Character and Atmosphere
This is the first Sherlock Holmes story I ever wrote, and the only one posted on my fanfiction account (which is otherwise plastered with Chronicles of Narnia and Squire's Tales stuff I'll come back to when Holmes is finished gnawing on my brain...). Thought I'd cross-post it here, too. Won't be cross-posted on Watson's Woes due to the significant lack of Watson woe-ing.
Speaking of gnawing on my brain, I FINALLY GOT TO WATCH SHERLOCK! Amazon Instant Video is an awesome thing. I LOVE the series and can't wait for more! You may or may not see Sherlock fics start to appear here...I'm having trouble seeing John and Sherlock in print, so I may have to watch the episodes a gazillion and four times first. Meanwhile, on with the "my first" fic!
Title: Character and Atmosphere
Summary: People avoid 221B. Why? The reason may not be as obvious as you'd think.
Characters: None, officially. Ramble!fic.
Warnings: Silly.
Rating: G.
221B was a pleasant enough place, if Holmes was feeling charitable and the doctor was nearby. It certainly had more character and atmosphere than most pubs and taverns could ever dream of. Its occupants often wondered why people stayed away as often as possible.
Holmes thought it was because people didn’t have any immediate catastrophes. They had no need of a consulting detective and therefore had better things to do that drop by for tea. That suited him quite nicely. Watson thought, in the nicest possible sense, that it was Holmes’ fat ego that kept them away.
In truth, it wasn’t any of that.
There was a stain in the corner from the time Holmes had fainted after a case, and in Watson’s hurry to catch him, he’d knocked over a large inkwell. That didn’t bother anyone. There was a dark spot in the rug where a client had fainted and sent her perfume bottle crashing to the ground. That wasn’t it either.
Watson’s Ship’s and…whatever the devil it was that Holmes had concocted (surely nothing one could buy at a respectable tobacconist would be that vile) left the air at 221B permanently clouded, no matter how many windows they opened. The two different flavors (and colors) of smoke writhed together and caused nearly everyone who entered to cough on contact. That wasn’t why, but it was part of it.
Holmes’ experiments-chemicals and burning metal from the Bunsen burner and the bitter smell of whatever poisons he was studying at the time-where also part of it. Sometimes they made the rooms smokier than the tobacco. Sometimes things exploded. That was scary, but it wasn’t the only thing that drove people from the door.
It wasn’t just Holmes that lent character to 221B. Antiseptic stains lingered on Watson’s clothing and near his bag, and you could usually get a good whiff of his brandy. They didn’t mind that so much.
Over the entire flat was a darker smell, a hint of blood or death. The police had never been quite brave enough to ask about that one-whether it was another of Holmes’ experiments, leftover from faded stains marking injury and illness, or one or the both of them had committed murder, they were sure they did not want to know. That was another thing.
It was all of it put together, really. The tobacco, the ink, the antiseptic, the brandy, the chemicals, the blood, the perfume-they filled the air, mingled and twisted into some sort of semi-lethal weapon to attack the nostrils. It sank into the rugs and the furniture, clung to the clothing of its occupants, and assaulted each and every unfortunate being to walk under an open window. If Mrs. Hudson became hysterical, it was because the two of them had done something to add a new smell, and if lady clients held their handkerchiefs to their faces, it was not because they were overcome with emotion, but because they couldn’t take it any more. The truth was that 221B had the worst smelling rooms in all of London, and that was the real reason the policemen drew straws when they needed to ask for the Great Detective’s help.
Speaking of gnawing on my brain, I FINALLY GOT TO WATCH SHERLOCK! Amazon Instant Video is an awesome thing. I LOVE the series and can't wait for more! You may or may not see Sherlock fics start to appear here...I'm having trouble seeing John and Sherlock in print, so I may have to watch the episodes a gazillion and four times first. Meanwhile, on with the "my first" fic!
Title: Character and Atmosphere
Summary: People avoid 221B. Why? The reason may not be as obvious as you'd think.
Characters: None, officially. Ramble!fic.
Warnings: Silly.
Rating: G.
221B was a pleasant enough place, if Holmes was feeling charitable and the doctor was nearby. It certainly had more character and atmosphere than most pubs and taverns could ever dream of. Its occupants often wondered why people stayed away as often as possible.
Holmes thought it was because people didn’t have any immediate catastrophes. They had no need of a consulting detective and therefore had better things to do that drop by for tea. That suited him quite nicely. Watson thought, in the nicest possible sense, that it was Holmes’ fat ego that kept them away.
In truth, it wasn’t any of that.
There was a stain in the corner from the time Holmes had fainted after a case, and in Watson’s hurry to catch him, he’d knocked over a large inkwell. That didn’t bother anyone. There was a dark spot in the rug where a client had fainted and sent her perfume bottle crashing to the ground. That wasn’t it either.
Watson’s Ship’s and…whatever the devil it was that Holmes had concocted (surely nothing one could buy at a respectable tobacconist would be that vile) left the air at 221B permanently clouded, no matter how many windows they opened. The two different flavors (and colors) of smoke writhed together and caused nearly everyone who entered to cough on contact. That wasn’t why, but it was part of it.
Holmes’ experiments-chemicals and burning metal from the Bunsen burner and the bitter smell of whatever poisons he was studying at the time-where also part of it. Sometimes they made the rooms smokier than the tobacco. Sometimes things exploded. That was scary, but it wasn’t the only thing that drove people from the door.
It wasn’t just Holmes that lent character to 221B. Antiseptic stains lingered on Watson’s clothing and near his bag, and you could usually get a good whiff of his brandy. They didn’t mind that so much.
Over the entire flat was a darker smell, a hint of blood or death. The police had never been quite brave enough to ask about that one-whether it was another of Holmes’ experiments, leftover from faded stains marking injury and illness, or one or the both of them had committed murder, they were sure they did not want to know. That was another thing.
It was all of it put together, really. The tobacco, the ink, the antiseptic, the brandy, the chemicals, the blood, the perfume-they filled the air, mingled and twisted into some sort of semi-lethal weapon to attack the nostrils. It sank into the rugs and the furniture, clung to the clothing of its occupants, and assaulted each and every unfortunate being to walk under an open window. If Mrs. Hudson became hysterical, it was because the two of them had done something to add a new smell, and if lady clients held their handkerchiefs to their faces, it was not because they were overcome with emotion, but because they couldn’t take it any more. The truth was that 221B had the worst smelling rooms in all of London, and that was the real reason the policemen drew straws when they needed to ask for the Great Detective’s help.