Fic & Poetry: Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes: Gen

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Title: Happy Birthday, Mister Holmes
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: Riddle poem, Holmes, Watson, Inky
Summary: Inky sends Mister Holmes birthday greetings.


“How does a porcupine send a letter?” I announced as I climbed the stairs.

“Irrelevant, my dear Watson,” replied Holmes, without looking up from the acid-charred bench over which he had been hunched all morning. “It is riddle with no answer, much like Mister Carroll’s question of the similarities between ravens and writing desks.”

“On the contrary, quite relevant, my dear Holmes,” I said, “as you have post.”

He straightened, eased a pair of leather-strapped googles onto his forehead, and took the proffered missive. He looked at the letter then shot me a glance.

“It’s from Mister Quill. You didn’t, say, inform him of the significance of today’s date?”

“Perhaps,” I confessed.

Holmes opened the letter.

I read over his shoulder.

Dear Mister Holmes,
I am recuperating from illness and being yet confined to den by doctor’s orders and having no wish to bestow upon your person or household the gift of malady along with my regard, I fear I must resort to correspondence to convey my well wishes.  Many returns of the day, sir, and please accept three bits of costumed verse as tokens of my highest esteem.
Yours, humbly,
Inky Quill 

The first’s a gent.
The second’s of.
The third may be
high past-taken silk from Rome
or
low wool splintered from an East End mission comb.

“It seems that poor Inky’s worse off than he claims,” I said. “Or else he’s taken far too much medicinal brandy.”

“Nonsense. It’s a riddle. I suspect during his convalescence Inky’s amusing himself with, among other things, your chronicles of our adventures. This one is ‘a man of the cloth,’ referring to my disguises as a venerable Italian priest, that is, high, in the liturgical sense, past-taken, meaning ‘stole,’ from Rome and as a Nonconformist clergyman, by references to ‘splintered’ and East End, where such types are often found.” 

“And this one?”

The first’s a-filled with briny wheeze
and too-much-king’s-herb-in-the-stew sneeze
The last’s either’s friend,
the rock in whose veins the golds extend.

“No, Watson? The king’s herb? From the Greek for ‘royal plant.’ Basil.”

“Captain Basil!”

“And the rôle of asthmatic old master mariner I employed during our case known to the reading public as The Sign of Four.  The first part being ‘A sail,’ the last ‘or,’ together, ‘a sailor.’”

This one has been dunk with a spirited ‘arr.’
But he’s most oft a bride’s a-partner-in-spar.

“I’ve got it!” I cried. “Dunk with a spirited ‘arr’ is ‘drunk.’ And, whilst working for the King of Bohemia, you also disguised yourself as—”

“A groom,” said Holmes, smiling. “Most charming.” He returned the letter to its envelope, the went to his desk and found paper and a pen. “I shall send my thanks to Mister Quill at once.”

“But you haven’t answered my riddle, Holmes, and you must if you wish your reply to be received.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“How does a porcupine post a letter?” I repeated impatiently.

Holmes frowned. “How?”

“By Special Mustelid, Ferret First Class, Male!”