FIC: "The Baker Street Cat Mystery"
Title: "The Baker Street Cat Mystery"
Author(s): mashfanficchick
Rating: G
Pairing(s): none
Summary: With Holmes away, the cats will play. What happens upon his return?
Warnings: Lack of Case (or, possibly, any actual plot, though I did my best); Too Much Watson (even though I love him, the focus was meant to be on Holmes!). Oh, and (as ancalime8301 noticed) Not Beta'd, as I finished it too close to the Challenge deadline. Sorry. :-/
Word Count: ~2,350
Author's Notes: Spoilery; highlight to read. As much as I love the idea of it, Stephen King's Sherlock Holmes story "The Doctor's Case" never really did much for me. A large part of that, I think, was predicated on the idea that Holmes couldn't possibly have suffered from such a severe allergy without Watson ever noticing it; that if he did have such an allergy, it would have to require much more and/or closer contact for him to have such a bad reaction. Plus, I didn't like Lestrade being so eager to see Holmes in such discomfort. So, I decided to "remix" the idea, complete with one line (well, two, actually) taken directly from the original text. Sorry, Mr. King. I mean no disrespect.
Also, comments--including concrit--are always welcome, whether in comments, LJ message, or at CartoonB@aol.com.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and Mrs. Hudson don't belong to me. Mr. Saunders and Emily do. All characters belong to various combinations of each other.
PART I
Over the many years that I have published to stories of my friend Sherlock Holmes' exploits, his second-most oftspoke complaint (after his criticism of my overall writing style) has been my habit, in his view, to present him as invincible, felled by neither man nor beast; contraption nor question. The matter came to a head over breakfast one morning, as he read my latest story in the Strand.
“Watson,” said he, “I am not unaware of my tendency towards arrogance, but even I cannot swallow the lies you have told about me. Were I not flattered, I could well sue you for slander!”
“Holmes,” I replied, “I am sure it's not as bad as all that. Perhaps a touch of exaggeration, a mere smoothing of the edges is all.”
“Hah! Your words, and the truth behind them in your mind, very nearly prove my point. Well then, we shall have a wager on it, shall we? Five shillings says you cannot write a story about me that depicts me as having the slightest weakness.” I opened my mouth to protest this description of my character, only to have Holmes cut me off before I could speak. “The cocaine bottle does not count. It must be something that does not vex you personally.” Besides which, I knew it had been several years since he had engaged in that particular vice; to bring it up now seemed nearly cruel.
“Very well, then,” I said. “Five shillings that the next story I write shall highlight your flaws. Only pray don't get offended when you don't enjoy the results.”
Holmes nodded his assent, and thus the matter was decided. I would write a story in which he wasn't the all-mighty hero, and he would have to suffer the inevitable bruise to his enormous pride. And so, over the course of the next several weeks, I began a narrative, the way I begin all these tales. However, it soon became plain that to allow this particular story to reach the public might put Holmes at risk, and unlike in many similar situations, there was no real way to conceal the truth without changing some of the most damaging details--the very thing Holmes wanted to critique! I pondered this quandary for some time, before deciding that I would ask Holmes for an postponement of sorts: I would write the story now, but hold off on publishing it until I felt it was safe. Surprisingly, he agreed, most likely believing that I could not even in private portray him as mortal. Wager amended, I went off to complete my writing, even going to far as to ask Mrs. Hudson to bind it for me. If she thought this an odd request, she didn't say so; and anyhow, it was unlikely the thought much of it at all, Holmes' penchant for eccentricity being what it was. Three weeks after our initial discourse, I deposited the small book by Holmes' breakfast plate and awaited his response. It was not long in coming, as immediately after breakfast, he lit his pipe and opened the linen cover, immediately becoming visibly engrossed. Shortly thereafter, he seemed to come back to himself, a look of mirth upon his sharp features.
“I say, Watson!” he cried. “That was amusing! I should have guessed that would be the occurrence you'd choose, after your talk about my health and safety.” He made a sour face, as though to indicate that his physical condition was unimportant. “Never mind, though; I must admit you performed your task admirably. I shall give you half the wager now, and the other when you publish it. I am still not sure you would allow others to see me this way.”
As he spoke, he reached for his pocket-book, drawing out two and one-half shillings and passing them to me with the air of one who must wait a bit longer for victory. Had he known then how long he would have to wait, and what the eventual outcome would be, he might have looked less smug-though I doubt it, considering his conceit-but, as it was, he merely smiled and reached again for his pipe.
Soon after this incident came to a close, a small fire broke out amongst Holmes' possessions, caused, no doubt, by his habit of keeping his papers and chemicals too close together. Fortunately, nothing important was lost; however, in his haste to both extinguish the flames and prevent the damage from spreading, Holmes inadvertently moved several less critical items into the small space between the bookcase and the window, then promptly forgot he had done so due to the commotion. Among these items was the book. It would not be until many years later, as we prepared to leave Baker Street for good, that it would be found.
PART II
I had been living with Sherlock Holmes for only a short time when the following incident occurred. Indeed, the lack of familiarity and intimacy between us was, in fact, the crux of the matter. I had noticed, over the few months of our acquaintance, that he seemed to have a mild aversion to cats, referring to them as “beasts” and skirting them best he could at people's houses. However, as he did not behave too dissimilarly to dogs, which I knew he had a preference for, I thought nothing of it. This, as Holmes would say, was my mistake.
It was June, I believe, when I was called to the home of a Mr. Saunders, a widower. His young daughter had come down with a fever, and he desired a doctor's advice. Upon seeing the girl, I mainly recommended rest, as the illness seemed quite mild. The patient, however-Emily was her name-seemed troubled by this, and, upon gentle questioning, admitted that she had be hiding a pet cat from her father, and that it was expected to give birth in the next few days. Mr. Saunders was not pleased, but manged to reassure his daughter that he would take care of the problem to her satisfaction. Afterwards, however, he confessed to me that he was not at all fond of the idea, and his clear befuddlement over the issue eventually led to me bringing the cat home myself, safely ensconced in a basket.
Once back at Baker Street, I informed Mrs. Hudson of our temporary visitor and brought the basket into the sitting room. Holmes had left the day before on a fortnight visit to his brother's estate-something involving a case, no doubt, but I hadn't had the time to accompany him-and so I had our rooms to myself for a time. I settled the cat, whose name I realized I'd forgotten to ask, and so would have to think of one, on a blanket by the fire, and went upstairs to my bedroom to change. Upon my return to the sitting room, I found the cat in nearly the same position I'd left her, and so settled down to smoke and read a novel. Eventually, I moved to the desk to work on a story I'd been writing, and it was then that I thought of a name for the creature. I decided, despite her gender, to call her Hodge, after Dr. Samuel Johnson's famed cat, the one James Boswell wrote of in his book The Life Of Samuel Johnson. It seemed fitting, as Holmes often referred to me, somewhat erroneously, as his Boswell.
We continued this way-my working and relaxing, and Hodge lying by the fire-for two more days before the kittens arrived. There were four of them: two tortoiseshell, like their mother, and two ginger. The mother-Hodge, I was going to have to get used to her name-seemed quite content with her brood, and so I left them alone. I had worried for a time about taking care of Hodge's needs, but Mrs. Hudson clearly had seen to that; there were bowls of milk and water and a small pan of sand by what I'd come to think of as Hodge's blanket, and I wondered if caring for the cats might not be easier for her than catering to Sherlock Holmes. When I thanked her for her assistance, the look she gave me very nearly answered that question.
Two weeks passed quickly, the kittens growing and changing every day, and eventually it was time for Holmes' return. I happened to be at Baker Street when he arrived, writing a scholarly article I hoped to have published in a journal, and so was privy to the events as they occurred. Had I not been, I don't know that I would have ever been able to picture the comical look of dismay that crossed Holmes' face when he saw the new occupants of the sitting room.
“Watson,” he began, in a way I'd grown used to. “Are those kittens I see on the rug?” They were, of course, as Mrs. Hudson had taken the blanket away to wash; besides which, the kittens were growing old enough to explore beyond its bounds.
“Yes, Holmes,” I replied. It was always best to humor him in these moods, as he was not fond of my pawky humor, as he called it, when riled.
“And the mother cat?” Something near to dread had crept into his voice, though I knew not why, for-as I said-he had henceforth seemed to have only a mild aversion to the creatures.
“She is around somewhere. The kittens have stayed here, but Mrs. Hudson was quite amenable to giving Hodge the run of the place.” If I'd been hoping for him to notice the name, I was to be sorely disappointed.
“Staying?” he cried.
“Yes, Holmes. Hodge belonged to a patient-well, belongs-I suppose it's not important. But yes, the mother cat has been here nearly a fortnight, and the kittens since their birth about ten days ago.”
“Oh, dear. Watson, why would you not have asked my opinion on the matter, before inviting these...guests into our home?”
That was very nearly enough. We had shared the rooms equally up to this point, and I resented the implication that I had to ask his permission for what was surely to be a very temporary arrangement.
“You were not here, Holmes,” I said calmly, “and there was no reason for me to believe that it would bother you so utterly when the situation is quite limited. I am certain that the cats' owner will be making plans for their return or dispersal very soon.” This was the truth, though I was now beginning to suspect I would have to take care to speed the process exponentially.
“Fair enough. But their presence does cause problems.” Holmes sighed, sniffed. “Tell me, Watson, as a medical man, what would you say if presented with a patient who, upon spending more than a short time near cats, began to have symptoms similar to that of a head cold?”
Of course. I now understood Holmes' responses, and I felt immeasurably guilty. Only the fact that I had had no way of knowing kept me from more severe shame. I attempted to sound strictly professional.
“I would say that he was suffering from something similar to rose fever. Some sort of hypersensitive reaction to something ordinarily harmless.” I had to withhold a smile, as the word hypersensitive, which I'd read only a few times in medical books, seemed in general not a poor way of describing my friend.
“And it will continue, so long as the...creatures remain?”
“Yes, Holmes.” I considered leaving my answer at that, but I have rarely been able to lie to Holmes even by omission, and so I continued. “Even after, perhaps; I have heard of those for whom even the hair on the floors and chairs causes coryza.”
“Wonderful.” He was sniffing more violently now, and his nose twitched repeatedly. “I am going to sneeze, am I not?” Again, I couldn't lie to him.
“Yes, my dear Holmes. Often and profoundly, I fear.”
“That is what I feared, as well.” Scarcely had the words left his mouth than he pitched forward with a great sneeze, followed immediately by another. “Can anything be done,” he asked, as he tended to his pinkening nose, “or am I to suffer this way for some time?” Finally, I was able to give him some good words.
“The cats have not stepped foot in your room,” I told him. “I have kept the door closed as you left it, so perhaps you may find some relief there.”
Holmes gave a quick nod to indicate that he had heard me before beginning to sneeze again, the paroxysms barely muffled by his handkerchief. Halfway through the small fit, he made a sound of desperation, though whether it was the sneezes themselves or his inability to stop them that vexed him so mightily, I do not know.
When he finally stopped sneezing for the moment, he stalked off towards his room, where he stayed for the following three days. Ironically, the very things that aggravated him so also prevented him from the boredom he usually suffered upon being confined: the fits of sneezing, along with his other symptoms, took some time to ebb, and they eventually exhausted him, allowing him to pass much of the time sleeping restlessly. For myself, I removed the cats immediately, delivering them to their prior owner with an apologetic explanation. Afterwards, I prevailed upon Mrs. Hudson to have someone thoroughly clean the rooms; initially, she muttered imprecations upon “that Mr. Holmes” but assented when I informed her that it was a legitimate medical issue. Soon enough, the house had been restored to its previous condition, and Holmes was hard at work with his chemicals, attempting to find a cure for his condition. No more was ever said on the topic, though to this day I am unsure that Mrs. Hudson did not prefer the actual felines to her human, cat-like, tenant.
END
(Mods, may I have an author tag, please?)
Author(s): mashfanficchick
Rating: G
Pairing(s): none
Summary: With Holmes away, the cats will play. What happens upon his return?
Warnings: Lack of Case (or, possibly, any actual plot, though I did my best); Too Much Watson (even though I love him, the focus was meant to be on Holmes!). Oh, and (as ancalime8301 noticed) Not Beta'd, as I finished it too close to the Challenge deadline. Sorry. :-/
Word Count: ~2,350
Author's Notes: Spoilery; highlight to read. As much as I love the idea of it, Stephen King's Sherlock Holmes story "The Doctor's Case" never really did much for me. A large part of that, I think, was predicated on the idea that Holmes couldn't possibly have suffered from such a severe allergy without Watson ever noticing it; that if he did have such an allergy, it would have to require much more and/or closer contact for him to have such a bad reaction. Plus, I didn't like Lestrade being so eager to see Holmes in such discomfort. So, I decided to "remix" the idea, complete with one line (well, two, actually) taken directly from the original text. Sorry, Mr. King. I mean no disrespect.
Also, comments--including concrit--are always welcome, whether in comments, LJ message, or at CartoonB@aol.com.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and Mrs. Hudson don't belong to me. Mr. Saunders and Emily do. All characters belong to various combinations of each other.
PART I
Over the many years that I have published to stories of my friend Sherlock Holmes' exploits, his second-most oftspoke complaint (after his criticism of my overall writing style) has been my habit, in his view, to present him as invincible, felled by neither man nor beast; contraption nor question. The matter came to a head over breakfast one morning, as he read my latest story in the Strand.
“Watson,” said he, “I am not unaware of my tendency towards arrogance, but even I cannot swallow the lies you have told about me. Were I not flattered, I could well sue you for slander!”
“Holmes,” I replied, “I am sure it's not as bad as all that. Perhaps a touch of exaggeration, a mere smoothing of the edges is all.”
“Hah! Your words, and the truth behind them in your mind, very nearly prove my point. Well then, we shall have a wager on it, shall we? Five shillings says you cannot write a story about me that depicts me as having the slightest weakness.” I opened my mouth to protest this description of my character, only to have Holmes cut me off before I could speak. “The cocaine bottle does not count. It must be something that does not vex you personally.” Besides which, I knew it had been several years since he had engaged in that particular vice; to bring it up now seemed nearly cruel.
“Very well, then,” I said. “Five shillings that the next story I write shall highlight your flaws. Only pray don't get offended when you don't enjoy the results.”
Holmes nodded his assent, and thus the matter was decided. I would write a story in which he wasn't the all-mighty hero, and he would have to suffer the inevitable bruise to his enormous pride. And so, over the course of the next several weeks, I began a narrative, the way I begin all these tales. However, it soon became plain that to allow this particular story to reach the public might put Holmes at risk, and unlike in many similar situations, there was no real way to conceal the truth without changing some of the most damaging details--the very thing Holmes wanted to critique! I pondered this quandary for some time, before deciding that I would ask Holmes for an postponement of sorts: I would write the story now, but hold off on publishing it until I felt it was safe. Surprisingly, he agreed, most likely believing that I could not even in private portray him as mortal. Wager amended, I went off to complete my writing, even going to far as to ask Mrs. Hudson to bind it for me. If she thought this an odd request, she didn't say so; and anyhow, it was unlikely the thought much of it at all, Holmes' penchant for eccentricity being what it was. Three weeks after our initial discourse, I deposited the small book by Holmes' breakfast plate and awaited his response. It was not long in coming, as immediately after breakfast, he lit his pipe and opened the linen cover, immediately becoming visibly engrossed. Shortly thereafter, he seemed to come back to himself, a look of mirth upon his sharp features.
“I say, Watson!” he cried. “That was amusing! I should have guessed that would be the occurrence you'd choose, after your talk about my health and safety.” He made a sour face, as though to indicate that his physical condition was unimportant. “Never mind, though; I must admit you performed your task admirably. I shall give you half the wager now, and the other when you publish it. I am still not sure you would allow others to see me this way.”
As he spoke, he reached for his pocket-book, drawing out two and one-half shillings and passing them to me with the air of one who must wait a bit longer for victory. Had he known then how long he would have to wait, and what the eventual outcome would be, he might have looked less smug-though I doubt it, considering his conceit-but, as it was, he merely smiled and reached again for his pipe.
Soon after this incident came to a close, a small fire broke out amongst Holmes' possessions, caused, no doubt, by his habit of keeping his papers and chemicals too close together. Fortunately, nothing important was lost; however, in his haste to both extinguish the flames and prevent the damage from spreading, Holmes inadvertently moved several less critical items into the small space between the bookcase and the window, then promptly forgot he had done so due to the commotion. Among these items was the book. It would not be until many years later, as we prepared to leave Baker Street for good, that it would be found.
PART II
I had been living with Sherlock Holmes for only a short time when the following incident occurred. Indeed, the lack of familiarity and intimacy between us was, in fact, the crux of the matter. I had noticed, over the few months of our acquaintance, that he seemed to have a mild aversion to cats, referring to them as “beasts” and skirting them best he could at people's houses. However, as he did not behave too dissimilarly to dogs, which I knew he had a preference for, I thought nothing of it. This, as Holmes would say, was my mistake.
It was June, I believe, when I was called to the home of a Mr. Saunders, a widower. His young daughter had come down with a fever, and he desired a doctor's advice. Upon seeing the girl, I mainly recommended rest, as the illness seemed quite mild. The patient, however-Emily was her name-seemed troubled by this, and, upon gentle questioning, admitted that she had be hiding a pet cat from her father, and that it was expected to give birth in the next few days. Mr. Saunders was not pleased, but manged to reassure his daughter that he would take care of the problem to her satisfaction. Afterwards, however, he confessed to me that he was not at all fond of the idea, and his clear befuddlement over the issue eventually led to me bringing the cat home myself, safely ensconced in a basket.
Once back at Baker Street, I informed Mrs. Hudson of our temporary visitor and brought the basket into the sitting room. Holmes had left the day before on a fortnight visit to his brother's estate-something involving a case, no doubt, but I hadn't had the time to accompany him-and so I had our rooms to myself for a time. I settled the cat, whose name I realized I'd forgotten to ask, and so would have to think of one, on a blanket by the fire, and went upstairs to my bedroom to change. Upon my return to the sitting room, I found the cat in nearly the same position I'd left her, and so settled down to smoke and read a novel. Eventually, I moved to the desk to work on a story I'd been writing, and it was then that I thought of a name for the creature. I decided, despite her gender, to call her Hodge, after Dr. Samuel Johnson's famed cat, the one James Boswell wrote of in his book The Life Of Samuel Johnson. It seemed fitting, as Holmes often referred to me, somewhat erroneously, as his Boswell.
We continued this way-my working and relaxing, and Hodge lying by the fire-for two more days before the kittens arrived. There were four of them: two tortoiseshell, like their mother, and two ginger. The mother-Hodge, I was going to have to get used to her name-seemed quite content with her brood, and so I left them alone. I had worried for a time about taking care of Hodge's needs, but Mrs. Hudson clearly had seen to that; there were bowls of milk and water and a small pan of sand by what I'd come to think of as Hodge's blanket, and I wondered if caring for the cats might not be easier for her than catering to Sherlock Holmes. When I thanked her for her assistance, the look she gave me very nearly answered that question.
Two weeks passed quickly, the kittens growing and changing every day, and eventually it was time for Holmes' return. I happened to be at Baker Street when he arrived, writing a scholarly article I hoped to have published in a journal, and so was privy to the events as they occurred. Had I not been, I don't know that I would have ever been able to picture the comical look of dismay that crossed Holmes' face when he saw the new occupants of the sitting room.
“Watson,” he began, in a way I'd grown used to. “Are those kittens I see on the rug?” They were, of course, as Mrs. Hudson had taken the blanket away to wash; besides which, the kittens were growing old enough to explore beyond its bounds.
“Yes, Holmes,” I replied. It was always best to humor him in these moods, as he was not fond of my pawky humor, as he called it, when riled.
“And the mother cat?” Something near to dread had crept into his voice, though I knew not why, for-as I said-he had henceforth seemed to have only a mild aversion to the creatures.
“She is around somewhere. The kittens have stayed here, but Mrs. Hudson was quite amenable to giving Hodge the run of the place.” If I'd been hoping for him to notice the name, I was to be sorely disappointed.
“Staying?” he cried.
“Yes, Holmes. Hodge belonged to a patient-well, belongs-I suppose it's not important. But yes, the mother cat has been here nearly a fortnight, and the kittens since their birth about ten days ago.”
“Oh, dear. Watson, why would you not have asked my opinion on the matter, before inviting these...guests into our home?”
That was very nearly enough. We had shared the rooms equally up to this point, and I resented the implication that I had to ask his permission for what was surely to be a very temporary arrangement.
“You were not here, Holmes,” I said calmly, “and there was no reason for me to believe that it would bother you so utterly when the situation is quite limited. I am certain that the cats' owner will be making plans for their return or dispersal very soon.” This was the truth, though I was now beginning to suspect I would have to take care to speed the process exponentially.
“Fair enough. But their presence does cause problems.” Holmes sighed, sniffed. “Tell me, Watson, as a medical man, what would you say if presented with a patient who, upon spending more than a short time near cats, began to have symptoms similar to that of a head cold?”
Of course. I now understood Holmes' responses, and I felt immeasurably guilty. Only the fact that I had had no way of knowing kept me from more severe shame. I attempted to sound strictly professional.
“I would say that he was suffering from something similar to rose fever. Some sort of hypersensitive reaction to something ordinarily harmless.” I had to withhold a smile, as the word hypersensitive, which I'd read only a few times in medical books, seemed in general not a poor way of describing my friend.
“And it will continue, so long as the...creatures remain?”
“Yes, Holmes.” I considered leaving my answer at that, but I have rarely been able to lie to Holmes even by omission, and so I continued. “Even after, perhaps; I have heard of those for whom even the hair on the floors and chairs causes coryza.”
“Wonderful.” He was sniffing more violently now, and his nose twitched repeatedly. “I am going to sneeze, am I not?” Again, I couldn't lie to him.
“Yes, my dear Holmes. Often and profoundly, I fear.”
“That is what I feared, as well.” Scarcely had the words left his mouth than he pitched forward with a great sneeze, followed immediately by another. “Can anything be done,” he asked, as he tended to his pinkening nose, “or am I to suffer this way for some time?” Finally, I was able to give him some good words.
“The cats have not stepped foot in your room,” I told him. “I have kept the door closed as you left it, so perhaps you may find some relief there.”
Holmes gave a quick nod to indicate that he had heard me before beginning to sneeze again, the paroxysms barely muffled by his handkerchief. Halfway through the small fit, he made a sound of desperation, though whether it was the sneezes themselves or his inability to stop them that vexed him so mightily, I do not know.
When he finally stopped sneezing for the moment, he stalked off towards his room, where he stayed for the following three days. Ironically, the very things that aggravated him so also prevented him from the boredom he usually suffered upon being confined: the fits of sneezing, along with his other symptoms, took some time to ebb, and they eventually exhausted him, allowing him to pass much of the time sleeping restlessly. For myself, I removed the cats immediately, delivering them to their prior owner with an apologetic explanation. Afterwards, I prevailed upon Mrs. Hudson to have someone thoroughly clean the rooms; initially, she muttered imprecations upon “that Mr. Holmes” but assented when I informed her that it was a legitimate medical issue. Soon enough, the house had been restored to its previous condition, and Holmes was hard at work with his chemicals, attempting to find a cure for his condition. No more was ever said on the topic, though to this day I am unsure that Mrs. Hudson did not prefer the actual felines to her human, cat-like, tenant.
END
(Mods, may I have an author tag, please?)