Ferret, but, of course, at the time, failure stung.

But not for long.

“Oh, Doctor Watson!” I exclaimed as I looked down into the box.

The aroma of confection, I confess, is a heady one, and the sight of two tiers of the most delicate cakes—petit fours, as I would call them—blurred as my eyes watered.

“From Mister Holmes, for Ferret. He’s gravely sorry for the chaos caused.”

“Lying does not become you, Doctor Watson,” I said.

“Well, I am gravely sorry and Mister Holmes will be gravely sorry once the case is solved and he’s made aware of
consequences of our search today.”

“That, I believe, is truth, and I also believe these will go a long way in assuaging Ferret’s sorrow.”

I closed the box. Doctor Watson retied it with string and left it on the ground at the entrance to my den.

“It was remarkable timing, wasn’t it, though?” remarked Doctor Watson.

“That is, indeed, something—along with a penchant for clever disguise—that Mister Holmes and Ferret have in common.”

“I mean, that Ferret should be at that very point in the play when Mister Holmes and I and—“

“Toby,” I interjected.

“—burst into the theatre, on the scent of the Morgan the poisoner.”

“Every member of the audience smaller than Toby fled in terror and every member of the audience who thought itself Toby’s equal, or better, or who though there might be sausages involved, scampered after him. Regardless, the gallery was emptied in mere moments. Poor Ferret, left with his slain Caesar and nothing else. And, as you say, it was at that very moment—“

From behind me a voice rang out.

Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

The box of cakes disappeared.

“Well, I think it’s time for tea,” I said.

“Yes, and, dog of war that I am, I need to be returning to my master’s, ah, that is, Holmes’s side.”

And the cakes did go a long way in making Ferret feel better about his loss. And his subsequent acquisition of a very fine silk-trimmed top hat inspired his current success, which I encourage all of my gentle readers to purchase tickets for whilst they are still to be had!

And until next time, I remain, your humble servant,

Inky Quill