Fic: January: Gen

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Title: January by I. Quill
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Summary: On the Feast of Asses (January 14), Inky & the gang play charades at 221B.


So often five sets of eyes can be looking at the same spectacle, yet each arrive at a different interpretation.

“Is it a donkey?”

This suggestion provoked the vigorous nodding of one head and four sets of ah’s from the rest of the party present, a party in the festive sense of the word, as all were gathered at 221B Baker Street for a belated celebration of Mister Holmes’s birthday.

The guest of honour, and his faithful companion, had been called away by Scotland Yard.  Per instruction, we were awaiting their return and amusing ourselves with a game of charades in the meantime.

Ferret had volunteered to go first, and I have to say initially his gesticulations were puzzling, but with a clue revealed, thanks to the keen observation, or imagination, of Mouselet, the field of supposition was opened.

“I think, then, it must be Balaam’s ass from the Book of Numbers,” said Sloth.  He cleared his throat, closed his eyes and recited, “’And when the ass saw the angel of the Lord, she fell down under Balaam: and Balaam's anger was kindled, and he smote the ass with a staff.”

We all frowned, and Ferret shook his head.

The Ocelot removed his spectacles and said, “My dear Sloth, you are correct in one respect. It is a Biblical reference, but certainly today, on the Feast of Asses, it must refer to the beast of burden which carried the Holy Family to Egypt in their flight from Herod’s wrath.”

At this, I had to speak my mind.

“With all due respect, Ferret is not a Biblical scholar, and he only attends service when he’s required to foil crimes! He is, however, a thespian. Thus, the ass must be Nick Bottom, from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Why need it be an animal from literature at all?” interjected Aemilia Vole. “Why can it not be our Queen’s beloved Jacquot?”

While all nodded at the wisdom of this statement, Ferret kept shaking his head and hopping and flailing, so much so that none of us heard the footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh, charades!” called Doctor Watson as he hung up his coat. “Let’s see, ‘Away in a Manager’?”

“YES!” screamed Ferret. He collapsed in an exasperated heap upon the rug.

The rest of the party exchanged looks of astonishment.

“How ever did you know?” I asked.

“Well, he looked just like Holmes who, because of my twisted ankle, had to take the role of the donkey in the living Nativity scene.  That’s the carol the choir was singing when Holmes started braying, thus distracting the kidnappers from collecting the ransom.”

By now, Mister Holmes had reached the top of the stairs.

“You were, after all, Holmes,” continued Watson, “a perfect ass.”

And so, you see, my gentle readers, as is so often the case, the beauty, and perhaps even the donkey, are much in the eye of the beholder. 

Until next time, I remain your servant,

Inky Quill