(no subject)
Title: Kitchen by storm
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr John H Watson, Mrs Hudson, Bert, nameless other.
Summary: How stupid do you have to be to try and rob Sherlock Holmes?
Warnings: gen
Word Count: 700
Notes: written for a collaboration led by Capt_Facepalm found here --> capt-facepalm.livejournal.com/12363.html
To Sherlock Holmes, almost everyone else was unintelligent, or as he liked to put it “dimwit, twit, clodpole, coot, saughty, daft, numbty-“
“Yes that’s quite enough, thank you!” said Watson, raising his hand. “I am well aware of your extensive vocabulary.“ Holmes opened his mouth...
“-in several languages!” Watson added, forestalling him. “There is no need to insult the human race in French as well.”
And he retreated stubbornly behind his paper. Sometimes the only way to be firm (pig-headed) with Holmes was to retreat.
The detective smirked, causing his pipe to curl upwards in the corner of his mouth, and returned to his chemicals, acerbic inclinations satisfied.
Watson did not usually like to hear Holmes being so cynical; he knew that it was really a sign of the shafted idealist hiding within the recesses of his friend’s heart. Holmes was a reasoner, and only an idealist could see the world as a reasonable place…and then be so bitterly disappointed when his fellow man proved him wrong time and again.
But for all his satirical foreplay, even Watson had to admit that Holmes was correct after the events of the following evening.
It happened in this way; having retired early (for once) and entrenched himself between the blissful sheets of his bed, Watson was jerked suddenly, and mercilessly awake by an almighty clatter that rang in his head.
“Bloody!” he rolled to the floor, because to his sleep-deafened ears it sounded like a gunshot.
He crouched on the floorboards for a full minute without crossfire, then surged to his feet. “What in blazes is going on!?”
Watson did not much like being woken up at 5:13 am.
Nor did Holmes, if the muffled exclamations from downstairs were any indication. The good Doctor snatched up the revolver from his bedside table, and hurried to meet his friend on the landing.
The detective was perked with alarm, hair askew; like a very skinny disgruntled owl. He was holding his riding crop.
He seemed a little relived to see Watson descend. “You’re all right?”
“Perfectly,” said Watson, glancing over his friend for injuries.
“You?”
"Yes.”
Holmes frowned. “But if not us then-“
BANG!
Both men leapt, and came down again, only to clatter downstairs like a pair of cats with bristling tails.
The ground floor was dark and still, and Mrs. Hudson’s parlour door was closed. Raised voices led them to the kitchen.
And there, in a battlefield of scattered dishes and drifting flour, was their dear old landlady, wielding a frying pan.
At her feet lay a man in dark, cheap clothing, holding his head and moaning piteously.
A second was trying to fend her off with the butter paddle.
She glared at her lodgers as they entered, looking somehow very fierce under the flour that covered her like warpaint. She did not lower the frying pan.
“Mr. Holmes, if these two are yours then I will-“
“Not mine, Mrs. Hudson!” sputtered Holmes, “Not mine! I’ve never seen them before in my life.”
“We didn’t mean her no harm!” gasped the villain who was still upright. “We wouldn’t have hurt her, would we Bert?” he gave the man on the floor a little kick, and with another moan the sufferer raised his head.
He saw Holmes, and his face drained of color beneath his black bristles. “Oh my sainted aunt!”
“What?” asked Bert’s friend, and took a longer gander at the detective.
Watson had never seen anyone’s eyes go quite that wide before, and he was treated to a close view of them as the burglar clung to his dressing gown.
“We didn’t know! We swear we didn’t know!”
The good Doctor tutted, and took hold of the man’s collar, pushing him forward out the door, and bending to retrieve poor Bert.
“You’re right, Holmes,” he said, dragging the concussed man behind him. “Only the two most dimwitted scoundrels in Christendom would try to burgle the apartments of Sherlock Holmes. Come on you two, there’s a constable on the beat outside. ”
After he left, Holmes surveyed the ruination of the Kitchen and Mrs. Hudson’s stalwart grip on the frying pan. He smiled and bowed.
“And only an astonishingly dimwitted ruffian would try to break in through your kitchen window, dear woman.”
Mrs. Hudson huffed, and flicked flour at his face.
But she still gave them some tea when Watson returned.
Rating: PG
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr John H Watson, Mrs Hudson, Bert, nameless other.
Summary: How stupid do you have to be to try and rob Sherlock Holmes?
Warnings: gen
Word Count: 700
Notes: written for a collaboration led by Capt_Facepalm found here --> capt-facepalm.livejournal.com/12363.html
To Sherlock Holmes, almost everyone else was unintelligent, or as he liked to put it “dimwit, twit, clodpole, coot, saughty, daft, numbty-“
“Yes that’s quite enough, thank you!” said Watson, raising his hand. “I am well aware of your extensive vocabulary.“ Holmes opened his mouth...
“-in several languages!” Watson added, forestalling him. “There is no need to insult the human race in French as well.”
And he retreated stubbornly behind his paper. Sometimes the only way to be firm (pig-headed) with Holmes was to retreat.
The detective smirked, causing his pipe to curl upwards in the corner of his mouth, and returned to his chemicals, acerbic inclinations satisfied.
Watson did not usually like to hear Holmes being so cynical; he knew that it was really a sign of the shafted idealist hiding within the recesses of his friend’s heart. Holmes was a reasoner, and only an idealist could see the world as a reasonable place…and then be so bitterly disappointed when his fellow man proved him wrong time and again.
But for all his satirical foreplay, even Watson had to admit that Holmes was correct after the events of the following evening.
It happened in this way; having retired early (for once) and entrenched himself between the blissful sheets of his bed, Watson was jerked suddenly, and mercilessly awake by an almighty clatter that rang in his head.
“Bloody!” he rolled to the floor, because to his sleep-deafened ears it sounded like a gunshot.
He crouched on the floorboards for a full minute without crossfire, then surged to his feet. “What in blazes is going on!?”
Watson did not much like being woken up at 5:13 am.
Nor did Holmes, if the muffled exclamations from downstairs were any indication. The good Doctor snatched up the revolver from his bedside table, and hurried to meet his friend on the landing.
The detective was perked with alarm, hair askew; like a very skinny disgruntled owl. He was holding his riding crop.
He seemed a little relived to see Watson descend. “You’re all right?”
“Perfectly,” said Watson, glancing over his friend for injuries.
“You?”
"Yes.”
Holmes frowned. “But if not us then-“
BANG!
Both men leapt, and came down again, only to clatter downstairs like a pair of cats with bristling tails.
The ground floor was dark and still, and Mrs. Hudson’s parlour door was closed. Raised voices led them to the kitchen.
And there, in a battlefield of scattered dishes and drifting flour, was their dear old landlady, wielding a frying pan.
At her feet lay a man in dark, cheap clothing, holding his head and moaning piteously.
A second was trying to fend her off with the butter paddle.
She glared at her lodgers as they entered, looking somehow very fierce under the flour that covered her like warpaint. She did not lower the frying pan.
“Mr. Holmes, if these two are yours then I will-“
“Not mine, Mrs. Hudson!” sputtered Holmes, “Not mine! I’ve never seen them before in my life.”
“We didn’t mean her no harm!” gasped the villain who was still upright. “We wouldn’t have hurt her, would we Bert?” he gave the man on the floor a little kick, and with another moan the sufferer raised his head.
He saw Holmes, and his face drained of color beneath his black bristles. “Oh my sainted aunt!”
“What?” asked Bert’s friend, and took a longer gander at the detective.
Watson had never seen anyone’s eyes go quite that wide before, and he was treated to a close view of them as the burglar clung to his dressing gown.
“We didn’t know! We swear we didn’t know!”
The good Doctor tutted, and took hold of the man’s collar, pushing him forward out the door, and bending to retrieve poor Bert.
“You’re right, Holmes,” he said, dragging the concussed man behind him. “Only the two most dimwitted scoundrels in Christendom would try to burgle the apartments of Sherlock Holmes. Come on you two, there’s a constable on the beat outside. ”
After he left, Holmes surveyed the ruination of the Kitchen and Mrs. Hudson’s stalwart grip on the frying pan. He smiled and bowed.
“And only an astonishingly dimwitted ruffian would try to break in through your kitchen window, dear woman.”
Mrs. Hudson huffed, and flicked flour at his face.
But she still gave them some tea when Watson returned.