"Tell it to the stove" (JWP 2015 Prompt #19, SH in 22nd Century, Rated G)
Title: Tell it to the stove
Author: gardnerhill
Universe: Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century (episodes here)
Word Count:
Rating: G
Summary: The Goose Girl is not allowed to tell a soul her troubles, but tells all to the stove.
Author's Notes: For the 2015 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #19, While You Were Sleeping. Watson is presumed unconscious/asleep/comatose, but he can hear everything everyone says at his bedside.
Watson sat motionless in a corner of the rooms; it was the regular time in which all of Scotland Yard’s compudroids received their regular updates and debugging ware, recharging at the same time. He had at Holmes’ request switched off the holo-mask some time ago, but the voiceware remained; it was enough unlike Watson's actual voice that it did not unnerve the man.
Holmes looked at the droid from across the room, seated in his favourite chair (odd that it had survived as long as he had, no doubt in a similar state of storage). He shook his head at his own idiocy. But even in days past, he had used Watson as sounding-board only and had achieved good results. This might be just as useful.
“Watson. And I do mean the compudroid Watson, not my original friend Dr. Watson.” He shook his head again. “I risk making a great fool of myself speaking to an empty room, but as there is no one to witness I am safe. I know you are incapable of responding right now, and that you are in the sleeping mode affected by mechanical devices during this refreshment phase.
“I am very well aware that you saved my life yesterday by taking that electrical shock meant for me. Moriarty’s new weapon is a deadly thing, a gun that shoots lightning. That would have destroyed every synapse in my brain making me completely irretrievable after this death.” He exhaled. “I am … conflicted … at how grateful I should be for that act.
“There are times - some more than others - when this new work is not enough, when this age of miracles and amazing discoveries is too much for my Victorian mind. When I am overcome with loss of the few human beings I had loved - my Watson, my brother, the Inspector Lestrade who is my partner’s ancestor - and all I want is to go back to sleep and this time never arise. I did not ask to become King Arthur, reposing until the world had need of me.
“But I also know that your duty is to serve humans - and you have acquired enough of my old friend Watson's personality that your behavior is completely compatible with how he would have reacted in such a moment - taking the fatal bolt meant for me.
“He did much the same when Killer Evans pulled out his gun - jolted me aside enough so that the shot aimed at me struck him instead. I was so furious at him, and frightened, and so cold with rage at Evans, that I would have committed murder without thought nor regret had he killed Watson. That was when I truly knew it was time for me to retire; we were both too old for this rough game that had been our joy as hale young men.
“So I turned to my bees; Watson wed a third time and settled into his life as a man of letters. We met as friends on a regular basis, but we each had our own lives now. And we were content with the change; I felt it, and I could see it in him. I was glad to see the change in him. Our memories were good, but our current lives were good too. We were both aware of our age and our mortality, and accepted how our lives were ending. And … after … I made it a habit to go to Minstead once a year, and visit his grave, and thank him for the precious gift he had made me of his friendship. A speech he could hear as well as you hear me now, I fear.
“And that is one reason I fear you, Watson. You are programmed to serve me without any thought of self-preservation nor self-awareness. You will never leave me for a wife or to write novels. If necessary, you will self-destruct in my defense, as you nearly did yesterday. Will you be honoured or troubled if I tell you that I was as frightened at the thought of losing you as I was of losing him in Nathan Garrideb’s rooms?”
He laughed a little, half self-deprecating and half in wonder. “I am weary of this world at times. But I also know that I have ties to this time now. I see Beth Lestrade becoming the police officer her predecessor only wished he could be, and feel as proud of her as her own father must. I am grateful you are here, not merely to aid but to listen and to speak. Wiggins and his friends are as sharp and eager for an adult’s mentoring as were the original street-lads I employed. And this foul clone of my nemesis needs someone who thoroughly understands his mindset pitted against him. I am here, and I am needed.
“Watson. I apologize for shouting at you in my panic yesterday. I am glad for your friendship as much as for your service. You are not my old friend. You are my current friend.”
He exhaled. He felt lighter. It seems this time’s propensity for belief that talking about one’s sorrows aided in their healing was rooted in truth. He picked up the violin he had found in a curio shop and began to tune the strings.
While playing his third etude by Chopin, he heard the telltale of the compudroid being powered up to full awareness. He didn’t look up even at the hydraulic thumps of the droid walking over to him. But one word made him stop playing.
“Honoured,” Watson said.
Author: gardnerhill
Universe: Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century (episodes here)
Word Count:
Rating: G
Summary: The Goose Girl is not allowed to tell a soul her troubles, but tells all to the stove.
Author's Notes: For the 2015 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #19, While You Were Sleeping. Watson is presumed unconscious/asleep/comatose, but he can hear everything everyone says at his bedside.
Watson sat motionless in a corner of the rooms; it was the regular time in which all of Scotland Yard’s compudroids received their regular updates and debugging ware, recharging at the same time. He had at Holmes’ request switched off the holo-mask some time ago, but the voiceware remained; it was enough unlike Watson's actual voice that it did not unnerve the man.
Holmes looked at the droid from across the room, seated in his favourite chair (odd that it had survived as long as he had, no doubt in a similar state of storage). He shook his head at his own idiocy. But even in days past, he had used Watson as sounding-board only and had achieved good results. This might be just as useful.
“Watson. And I do mean the compudroid Watson, not my original friend Dr. Watson.” He shook his head again. “I risk making a great fool of myself speaking to an empty room, but as there is no one to witness I am safe. I know you are incapable of responding right now, and that you are in the sleeping mode affected by mechanical devices during this refreshment phase.
“I am very well aware that you saved my life yesterday by taking that electrical shock meant for me. Moriarty’s new weapon is a deadly thing, a gun that shoots lightning. That would have destroyed every synapse in my brain making me completely irretrievable after this death.” He exhaled. “I am … conflicted … at how grateful I should be for that act.
“There are times - some more than others - when this new work is not enough, when this age of miracles and amazing discoveries is too much for my Victorian mind. When I am overcome with loss of the few human beings I had loved - my Watson, my brother, the Inspector Lestrade who is my partner’s ancestor - and all I want is to go back to sleep and this time never arise. I did not ask to become King Arthur, reposing until the world had need of me.
“But I also know that your duty is to serve humans - and you have acquired enough of my old friend Watson's personality that your behavior is completely compatible with how he would have reacted in such a moment - taking the fatal bolt meant for me.
“He did much the same when Killer Evans pulled out his gun - jolted me aside enough so that the shot aimed at me struck him instead. I was so furious at him, and frightened, and so cold with rage at Evans, that I would have committed murder without thought nor regret had he killed Watson. That was when I truly knew it was time for me to retire; we were both too old for this rough game that had been our joy as hale young men.
“So I turned to my bees; Watson wed a third time and settled into his life as a man of letters. We met as friends on a regular basis, but we each had our own lives now. And we were content with the change; I felt it, and I could see it in him. I was glad to see the change in him. Our memories were good, but our current lives were good too. We were both aware of our age and our mortality, and accepted how our lives were ending. And … after … I made it a habit to go to Minstead once a year, and visit his grave, and thank him for the precious gift he had made me of his friendship. A speech he could hear as well as you hear me now, I fear.
“And that is one reason I fear you, Watson. You are programmed to serve me without any thought of self-preservation nor self-awareness. You will never leave me for a wife or to write novels. If necessary, you will self-destruct in my defense, as you nearly did yesterday. Will you be honoured or troubled if I tell you that I was as frightened at the thought of losing you as I was of losing him in Nathan Garrideb’s rooms?”
He laughed a little, half self-deprecating and half in wonder. “I am weary of this world at times. But I also know that I have ties to this time now. I see Beth Lestrade becoming the police officer her predecessor only wished he could be, and feel as proud of her as her own father must. I am grateful you are here, not merely to aid but to listen and to speak. Wiggins and his friends are as sharp and eager for an adult’s mentoring as were the original street-lads I employed. And this foul clone of my nemesis needs someone who thoroughly understands his mindset pitted against him. I am here, and I am needed.
“Watson. I apologize for shouting at you in my panic yesterday. I am glad for your friendship as much as for your service. You are not my old friend. You are my current friend.”
He exhaled. He felt lighter. It seems this time’s propensity for belief that talking about one’s sorrows aided in their healing was rooted in truth. He picked up the violin he had found in a curio shop and began to tune the strings.
While playing his third etude by Chopin, he heard the telltale of the compudroid being powered up to full awareness. He didn’t look up even at the hydraulic thumps of the droid walking over to him. But one word made him stop playing.
“Honoured,” Watson said.