Fic: A Pearl in Cowslip's Ear: Gen

[okapi1895.livejournal.com]

Title: A Pearl in Cowslip's Ear
Length: 500
Rating: Gen
Notes: Retirement!lock. Same 'verse as His Pleasant Fruits, where Watson has a hobby of making fairy furniture. References to Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Summary: The course of Watson's night does not go smooth, until it does.


I bid the boy ‘good night’ and shifted a well-wrapped gooseberry crumble under my arm. Fatigue and rain made the short walk from dog-cart to cottage door a rather long affair. Best laid plans, or so the poet Burns tells us. The joy of bringing another life safely into the world overwhelmed the bother of being wrenched out of quiet retirement, but my disappointment was not wholly a consequence of the frantic rap on the door and the call without of “Doctor!”

I’d had other plans for this midsummer evening, plans washed away, perhaps literally, I would assess the damage in the morning, in a sudden, violent storm.

Damn.

Whilst Holmes was about his bees, I’d taken to the garden, flowers as well as vegetables. As an offshoot, I’d also begun to amuse myself by assembling bits of flora and debris into whimsical miniatures. Fairy carpentry Holmes called it when he chanced upon my hobby.

I’d spent weeks arranging for a fairy fête in the garden, my very own midsummer night’s dream, to be celebrated this very evening, the most auspicious of dates. I’d assembled a miniature banquet table with canopy and chandelier. I’d even carved a host of tiny candles to light the affair.

But the knock had come. And then storm. And now all was, more than likely, lost.

Ah well, just a hobby. But wise to not tell Holmes of my plan or else I’d soon be on the receiving end of no end of ribbing. Of late, Holmes had been so engrossed in his bees, it was doubtful he’d even noticed my preparations.

“What mortals these fools be!” I hailed as I crossed the threshold.

A reply issued from the bathroom.

“The course of a doctor’s true retirement never did run smooth!”

I stopped. I gasped. Rain dripped from my coat, and a fatal tumble threatened the crumble.

The fairy fête!

In the centre of the sitting room, surrounded by candles, large and small, was my enchanted scene.

I quickly deposited the dessert and shrugged out of my wet coat, calling Holmes’s name.

As I neared it, I realised that the whole thing had been reassembled with bits of wire and string; it was set atop a carpet of rose petals and leaves.

“Oh, Holmes.”

On the side table were plates and flutes, cut fruit in small bowls, and cakes and honey. A harem’s worth of cushions was piled on the floor. A grin split my face; my weariness evaporated like morning dew.

The rose petals tapered into a trail, which I dutifully followed.

Holmes met me at the bathroom door.

“How did you know—?”

Grey eyes shone. “Still astonished, after all these years, Watson? As if I’d let your bank of wild thyme, ox-lips and nodding violet perish!  A wash,” behind him was a steaming bath scattered with rose petals, “and then a feast fit for fairies!”

“I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove,” I vowed.

Holmes grinned. “Such is my hope.” 

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