One Measure
Title: One Measure
Rating: G
Warnings: One reference to a past drug use
Summary: Prompt by satji: "5 instruments Holmes could have learned to play and 1 he did."
Author's Notes: I ended up having a bit of fun twisting this prompt around...and probably in ways it shouldn't have been able to be twisted, as well.
Scalpel
"Scalpel," Watson called, blindly holding out his hand for the requested instrument.
Unfortunately, his assistant had never handled medical instruments in a morgue before, and he ended up getting his hand sliced open.
The doctor growled a Hindu curse at the pain and at the fact that he could not finish the autopsy, not while his hand continued to bleed. He growled another curse when he saw how unusually pale his flatmate was, the man's eyes fixated on the sight of scarlet blood against a backdrop of nut brown skin.
"Holmes, look at me," he commanded, and for once, Sherlock Holmes obeyed him without objection.
"You're bleeding," the detective observed.
"I've noticed," Watson said dryly.
"I cut you with the scalpel. I hurt you."
"It's nothing that a couple of stitches can't cure, Holmes, don't worry about it," Watson replied. "What I am worried about is you. You're paler than the corpse."
Pistol
Watson sighed as he entered the sitting room to find the atmosphere rank with the sharp tang of spent gunpowder.
While he was thankful that Holmes wasn't using cocaine any more, he did wish that the detective could have come up with a better alternative to the drug than to turn the sitting room into the actual war zone it resembled.
And then the doctor saw today's casualties, and he was not at all pleased to discover that Holmes had used Watson's desk for target practice.
Disguise (Make-up and Costume)
In retrospect, dressing up as the neighboring squire's youngest daughter to trick his older brother into thinking that said squire's daughter had fallen in love with him was not quite the brilliant idea it had appeared to be, young Sherlock decided as his mother gleefully regaled her gaggle of friends with the story.
If this was all his acting abilities were going to earn him, the shrill laughter of gossiping women, well, then he was most certain not going to pursue theater any further.
Not unless someone convinced him to believe otherwise...
Police Whistle
"Holmes, may I ask you something?" Watson asked one cozy autumn evening.
"Certainly, my fellow, ask away," Holmes replied.
"Why didn't you join Scotland Yard when you first came to London? Why set yourself up as a consultant, without anyone to watch your back in this dangerous line of work? And don't say it's because you don't want the credit for catching the villain, because that can't possibly be the only reason."
"Well, Watson, it's also because I absolutely loathe wearing a police whistle around my neck every day."
"Really, Holmes?" Watson asked, not quite believing his ears, though Holmes' claim was most certainly plausible.
"Yes, really, Watson," the detective replied. "You know how I am about things around my neck, after all."
Magnifying Glass
"Watson!" Holmes shouted from below.
"What is it, Holmes?" Watson shouted back, quite annoyed with his flatmate now.
"Have you seen my magnifying glass? It's not in my pocket," the detective replied.
Watson wondered how Holmes could possibly find anything at all in the jumbled mess that filled his pockets.
He refrained from commenting on that, however, instead asking whether it might be possible that Holmes had left it on the doctor's desk yet again.
"What a ridiculous notion, Watson," the detective immediately declared.
Watson rolled his eyes, as he had spotted the glint of the afternoon sun reflecting off of the magnifying glass, from where it lay right out in the open, on his desk.
Rating: G
Warnings: One reference to a past drug use
Summary: Prompt by satji: "5 instruments Holmes could have learned to play and 1 he did."
Author's Notes: I ended up having a bit of fun twisting this prompt around...and probably in ways it shouldn't have been able to be twisted, as well.
Scalpel
"Scalpel," Watson called, blindly holding out his hand for the requested instrument.
Unfortunately, his assistant had never handled medical instruments in a morgue before, and he ended up getting his hand sliced open.
The doctor growled a Hindu curse at the pain and at the fact that he could not finish the autopsy, not while his hand continued to bleed. He growled another curse when he saw how unusually pale his flatmate was, the man's eyes fixated on the sight of scarlet blood against a backdrop of nut brown skin.
"Holmes, look at me," he commanded, and for once, Sherlock Holmes obeyed him without objection.
"You're bleeding," the detective observed.
"I've noticed," Watson said dryly.
"I cut you with the scalpel. I hurt you."
"It's nothing that a couple of stitches can't cure, Holmes, don't worry about it," Watson replied. "What I am worried about is you. You're paler than the corpse."
Pistol
Watson sighed as he entered the sitting room to find the atmosphere rank with the sharp tang of spent gunpowder.
While he was thankful that Holmes wasn't using cocaine any more, he did wish that the detective could have come up with a better alternative to the drug than to turn the sitting room into the actual war zone it resembled.
And then the doctor saw today's casualties, and he was not at all pleased to discover that Holmes had used Watson's desk for target practice.
Disguise (Make-up and Costume)
In retrospect, dressing up as the neighboring squire's youngest daughter to trick his older brother into thinking that said squire's daughter had fallen in love with him was not quite the brilliant idea it had appeared to be, young Sherlock decided as his mother gleefully regaled her gaggle of friends with the story.
If this was all his acting abilities were going to earn him, the shrill laughter of gossiping women, well, then he was most certain not going to pursue theater any further.
Not unless someone convinced him to believe otherwise...
Police Whistle
"Holmes, may I ask you something?" Watson asked one cozy autumn evening.
"Certainly, my fellow, ask away," Holmes replied.
"Why didn't you join Scotland Yard when you first came to London? Why set yourself up as a consultant, without anyone to watch your back in this dangerous line of work? And don't say it's because you don't want the credit for catching the villain, because that can't possibly be the only reason."
"Well, Watson, it's also because I absolutely loathe wearing a police whistle around my neck every day."
"Really, Holmes?" Watson asked, not quite believing his ears, though Holmes' claim was most certainly plausible.
"Yes, really, Watson," the detective replied. "You know how I am about things around my neck, after all."
Magnifying Glass
"Watson!" Holmes shouted from below.
"What is it, Holmes?" Watson shouted back, quite annoyed with his flatmate now.
"Have you seen my magnifying glass? It's not in my pocket," the detective replied.
Watson wondered how Holmes could possibly find anything at all in the jumbled mess that filled his pockets.
He refrained from commenting on that, however, instead asking whether it might be possible that Holmes had left it on the doctor's desk yet again.
"What a ridiculous notion, Watson," the detective immediately declared.
Watson rolled his eyes, as he had spotted the glint of the afternoon sun reflecting off of the magnifying glass, from where it lay right out in the open, on his desk.