For Spacedmonkey...
I eyed the gutter-grey pigeon on my way back from taking the bins out. It was sitting on the paving right next to the Oast - loitering. “Fuck off,” I told it bluntly and shut the front door.
A beat. I opened the door again.
The bird was still there, fat, scruffy, manky, and ever so London-like. I glared at it. It stared back, its small brain calculating the possibility of breadcrumbs. “Oh, gods,” I complained. “Holmes sent you, didn’t he?”
The pigeon bobbed its head and continued to sit there, staring vacantly at me as if wondering whether I might possibly turn into a very large breadcrumb. I rolled my eyes. Why else would there be a London pigeon three foot from the Oast door when every other bird in the hedgerows was squawking at it to piss off?
“Did he teach you to speak? Beak semaphore? Some sort of feathery Morse Code? No? Great.” I disappeared back inside and latched the door behind me. Made tea, and went to have a shower.
Ten minutes later I exited the bathroom in a scattering of hairpins and a badly draped towel.
“Sapphire!” Announced a voice from the vicinity of the bed.
I backed into bathroom at speed and closed the door. “Jesus bloody kerrist,” I swore. “Bedroom!”
There was the sound of someone taking a mouthful of hot tea with a slight burn and much relish. “I sent you a message.”
“Pigeon,” I corrected. “You sent me a bloody pigeon!” I hopped into a pair of knickers and kicked my combat trousers on. Bra next, and then discovered apparently my T-shirt was back in the bedroom. I exited the bathroom with as much dignity as I could muster and sorted through the clean clothes on the chair, opting to behave as if the dishevelled detective sitting on my bed drinking my tea did not exist.
“What is that?” he remarked, mingled wonder and horror. And then as if I might have forgotten, “You detest pink.”
I spared a highly irritated glance at the bra I was wearing. “Colours run in the wash - it was cream when I bought it - and I can’t afford to throw out perfectly good underwear just because it’s gone a stupid colour.”
Eyebrows quirked over another swallow of tea. “Lucky the artist isn’t...”
“Where is Vincent?” I had been assured of his arrival. But then again assurances from Holmes are rather like assurances from a Time Lord or any other lunatic genius. They’ll hold true if it matters, but for everything else there’s a lot of leeway...
“Asleep in the other room,” he said as if it was obvious.
I pulled a T-shirt over my head and went to have a look. Once I stepped into the corridor I could hear the ragged snoring. I peeped round the doorframe. “Huh. So he is,” I murmured.
===
Silversmithing had not gone well. I returned from the workshop tired, dispirited, bleeding from several minor cuts and burns, and in an unutterably foul mood.
Holmes heard my tread on the stairs. “You’ve been in here!” he accused from the far bedroom where he’d set up his workshop. “You’ve moved things!”
“Not me. Delilah.”
I could almost hear his scowl and the furrow of his brow for the moment it took him to connect the relevant pieces of information. “The diminutive monster slayer!” He sounded surprisingly cheerful for one whose experiments had been toyed with. Apparently Holmes had some small liking for those individuals who could see him. He came into my room, wiping his hands free of some chemical or other on a cloth and throwing it into my laundry pile.
He perched on the edge of my bed whilst I glared at my computer, then opened a can of beer and glared at that. I was like a bundle of dynamite with a lit fuse and co-dependancy issues. I wanted to talk to someone, wanted to be made better; but I’d eviscerate anyone who helped me in the process.
My phone rang, singing out the first few bars of ‘Susperia’. I swore inventively; I didn’t care who it was, I couldn’t talk to them.
“Belle dame sans merci,” the detective commented.
That made me glance at the name on screen, suddenly worried it was Kallian. It was my brother, James. That made me both relieved and vastly more irritated - at the phone, the world, and especially at Holmes. “Yeah, ‘cos you always answer your letters and telegrams and shit.”
Holmes sensibly remained quiet, knowing that there was a time and a place to bate me and this was definitely not it. (It has been established that whilst Holmes beats me at any play you care to name, I have two trump cards that cannot be denied. Firstly; I will fight him viciously and ineffectually and the only way for him to stop me would to be to cause me real hurt. Secondly, the Oast has a hose pipe and I’m not afraid to use it. Sherlock Holmes, with his diamond sharp mind, knows that neither of these scenarios lead to situations he wants or is proud of. Ergo, upon occasion, I win.)
He opted for distraction tactics. “Time for luncheon?”
“You know where the kitchen is.”
He sighed. “Your black moods are always so devious, dear girl. Like a gutter-thug with a razor.” He crossed his arms behind his head and reclined. “I’ve noticed females are often circumspect in this regard, but you have elevated this emotional back-handedness to a level of...”
“Shut up,” I suggested grimly.
“You’re upset,” he remarked. “And you’re unhappy that you’re upset.” Eyebrows tilted. “You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”
“I’m in a fucking awful mood and I don’t want to be!” I spat.
“Ahhh. I understand. Needful isolation ‘least you infect any individual with your presence.”
I glared at him pointedly.
“I’m immune,” he confided.
“Wonderful,” I bitched.
===
Holmes was with me in the workshop. “You said you didn’t have a welding torch when I asked...”
“I didn’t then. I do now. No you can’t have it,” I added automatically. “Where is Vincent?”
He stopped prodding at my workbench and waved a hand vaguely at the outside world.
“There’s wine open,” I called through the open door.
There was a mangled reply from the artist and then footsteps and the sound of the garage door creaking. Holmes looked fidgety.
I frowned at him quizzically. “What? Can’t you two be in the same room or something?”
The detective looked put upon. “He keeps trying to draw me.”
I sniggered, utterly unsympathetic.
===
The hacksaw jumped and sliced across the back of my thumb. I swore.
“What are ‘shit biscuits’?” Holmes inquired, tone as beautiful as carved and polished mahogany, endeavoring to make me sound even more scruffy and ridiculous than I already was.
Damn him. “I dunno. Rich Tea? - they’re pretty shit.”
He grinned.
I blotted the blood on mt T-shirt and reached for the wine bottle, taking an unlady-like swig.
“Last time I did that,” Holmes commented, “I was knocked out cold.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, ‘cos Adler dosed you.”
“You should be careful,” he suggested with a hint of sly mischief.
“Ohhhh if you’ve dosed my wine, I will have such a fit, Holmes...”
He looked innocent. “It might be beneficial...”
I wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not fucking Gladstone!”
Contrary sod treated ‘fucking’ as an active verb rather than a descriptive expletive. He looked shocked. “Dear girl, I would never dream of...”
I closed my eyes and took a very deep breath. “I am armed with a hacksaw. And I’m most definitely dangerous. Don’t push it.”
“Right.”
A beat. I opened the door again.
The bird was still there, fat, scruffy, manky, and ever so London-like. I glared at it. It stared back, its small brain calculating the possibility of breadcrumbs. “Oh, gods,” I complained. “Holmes sent you, didn’t he?”
The pigeon bobbed its head and continued to sit there, staring vacantly at me as if wondering whether I might possibly turn into a very large breadcrumb. I rolled my eyes. Why else would there be a London pigeon three foot from the Oast door when every other bird in the hedgerows was squawking at it to piss off?
“Did he teach you to speak? Beak semaphore? Some sort of feathery Morse Code? No? Great.” I disappeared back inside and latched the door behind me. Made tea, and went to have a shower.
Ten minutes later I exited the bathroom in a scattering of hairpins and a badly draped towel.
“Sapphire!” Announced a voice from the vicinity of the bed.
I backed into bathroom at speed and closed the door. “Jesus bloody kerrist,” I swore. “Bedroom!”
There was the sound of someone taking a mouthful of hot tea with a slight burn and much relish. “I sent you a message.”
“Pigeon,” I corrected. “You sent me a bloody pigeon!” I hopped into a pair of knickers and kicked my combat trousers on. Bra next, and then discovered apparently my T-shirt was back in the bedroom. I exited the bathroom with as much dignity as I could muster and sorted through the clean clothes on the chair, opting to behave as if the dishevelled detective sitting on my bed drinking my tea did not exist.
“What is that?” he remarked, mingled wonder and horror. And then as if I might have forgotten, “You detest pink.”
I spared a highly irritated glance at the bra I was wearing. “Colours run in the wash - it was cream when I bought it - and I can’t afford to throw out perfectly good underwear just because it’s gone a stupid colour.”
Eyebrows quirked over another swallow of tea. “Lucky the artist isn’t...”
“Where is Vincent?” I had been assured of his arrival. But then again assurances from Holmes are rather like assurances from a Time Lord or any other lunatic genius. They’ll hold true if it matters, but for everything else there’s a lot of leeway...
“Asleep in the other room,” he said as if it was obvious.
I pulled a T-shirt over my head and went to have a look. Once I stepped into the corridor I could hear the ragged snoring. I peeped round the doorframe. “Huh. So he is,” I murmured.
===
Silversmithing had not gone well. I returned from the workshop tired, dispirited, bleeding from several minor cuts and burns, and in an unutterably foul mood.
Holmes heard my tread on the stairs. “You’ve been in here!” he accused from the far bedroom where he’d set up his workshop. “You’ve moved things!”
“Not me. Delilah.”
I could almost hear his scowl and the furrow of his brow for the moment it took him to connect the relevant pieces of information. “The diminutive monster slayer!” He sounded surprisingly cheerful for one whose experiments had been toyed with. Apparently Holmes had some small liking for those individuals who could see him. He came into my room, wiping his hands free of some chemical or other on a cloth and throwing it into my laundry pile.
He perched on the edge of my bed whilst I glared at my computer, then opened a can of beer and glared at that. I was like a bundle of dynamite with a lit fuse and co-dependancy issues. I wanted to talk to someone, wanted to be made better; but I’d eviscerate anyone who helped me in the process.
My phone rang, singing out the first few bars of ‘Susperia’. I swore inventively; I didn’t care who it was, I couldn’t talk to them.
“Belle dame sans merci,” the detective commented.
That made me glance at the name on screen, suddenly worried it was Kallian. It was my brother, James. That made me both relieved and vastly more irritated - at the phone, the world, and especially at Holmes. “Yeah, ‘cos you always answer your letters and telegrams and shit.”
Holmes sensibly remained quiet, knowing that there was a time and a place to bate me and this was definitely not it. (It has been established that whilst Holmes beats me at any play you care to name, I have two trump cards that cannot be denied. Firstly; I will fight him viciously and ineffectually and the only way for him to stop me would to be to cause me real hurt. Secondly, the Oast has a hose pipe and I’m not afraid to use it. Sherlock Holmes, with his diamond sharp mind, knows that neither of these scenarios lead to situations he wants or is proud of. Ergo, upon occasion, I win.)
He opted for distraction tactics. “Time for luncheon?”
“You know where the kitchen is.”
He sighed. “Your black moods are always so devious, dear girl. Like a gutter-thug with a razor.” He crossed his arms behind his head and reclined. “I’ve noticed females are often circumspect in this regard, but you have elevated this emotional back-handedness to a level of...”
“Shut up,” I suggested grimly.
“You’re upset,” he remarked. “And you’re unhappy that you’re upset.” Eyebrows tilted. “You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”
“I’m in a fucking awful mood and I don’t want to be!” I spat.
“Ahhh. I understand. Needful isolation ‘least you infect any individual with your presence.”
I glared at him pointedly.
“I’m immune,” he confided.
“Wonderful,” I bitched.
===
Holmes was with me in the workshop. “You said you didn’t have a welding torch when I asked...”
“I didn’t then. I do now. No you can’t have it,” I added automatically. “Where is Vincent?”
He stopped prodding at my workbench and waved a hand vaguely at the outside world.
“There’s wine open,” I called through the open door.
There was a mangled reply from the artist and then footsteps and the sound of the garage door creaking. Holmes looked fidgety.
I frowned at him quizzically. “What? Can’t you two be in the same room or something?”
The detective looked put upon. “He keeps trying to draw me.”
I sniggered, utterly unsympathetic.
===
The hacksaw jumped and sliced across the back of my thumb. I swore.
“What are ‘shit biscuits’?” Holmes inquired, tone as beautiful as carved and polished mahogany, endeavoring to make me sound even more scruffy and ridiculous than I already was.
Damn him. “I dunno. Rich Tea? - they’re pretty shit.”
He grinned.
I blotted the blood on mt T-shirt and reached for the wine bottle, taking an unlady-like swig.
“Last time I did that,” Holmes commented, “I was knocked out cold.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, ‘cos Adler dosed you.”
“You should be careful,” he suggested with a hint of sly mischief.
“Ohhhh if you’ve dosed my wine, I will have such a fit, Holmes...”
He looked innocent. “It might be beneficial...”
I wasn’t in the mood. “I’m not fucking Gladstone!”
Contrary sod treated ‘fucking’ as an active verb rather than a descriptive expletive. He looked shocked. “Dear girl, I would never dream of...”
I closed my eyes and took a very deep breath. “I am armed with a hacksaw. And I’m most definitely dangerous. Don’t push it.”
“Right.”