"Baker Street 5: A Meal at a Long Table"
Title: "Baker Street 5: A Meal at a Long Table."
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; Lovell.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Notes/Warnings: "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Universe. Set before the Blackwood case.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Summary: Dinner at Sherringford Hall.
Previous segments here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
2. "A Meeting in Piccadilly"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/368712.html
3. "A Journey in a Closed Carriage"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/370637.html
4. "An Arrival at Dusk"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/371960.html
By Gaedhal
The dining room at Sherringford Hall was, like the rest of the house, murky and cheerless. It was paneled in dark, ancient wood that I am certain was historic and priceless, but it did not put one in the humor for a companionable meal.
Holmes was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of claret in his hand, when I entered.
"Sit here, Watson," he said, indicating the place directly next to him. "Lovell is sure to seat you at the far end of table, as if we are at a dinner party for the Ambassador from Mongolia -- with you to be seated as if you were IN Mongolia, no doubt."
Lovell, standing at the ready, pulled out my chair without a word and I sat.
"Thank you, Mr. Lovell," I said.
"The good doctor is perfectly able to seat himself, Lovell," Holmes commented.
"You're welcome, Doctor," said Lovell, his face a veritable mask.
"You may serve the first course, Lovell," said Holmes.
And the soup was brought out and set before us.
To my surprise it was excellent. A plain oxtail, but nicely done, as good as the soup at Marcini's. The second course, a white fish in sauce, was also splendid, as were the lamb cutlets with spiced potatoes that followed. Lovell then produced a dish of seasoned greens for a salade verde. "Mr. Sherlock has instructed Cook to make this for you every evening, Doctor."
I eyed my dinner companion. "This is a pleasant surprise."
"I know how you, as a medical man, encourage the consumption of fresh vegetable matter, both for yourself and for your patients," he replied. "I therefore alerted the staff."
"A green salad stimulates the digestion and purifies the blood, just as fresh fruit in the morning energizes the body. Mr. Lovell," I said to the butler. "Please bring a plate of greens for Mr. Sherlock as well. He will also be indulging at the evening meal for the duration of our stay."
Holmes glowered at me. "I don't mind a dish of peas or even a tip of asparagus provided it is covered with a decent sauce, but save me from rabbit leavings, Watson!"
"It's good for you." Lovell brought out another plate and placed it in front of Holmes. "Fresh watercress and braised leeks. Your system could use some cleaning out," I said. "So eat it. All of it. Or you'll get no dessert. There is dessert, is there not, Mr. Lovell?"
"Yes, Doctor," said the butler. "Tarte aux pommes, with fresh cream."
"Mr. Sherlock will get no dessert until he finishes his greens." I sat back smugly. It felt good to command.
"You are the very devil!" Holmes exclaimed. "A worse nanny than Mrs. Hudson when you put your mind to it!"
"I have the privilege of being not only your friend, but also your physician," I answered firmly. "I thought the rationale behind this sojourn was rest and recovery of health after the long winter's siege -- my health and yours!"
Holmes looked at me sharply. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but no longer bloodshot or bleary. I did not know if he had packed the morocco case that contained his syringes, but I had hope that he had not, hope that this stay far from the cares of London would give him a chance to uncloud his mind and purge his body of the hateful toxins with which he insulted himself.
He picked up his fork and attacked the salade verde. The watercress and leeks gave up without a fight. The rest of the meal proceeded without incident and a most delicious dessert was forthcoming for both of us.
When Lovell had cleared the last dishes away and decanted the Madeira, Holmes pulled out his pipe and began to puff thoughtfully. I felt it was now time to pose the questions that had been plaguing me.
"This meal..." I began.
"You are surprised, no doubt, at the quality of the repast in such a backwater as Sherringford," he said.
"Frankly, yes," I admitted.
"You should not be," said Holmes. "Consider the owner of this house."
"Your brother Mycroft," I provided.
"And what do you know about my brother?" inquired Holmes.
"He is..." I hesitated. I had only met the man on a few occasions, in every instance in connection with one of Holmes' cases. "A substantial fellow, of keen intellect and solitary habits."
"Quite right," said Holmes. "He is, in fact, the most accomplished man currently working in Her Majesty's government, although almost none know his name or even imagine his existence. His powers of deduction are, in many ways, almost equal to my own." He paused. "Almost."
"Of course," I said. Holmes's innate egotism would never allow even his own brother to prevail.
"But Mycroft is a man of inaction," Holmes said, regarding the pipe in his hand. "Sitting in one spot for months on end, lost only in one's own thoughts, would for my brother be heaven upon this earth. For me, it would be a torture." Holmes sat straighter in his chair, his eyes glittering. "I must have work, Watson! I must have stimulation of the mind! But with it I must also have action of the body. The two must needs work together or else it is all in vain! Then I must numb myself. Or seek stimulation of a different kind."
"No!" I cried. "Such recourse is beneath you! The world is full of problems to be solved. I see them every day in my medical practice. There is so much we do not know, Holmes. You are a brilliant chemist and a practiced theorist. You turn your mind to the solving crimes, but there are so many other mysteries in this world, certainly enough to fascinate any man for as long as he may live."
Holmes smiled. "You want me to take the pulses of hysterical females and listen to the chests of dyspeptic solicitors, as you do all day? Is that how you would have me use my singular brain?"
I know he did not mean his words to sting, but they did. They stung me to the very quick.
We had always lived in equal circumstances, Holmes and I, sharing our expenses and subsisting on the same level. I had always assumed that Holmes, as the younger son of a genteel but reduced family, was living on a modest allowance which he supplemented with his earnings as a consulting detective. His needs had never been great, and although he liked his creature comforts, they were not expensive ones. He ate the simple food Mrs. Hudson offered, smoked plain shag tobacco, and wore his suits and dressing gowns practically to rags. His only real extravagance was an insistence on hansom cabs over common omnibuses or the more plebeian underground trains in our perambulations around London.
But this great house and these deferential servants delineated a Sherlock Holmes I did not know: a spoiled aristocrat, even an autocrat, used to ordering and demanding, a gentleman to the manor born, rather than a gentleman of his own making, as was I.
Never had I been so aware of the disparities between our stations in life. Such distinctions had never mattered before. Now they seemed an impenetrable barrier between us.
"No," I said, unable to contain my emotions. "I would never imagine that you would lower yourself to do my work. I am not a self-proclaimed genius. Nor am I the scion of an esteemed lineage, as it appears you are. I am, in fact, no one at all -- less than no one, as our society deems it, having no money, no family, and no position worth speaking of. I'm a doctor, for all that is worth. I know the lives I have saved are few, but it has not been for lack of trying. I am nothing compared to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I will always be nothing. And I have accepted that fate as my lot in life." I drained my glass of Madeira and stood up. "You still have not answered my question."
Holmes blinked. "What question was that?"
"The meal," I reminded him.
"Oh." Holmes shrugged. "Mycroft's only physical pleasure is in gratifying his stomach, his single vice exercised at the table. He has his meals sent to him at the Diogenes Club from the Cafe Royal and he demands only their best. Consequently, he had his cook here trained by a Frenchman brought for the purpose from Paris. Even though Mycroft is only resident in this house for a few weeks a year, he could not countenance the thought of bland British cooking for that period. Hence, this is the best place to eat in all of West Sussex, even including the dining room at the Albert Hotel in Chichester, which is accounted the finest in the area. Does that answer your question, Watson?"
"Yes," I said. "And now I'm going to bed."
I turned and strode to the door. The shadows of falling night lay heavy in the corners and in the rooms beyond. A shudder coursed through me.
"I say, Watson," I heard Holmes remark to my back. "Pray forgive me. It has been a long and tiring day."
I did not reply, but walked on, out of the dining room and back to my alien bed chamber.
***
Author: Gaedhal
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/Dr. John H. Watson; Lovell.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Notes/Warnings: "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Universe. Set before the Blackwood case.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Summary: Dinner at Sherringford Hall.
Previous segments here:
1. "A Walk to Regent's Park"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/367955.html
2. "A Meeting in Piccadilly"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/368712.html
3. "A Journey in a Closed Carriage"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/370637.html
4. "An Arrival at Dusk"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/371960.html
By Gaedhal
The dining room at Sherringford Hall was, like the rest of the house, murky and cheerless. It was paneled in dark, ancient wood that I am certain was historic and priceless, but it did not put one in the humor for a companionable meal.
Holmes was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of claret in his hand, when I entered.
"Sit here, Watson," he said, indicating the place directly next to him. "Lovell is sure to seat you at the far end of table, as if we are at a dinner party for the Ambassador from Mongolia -- with you to be seated as if you were IN Mongolia, no doubt."
Lovell, standing at the ready, pulled out my chair without a word and I sat.
"Thank you, Mr. Lovell," I said.
"The good doctor is perfectly able to seat himself, Lovell," Holmes commented.
"You're welcome, Doctor," said Lovell, his face a veritable mask.
"You may serve the first course, Lovell," said Holmes.
And the soup was brought out and set before us.
To my surprise it was excellent. A plain oxtail, but nicely done, as good as the soup at Marcini's. The second course, a white fish in sauce, was also splendid, as were the lamb cutlets with spiced potatoes that followed. Lovell then produced a dish of seasoned greens for a salade verde. "Mr. Sherlock has instructed Cook to make this for you every evening, Doctor."
I eyed my dinner companion. "This is a pleasant surprise."
"I know how you, as a medical man, encourage the consumption of fresh vegetable matter, both for yourself and for your patients," he replied. "I therefore alerted the staff."
"A green salad stimulates the digestion and purifies the blood, just as fresh fruit in the morning energizes the body. Mr. Lovell," I said to the butler. "Please bring a plate of greens for Mr. Sherlock as well. He will also be indulging at the evening meal for the duration of our stay."
Holmes glowered at me. "I don't mind a dish of peas or even a tip of asparagus provided it is covered with a decent sauce, but save me from rabbit leavings, Watson!"
"It's good for you." Lovell brought out another plate and placed it in front of Holmes. "Fresh watercress and braised leeks. Your system could use some cleaning out," I said. "So eat it. All of it. Or you'll get no dessert. There is dessert, is there not, Mr. Lovell?"
"Yes, Doctor," said the butler. "Tarte aux pommes, with fresh cream."
"Mr. Sherlock will get no dessert until he finishes his greens." I sat back smugly. It felt good to command.
"You are the very devil!" Holmes exclaimed. "A worse nanny than Mrs. Hudson when you put your mind to it!"
"I have the privilege of being not only your friend, but also your physician," I answered firmly. "I thought the rationale behind this sojourn was rest and recovery of health after the long winter's siege -- my health and yours!"
Holmes looked at me sharply. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but no longer bloodshot or bleary. I did not know if he had packed the morocco case that contained his syringes, but I had hope that he had not, hope that this stay far from the cares of London would give him a chance to uncloud his mind and purge his body of the hateful toxins with which he insulted himself.
He picked up his fork and attacked the salade verde. The watercress and leeks gave up without a fight. The rest of the meal proceeded without incident and a most delicious dessert was forthcoming for both of us.
When Lovell had cleared the last dishes away and decanted the Madeira, Holmes pulled out his pipe and began to puff thoughtfully. I felt it was now time to pose the questions that had been plaguing me.
"This meal..." I began.
"You are surprised, no doubt, at the quality of the repast in such a backwater as Sherringford," he said.
"Frankly, yes," I admitted.
"You should not be," said Holmes. "Consider the owner of this house."
"Your brother Mycroft," I provided.
"And what do you know about my brother?" inquired Holmes.
"He is..." I hesitated. I had only met the man on a few occasions, in every instance in connection with one of Holmes' cases. "A substantial fellow, of keen intellect and solitary habits."
"Quite right," said Holmes. "He is, in fact, the most accomplished man currently working in Her Majesty's government, although almost none know his name or even imagine his existence. His powers of deduction are, in many ways, almost equal to my own." He paused. "Almost."
"Of course," I said. Holmes's innate egotism would never allow even his own brother to prevail.
"But Mycroft is a man of inaction," Holmes said, regarding the pipe in his hand. "Sitting in one spot for months on end, lost only in one's own thoughts, would for my brother be heaven upon this earth. For me, it would be a torture." Holmes sat straighter in his chair, his eyes glittering. "I must have work, Watson! I must have stimulation of the mind! But with it I must also have action of the body. The two must needs work together or else it is all in vain! Then I must numb myself. Or seek stimulation of a different kind."
"No!" I cried. "Such recourse is beneath you! The world is full of problems to be solved. I see them every day in my medical practice. There is so much we do not know, Holmes. You are a brilliant chemist and a practiced theorist. You turn your mind to the solving crimes, but there are so many other mysteries in this world, certainly enough to fascinate any man for as long as he may live."
Holmes smiled. "You want me to take the pulses of hysterical females and listen to the chests of dyspeptic solicitors, as you do all day? Is that how you would have me use my singular brain?"
I know he did not mean his words to sting, but they did. They stung me to the very quick.
We had always lived in equal circumstances, Holmes and I, sharing our expenses and subsisting on the same level. I had always assumed that Holmes, as the younger son of a genteel but reduced family, was living on a modest allowance which he supplemented with his earnings as a consulting detective. His needs had never been great, and although he liked his creature comforts, they were not expensive ones. He ate the simple food Mrs. Hudson offered, smoked plain shag tobacco, and wore his suits and dressing gowns practically to rags. His only real extravagance was an insistence on hansom cabs over common omnibuses or the more plebeian underground trains in our perambulations around London.
But this great house and these deferential servants delineated a Sherlock Holmes I did not know: a spoiled aristocrat, even an autocrat, used to ordering and demanding, a gentleman to the manor born, rather than a gentleman of his own making, as was I.
Never had I been so aware of the disparities between our stations in life. Such distinctions had never mattered before. Now they seemed an impenetrable barrier between us.
"No," I said, unable to contain my emotions. "I would never imagine that you would lower yourself to do my work. I am not a self-proclaimed genius. Nor am I the scion of an esteemed lineage, as it appears you are. I am, in fact, no one at all -- less than no one, as our society deems it, having no money, no family, and no position worth speaking of. I'm a doctor, for all that is worth. I know the lives I have saved are few, but it has not been for lack of trying. I am nothing compared to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I will always be nothing. And I have accepted that fate as my lot in life." I drained my glass of Madeira and stood up. "You still have not answered my question."
Holmes blinked. "What question was that?"
"The meal," I reminded him.
"Oh." Holmes shrugged. "Mycroft's only physical pleasure is in gratifying his stomach, his single vice exercised at the table. He has his meals sent to him at the Diogenes Club from the Cafe Royal and he demands only their best. Consequently, he had his cook here trained by a Frenchman brought for the purpose from Paris. Even though Mycroft is only resident in this house for a few weeks a year, he could not countenance the thought of bland British cooking for that period. Hence, this is the best place to eat in all of West Sussex, even including the dining room at the Albert Hotel in Chichester, which is accounted the finest in the area. Does that answer your question, Watson?"
"Yes," I said. "And now I'm going to bed."
I turned and strode to the door. The shadows of falling night lay heavy in the corners and in the rooms beyond. A shudder coursed through me.
"I say, Watson," I heard Holmes remark to my back. "Pray forgive me. It has been a long and tiring day."
I did not reply, but walked on, out of the dining room and back to my alien bed chamber.
***