Friday Free for all!
Okay, so next weeek is the Epic QUARTERLY CHALLENGE! Which means we're going to be doing things a bit differently. Today and tomorrow are going to be free for alls to get you guys pumped, and then next week it is going to be all Lonely Prompts. I know you can't wait
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It wasn’t until Holmes had entered the rather large living room that he remembered that Watson was not, in fact, in London today. The sensation in the pit of his stomach which accompanied this realisation Holmes accounted to the late hour and the lack of breakfast.
Later, Holmes had to admit that this hypothesis was logically unsound. After a breakfast of cold eggs and bacon, and a tepid cup of tea, Holmes felt none the better. Not even working on his new monograph - a particularly fascinating treatise on the different types of tyres found on European bicycles - was enough to alleviate a gnawing feeling in his stomach.
Perhaps he was sick? Holmes did not feel particularly sick - no nausea, fever, chills - but perhaps it was some sort of new sickness. He might have contracted it from that fellow who had called in yesterday with the coals: he was almost certainly of French or Spanish extraction, and goodness knows what hygiene would be like in such places. Normally, Holmes would have raised the question with Watson, but as it was, Holmes simply jotted it down on a piece of paper, which he proceeded to leave between page one hundred and fourteen and one hundred and fifteen of Justus von Liebig’s Organic Chemistry and its Application to Physiology and Pathology. Just as a little aide memoire upon Watson’s return.
This completed, Holmes sat down in his favourite red armchair again, and plucked idly at his violin. It was an abstraction, and it filled several minutes before the subtle sound of a swish of fabric heralded Mrs. Hudson’s arrival with lunch. He gave her a distracted smile, and put down his violin. As the elderly woman served him his lunch - sandwiches, followed by muffins and a cup of tea - Holmes busied himself with his pipe. He was puffing away at it by the time Mrs. Hudson swept from the room again, collecting the breakfast dishes as she went.
Sherlock perused the paper that had been left on the desk while he half-heartedly ate a few bites of a cucumber sandwich. As he read, he wrote a few short notes - anonymously, of course, but Holmes knew that there was little doubt that Lestrade would not recognise the handwriting of the most successful free-lance detective in London. Holmes had long felt it prudent to send the police force a few pointers whenever he had spare time. Doubly prudent, in fact, as Holmes found it kept his mind occupied, and his hands away from the cocaine bottle.
After lunch, Holmes decided to take a quick stroll around the busier areas in London. This was a regular occurrence, as it allowed him the opportunity to keep up to date with any developments - new building work, the news on the street, the price of vegetables - but usually Watson would accompany the detective for at least part of his walk. The hollow feeling had returned as Holmes pulled on a coat and a bowler, but he firmly put it from his mind. To distract himself, he wondered briefly about the distance from London to Hexham and roughly calculated the time in would take to travel there by train, coach, and on horseback. This diverting thought lead him easily out of his front door and down the street, at which point he began to observe the going-on of the city in earnest.
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Upon his arrival at his rooms late that night, Watson found Holmes asleep in the red armchair, violin loosely cradled in his arms. The detective’s pipe lay on a nearby table, still smoking softly, and it was all the doctor could do to role his eyes, and thank heaven the house wasn’t up in smoke.
Watson moved around the room, quietly extinguishing all the lamps, before hearing a voice from the semi-darkness of the room.
“Morphine, it appears, is not always satisfactory in alleviating mental distraction,” Holmes muttered, almost to himself.
“I’ve told you many times, old friend, morphine should only be used sparingly,” Watson said, a chuckle in his voice.
There was a rustle of papers and a sigh as Holmes stood, leaving his violin on the chair.
“There is only one possible rational explanation, then.”
Watson could hear Holmes move towards him in the gloom.
“And what would that be, may I ask?” Watson inquired.
Holmes laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and Watson noticed that his eyes were particularly cold and calculating.
“I must have missed you,” the detective said, as though it were only logical. His eyes softened then, and he sagged somewhat. “Another case solved, my friend.”
Watson placed a steadying arm around the other man, and his eyes lit up in a smile.
“It’s late, Holmes. You should get to bed.”
The detective nodded, before looking up at Watson and saying, with some severity, “My dear Watson, if you find it absolutely necessary to pay another visit to your grand-aunt, I insist on accompanying you. I have a number of acquaintances who work on the Hexham Courante and the knowledge of a journalist could be quite integral to the successful resolution of a case, should one ever arise in that corner of Northumberland.”
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And there you have it. More epic-bromance than slash, so I'm sorry. And also... my first ever Sherlock Holmes fic. And it's a weird mixture of book/movie, which I hope you don't mind. Set... er... let's say between A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four. Can't have Miss Morstan messing things up (although she was in he original draft...)
Also, in writing this I learnt that I am ridiculous when it comes to writing anything set in a historical time. I just spent about two hours looking up lighting to see if it would be an oil lamp or a paraffin lamp on Watson's desk. And then I had to calculate how long it would take a stage/train to get to Hexham. Um. Right...
Enjoy!
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