Fic for martinius: The Bonfire Night
Title: The Bonfire Night
Recipient: martinius
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes & their kid. IT'S NOT HIS FAULT, OK.
Rating: PG
Summary: Most people don't start to appreciate monographs until they grow up.
Notes: I thank you, my beautiful ninja beta friend [redacted].
The Bonfire Night
When Conan Arthur was seven years old, he brought home his first A+ for literary composition. His father was appalled. Appalled.
"Calm down, Sherlock," said Mary Russell, looking up from her workbench. "It's not the end of the world."
Sherlock interrupted his pacing to glare at her.
"That's rich", he said, "given that you are the one who's always encouraging him to spend more time with Watson. This is the result. And don't think I didn't see you slipping him books of poetry. Sonnets! Encouraging his unhealthy habits, you are."
He looked at the chaos surrounding Mary's experiment with critical eye. Then he took a red hot poker from the grate and passed it to his wife, who used it to light a Bunsen burner.
"Thank you, honey."
"You are welcome." Sherlock used the opportunity to steal a kiss. Then he resumed his pacing.
"Why," he said, "why am I even trying, I ask myself. Have I not told him off for cluttering his brain with this nonsense? I wonder how much space he'll have left for criminology, the undisciplined little ingrate."
The undisciplined little ingrate in question was standing in front of the desk, scuffing his shoe against a carpet pattern.
"Explain yourself, boy," demanded Holmes.
"Miss Beadle thinks I have potential, Dad," piped up Conan. "She likes my sentence structure. She said that I have a vocabulary of an adult. She said I might even become a writer."
Holmes paused to ingest this information.
"Mary!!"
"Oh for pity's sake," said Mary, adjusting the flame. "The human brain is not a cupboard. We've talked about this before, and you stated on 26th of May 1924, Mr. Holmes, that your theory of cluttering is dead. And suddenly it's once again alive and kicking. Sometimes I can't tell which one of you is seven years old."
"Even so," said Holmes. "a writer! Oh, John would never shut up about this. Hopefully it's not too late to get all that wretched fiction out of his head."
Conan made a face. He liked fiction.
"I got an A in science as well," he offered.
"I should bloody well think so," said his father archly. "And you will get much better at it, because from now on, you are going to be home schooled."
And that was that.
-oOo-
Conan sighed, pushing away his copy of "Fifty-Seven Types of Unusual Homicide". He felt a bit down. His Dad confiscated all his books, even took away the typewriter, thus ensuring that Conan would not use it with artistic intent. The only literature left in the room were lots of monographs. Conan had his opinion about monographs, and it was not a pretty one.
"Tired with all these, for restful Death I cry," he quoted.
The door creaked.
"What was that?" asked his father suspiciously, poking his head into the room. "Studying, I hope. I brought a little something to amuse you. Your mother thinks you could use some cheering up. Personally, I can't imagine why. When I was at your age, I'd have loved this sort of education."
He put a long cardboard box on the table. Conan opened the lid and looked inside.
It contained a few dozen glass tubes, a box of matches, small bellows, several packages wrapped in paper, and, of course, a monograph.
"It is a 'Build-Your-Own-Collection-of-Ashes-of-Various-Tobaccos' set," offered his father. "I made it for you myself. It even has excellent coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ashes. Very helpful."
There was a pause.
"Of course, it is only a beginner's set,“ said Sherlock. „There are at least 140 forms of most common ashes and this has test tubes for 60. But I am sure you will have a lot of fun nonetheless."
"I certainly will!" said Conan and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you very much! This was really nice of you! Just what I've always wanted! Er. Thank you."
"You are welcome," said Sherlock, relieved.
"Which ash do you think I should start with?"
"Which would you like to most?"
"…"
"Come on, don't be shy.“
"…a pipe?"
"Excellent choice!" said Sherlock. "But remember, work before play. Now, draw me five anatomical peculiarities of human ears, with added descriptions of the criminal habits of the affected individuals. And then come to the kitchen. I'll make you pancakes."
And he left.
Conan watched him go. Then he examined his new collection set. It indeed did have coloured plates. They were all grey.
Conan took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and wrote:
How to Get Back to School:
What do Mum and Dad like most?
1. Me. (He smiled.)
2. Crime & experiments.
3. Each other.
Well. Messing with item No. 1 was out of the question. The second two, however…
-oOo-
Mary added a pinch of sulphur powder to a bowl and hummed to herself a second verse of the patriotic song 'Keep the Home Fires Burning'.
"While your hearts are yearning," joined Sherlock, coming into the room, "Ah, home-made gunpowder! I didn't even notice we were running out." He came closer and kissed Mary on the neck. She turned around in his arms.
"Oh, we are not, really," she said, "I just thought it would be a good idea to have more gunpowder around the house. You never know."
"Quite. Honey, while you have the saltpetre out, we could make some smoke bombs. They always come in handy. We could try coloured ones."
"Flashy."
"Mmmm."
"Oh. Sherlock."
"Stop flirting!" said Conan Arthur, appearing behind them. They jumped away from each other as if burned.
"I have drawn the ears, dad," said Conan. "Let's make some ash!"
-oOo-
"I'd never have thought that home schooling could be so exhausting," said Holmes several days later as he was climbing to bed. "And I never seem to get you alone anymore, what with Conan all over the place. Not a moment of peace. You know, it would be nice if you could help now and then."
"I don't think so," said Mary, looking up from her monograph. "It was your pig-headed idea. I said that Conan benefits from other children's company and a bit of literature never hurt anyone. You went into a sulking fit, so now you have your heart's desire. Enjoy it."
"Actually, I think I'm coming down with cold. I can't believe you'd leave me in it."
"Watch my lips and weep."
"For better or worse," said Holmes bitterly, putting on his night cap, "in sickness and health. Those were your exact words, you conniving treacherous she-devil."
"Donkey."
"Shrew."
"Mmm."
"I have forgotten to tidy up my ash collection set!" said Conan, sticking out his head from below the bed.
"Ah!" Sherlock cried out in alarm. Mary dropped her monograph. And at the first floor, the lab exploded.
-oOo-
"Have an aspirin, Sherlock," said Mary, patting her husband on the head. "More claret? It´s justified. You have been through a shock."
They were in the study, surrounded by the few bits of remaining unbroken lab equipment. The air reeked of smoke.
"Shock indeed," said Sherlock sarcastically and gulped down the aspirin with the rest of his wine. "How completely unexpected. I should have known you two would gang up on me. But I do get your point. If our son is ready to blow up the house to get back to his poems, who am I to stand in the way. Do what you will. Traitor."
Mary smiled at him. She swept her arm across the table, sending piles of monographs flying everywhere. Then she hopped on it, grabbed Sherlock´s shirt lapels and kissed him.
"It has a silver lining, you know," she informed him.
"That's nice,“ murmured Sherlock, pressing against her body. „For how long are we leaving Conan at Watson's?"
"A week," said his wife. "A punishment for the Britain's most notorious traitor."
"Good. Now, about you."
"Yes."
"It will have to be something rather more rigorous," said Holmes. "I have a monograph which will serve us just fine."
"You do?" said Mary, a bit breathless.
"It´s in Sanskrit," Holmes continued, "but there are pictures."
"Oh Sherlock. I love that one."
-the end-
Recipient: martinius
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings: Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes & their kid. IT'S NOT HIS FAULT, OK.
Rating: PG
Summary: Most people don't start to appreciate monographs until they grow up.
Notes: I thank you, my beautiful ninja beta friend [redacted].
The Bonfire Night
When Conan Arthur was seven years old, he brought home his first A+ for literary composition. His father was appalled. Appalled.
"Calm down, Sherlock," said Mary Russell, looking up from her workbench. "It's not the end of the world."
Sherlock interrupted his pacing to glare at her.
"That's rich", he said, "given that you are the one who's always encouraging him to spend more time with Watson. This is the result. And don't think I didn't see you slipping him books of poetry. Sonnets! Encouraging his unhealthy habits, you are."
He looked at the chaos surrounding Mary's experiment with critical eye. Then he took a red hot poker from the grate and passed it to his wife, who used it to light a Bunsen burner.
"Thank you, honey."
"You are welcome." Sherlock used the opportunity to steal a kiss. Then he resumed his pacing.
"Why," he said, "why am I even trying, I ask myself. Have I not told him off for cluttering his brain with this nonsense? I wonder how much space he'll have left for criminology, the undisciplined little ingrate."
The undisciplined little ingrate in question was standing in front of the desk, scuffing his shoe against a carpet pattern.
"Explain yourself, boy," demanded Holmes.
"Miss Beadle thinks I have potential, Dad," piped up Conan. "She likes my sentence structure. She said that I have a vocabulary of an adult. She said I might even become a writer."
Holmes paused to ingest this information.
"Mary!!"
"Oh for pity's sake," said Mary, adjusting the flame. "The human brain is not a cupboard. We've talked about this before, and you stated on 26th of May 1924, Mr. Holmes, that your theory of cluttering is dead. And suddenly it's once again alive and kicking. Sometimes I can't tell which one of you is seven years old."
"Even so," said Holmes. "a writer! Oh, John would never shut up about this. Hopefully it's not too late to get all that wretched fiction out of his head."
Conan made a face. He liked fiction.
"I got an A in science as well," he offered.
"I should bloody well think so," said his father archly. "And you will get much better at it, because from now on, you are going to be home schooled."
And that was that.
-oOo-
Conan sighed, pushing away his copy of "Fifty-Seven Types of Unusual Homicide". He felt a bit down. His Dad confiscated all his books, even took away the typewriter, thus ensuring that Conan would not use it with artistic intent. The only literature left in the room were lots of monographs. Conan had his opinion about monographs, and it was not a pretty one.
"Tired with all these, for restful Death I cry," he quoted.
The door creaked.
"What was that?" asked his father suspiciously, poking his head into the room. "Studying, I hope. I brought a little something to amuse you. Your mother thinks you could use some cheering up. Personally, I can't imagine why. When I was at your age, I'd have loved this sort of education."
He put a long cardboard box on the table. Conan opened the lid and looked inside.
It contained a few dozen glass tubes, a box of matches, small bellows, several packages wrapped in paper, and, of course, a monograph.
"It is a 'Build-Your-Own-Collection-of-Ashes-of-Various-Tobaccos' set," offered his father. "I made it for you myself. It even has excellent coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ashes. Very helpful."
There was a pause.
"Of course, it is only a beginner's set,“ said Sherlock. „There are at least 140 forms of most common ashes and this has test tubes for 60. But I am sure you will have a lot of fun nonetheless."
"I certainly will!" said Conan and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you very much! This was really nice of you! Just what I've always wanted! Er. Thank you."
"You are welcome," said Sherlock, relieved.
"Which ash do you think I should start with?"
"Which would you like to most?"
"…"
"Come on, don't be shy.“
"…a pipe?"
"Excellent choice!" said Sherlock. "But remember, work before play. Now, draw me five anatomical peculiarities of human ears, with added descriptions of the criminal habits of the affected individuals. And then come to the kitchen. I'll make you pancakes."
And he left.
Conan watched him go. Then he examined his new collection set. It indeed did have coloured plates. They were all grey.
Conan took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and wrote:
How to Get Back to School:
What do Mum and Dad like most?
1. Me. (He smiled.)
2. Crime & experiments.
3. Each other.
Well. Messing with item No. 1 was out of the question. The second two, however…
-oOo-
Mary added a pinch of sulphur powder to a bowl and hummed to herself a second verse of the patriotic song 'Keep the Home Fires Burning'.
"While your hearts are yearning," joined Sherlock, coming into the room, "Ah, home-made gunpowder! I didn't even notice we were running out." He came closer and kissed Mary on the neck. She turned around in his arms.
"Oh, we are not, really," she said, "I just thought it would be a good idea to have more gunpowder around the house. You never know."
"Quite. Honey, while you have the saltpetre out, we could make some smoke bombs. They always come in handy. We could try coloured ones."
"Flashy."
"Mmmm."
"Oh. Sherlock."
"Stop flirting!" said Conan Arthur, appearing behind them. They jumped away from each other as if burned.
"I have drawn the ears, dad," said Conan. "Let's make some ash!"
-oOo-
"I'd never have thought that home schooling could be so exhausting," said Holmes several days later as he was climbing to bed. "And I never seem to get you alone anymore, what with Conan all over the place. Not a moment of peace. You know, it would be nice if you could help now and then."
"I don't think so," said Mary, looking up from her monograph. "It was your pig-headed idea. I said that Conan benefits from other children's company and a bit of literature never hurt anyone. You went into a sulking fit, so now you have your heart's desire. Enjoy it."
"Actually, I think I'm coming down with cold. I can't believe you'd leave me in it."
"Watch my lips and weep."
"For better or worse," said Holmes bitterly, putting on his night cap, "in sickness and health. Those were your exact words, you conniving treacherous she-devil."
"Donkey."
"Shrew."
"Mmm."
"I have forgotten to tidy up my ash collection set!" said Conan, sticking out his head from below the bed.
"Ah!" Sherlock cried out in alarm. Mary dropped her monograph. And at the first floor, the lab exploded.
-oOo-
"Have an aspirin, Sherlock," said Mary, patting her husband on the head. "More claret? It´s justified. You have been through a shock."
They were in the study, surrounded by the few bits of remaining unbroken lab equipment. The air reeked of smoke.
"Shock indeed," said Sherlock sarcastically and gulped down the aspirin with the rest of his wine. "How completely unexpected. I should have known you two would gang up on me. But I do get your point. If our son is ready to blow up the house to get back to his poems, who am I to stand in the way. Do what you will. Traitor."
Mary smiled at him. She swept her arm across the table, sending piles of monographs flying everywhere. Then she hopped on it, grabbed Sherlock´s shirt lapels and kissed him.
"It has a silver lining, you know," she informed him.
"That's nice,“ murmured Sherlock, pressing against her body. „For how long are we leaving Conan at Watson's?"
"A week," said his wife. "A punishment for the Britain's most notorious traitor."
"Good. Now, about you."
"Yes."
"It will have to be something rather more rigorous," said Holmes. "I have a monograph which will serve us just fine."
"You do?" said Mary, a bit breathless.
"It´s in Sanskrit," Holmes continued, "but there are pictures."
"Oh Sherlock. I love that one."
-the end-