Fic & poetry: On the Boat to Norway: Gen
Apr. 8th, 2018 10:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: Poetry + fic, pre-slash Holmes/Watson
Summary: Holmes and Watson on the boat to Norway at the conclusion of the "Black Peter" case.
Author's Notes: debriswoman
Sharp wit sparks like spit-fire.
Spoke point sets disjointed
clues a-frame. None claim more
clarity. Beware red
herrings, harpoon’s hard-won
heap! His spear’s unfearful,
slays forsooth as sleuth and
slight-built herb of gilt mind!
Glass raised, Watson gave a slight nod to the smattering of applause that followed his impassioned recitation. Then he drained the glass of its clear liquid contents and, abandoning the centre stage that he’d created for himself, crumpled into the seat beside me.
“My dear Watson,” I said. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected by aquavit.”
“It’s a dróttkvætt. The poem. Norse.”
“Yes, a rousing bit of verse and singularly appropriate given our destination.”
“For years, I’ve praised you and your methods in the written word as printed in The Strand, why shouldn’t I also at the top
of my lungs in this fine mess hall. Did you like it, the poem, I mean?”
“Don’t be daft. Of course, I liked it. I’m wholly flattered. When we arrive, I shall have it chiseled in stone to commemorate its inaugural recital.”
He grunted, then grumbled, “As you wish. Too long and painful, I suppose, to have it inked on your bicep. Though I believe there’s a fellow on board who would oblige you. That artist who works at the Jermyn Street bath, I saw him as we boarded.” He sniffed. “By the way, did you catch that bit at the end about the herb?”
“Yes, the reference to Captain Basil was not lost on me. You are a most clever bard when you are under the influence of…” I gaze thoughtfully at our glasses, his empty, mine, full, “…the briny air.”
As I looked up at his pink cheeks and his shining eyes, I felt my own cheeks warm at his ardent words, this time intoned soft and low, but with a delivery just as heartfelt as his public performance.
“You were brilliant, Holmes, in the Black Peter case, just brilliant, and this year, I must say, has been your best so far.”
“Thank you. I confess that I agree with your estimation. But the year is only half done, my dear man, and so, what better time for a well-deserved holiday? We shall spend a couple of weeks enjoying Scandinavian hospitality and,” I added, tilting bottle to glass, “spirit, and then will be ready to finish the year just as strongly.”
“Hear, hear,” he cried. Then he tapped the rim of his glass with mine. After sipping long and thoughtfully, he took his glass in hand once more and eyed its contents.
“There’s nothing like this stuff,” he observed.
“Indeed,” I said, grateful to my English upbringing for giving me that perfect reply to every statement, regardless of character.
Watson sighed wearily, heavily, like the albatross-noosed ancient mariner that he was decidedly not, then scanned the room.
“How long until we reach Oslo?” he asked.
“My dear Watson, we only left England twenty minutes ago.”