Holmes fic: Country Holiday 1/4
Title: Country Holiday 1/4
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes, Watson, village folk including OFC
Wordcount: 2,375 for this part [8,226 total]
Summary: Watson takes Holmes on holiday for his health, but even small country villages have crimes to solve.
A/N: Canon-based. Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: It seems to me that every time Watson insists that, for the good of Holmes's health, he must go on a holiday to the country...wherever they go there is murder and burglaries and, well, basically, a mystery for Holmes to solve.
So...Holmes is rather ill and run down. Watson takes him to the country. A case pops up. I'm really looking for one of two things: [...]
2. Watson isn't able to stop him and Holmes's health is seriously effected; for once another case is NOT just the cure he was looking for to save him from his latest illness. It puts him seriously at risk.
So basically I want sick!Holmes with either a dose of silliness and humor or seriousness and hurt/comfort or some mix of all these things. Any verse.
Also fills my hc_bingo square "Severe/life-threatening illness".
Sherlock Holmes returned from France a haggard shadow of himself, his face lined with exhaustion and privation, his body trembling from overwork and overstrained nerves. He was jumpy at the slightest provocation, and even several good nights' rest did not ease the tension in his too thin frame. Holmes had been endlessly busy ever since his return from the dead, and now the strain was catching up with him.
Something must be done, so Watson declared they were going away for a bit of space and air. Holmes naturally resisted the idea; that it was nearly Christmas was his ready excuse. However, neither of them made a practice of observing that holiday and Watson's resolve did not waver.
The challenge, however, was determining where to go. A trip to the Continent was out of the question, given Holmes' recent experiences, though Watson thought somewhere along the warm Mediterranean coast would have been ideal. In the end, he chose their destination by selecting, at random, an advertisement in the paper for a cosy village inn conveniently located a short distance from the London-Brighton line.
They arrived two days before Christmas.
Two days after Christmas, the elderly vicar of the village church was found dead in the vestry. Though the villagers had long expected him to expire of natural causes, he was found with his throat slashed open, lying in a pool of his own blood.
Word spread through the village like wildfire. Holmes was out roaming the countryside when the news first reached the inn. Watson's heart sank when he heard, recognizing that Holmes would find the temptation of a case utterly irresistible, for he'd already repeatedly expressed his displeasure at being dragged into the country in the first place. Holmes' little excursion that morning was against Watson's wishes--Holmes had not been sleeping well, if at all, and was slightly feverish--but Watson capitulated in the end, hoping some physical exertion would help Holmes sleep.
But that was not to be.
Predictably, Holmes was interested in the murder even though he dismissed it as likely to be a trivial matter.
The 'trivial matter' quickly proved to be anything but, to Watson's dismay. He had, naturally, accompanied Holmes to survey the scene. The village constable met them there and quickly became the target of Holmes' derision when he found the area less than pristine, for the body had been removed and there were numerous footprints in the dust on the floor, obscuring any the murderer may have left behind.
Holmes quickly fell to work, observing the location of the blood pool that had yet to be cleaned up, the furnishings within the vestry and the layer of dust that coated several of them, the cabinet door that hung ajar, and the two means of entry to the room--an outside door and a door to the sanctuary. "Is there anyone here familiar with how this room is used and arranged?"
"Yessir, the vicar's daughter," the constable said stoutly, but did not move.
Holmes looked at him with exasperation. "Fetch her then, please."
"Of course, sir," he said, hurrying to comply.
The vicar's petite daughter, Abigail, was well into middle age, having returned to the village to care for her father in his advancing years after her husband was killed in a train accident and she was left a childless widow. She had gone in search of her father when he did not appear for breakfast and found his body.
Holmes peppered her with questions about her habits, her father's habits, whether her father's bed had been slept in the previous night, and whether the cabinet always stood open. After answering this last in the negative, Holmes allowed her to examine the contents and she quickly exclaimed that one of the marriage registers was missing. She was able to identify the years covered in the volume, which Watson duly noted, and Holmes inquired whether another copy of the missing records existed.
"I do not know for certain," she admitted. "If there was a copy, it would have been sent to Chichester, the county town."
Holmes provided strict instruction to her and the constable that no one be told of the missing register and told the constable that the room must be watched at all times. "Whoever returns the register to the cabinet is your man," Holmes concluded. He left the vestry by the outside door, Watson following close on his heels, and spent some time outside studying the snow for tracks.
It was dusk before Holmes had finished and set out for the inn, swinging his walking stick gaily. "Have you solved it, then?" Watson asked hopefully as he trailed behind, carefully picking his way through the snow and slush.
"I believe I know what happened and have an inkling why it happened, but I do not know who is the culprit. I require more data about the inhabitants of the area."
"Why do you think the register will be returned?"
"The intent was not to steal it, but to tamper with it. The ink on the desk was uncapped and a pen was dropped on the floor nearby; he was interrupted by the vicar in his task. After killing the vicar, he feared discovery and, rather than conclude his errand there, took the book with him."
"But why tamper with a marriage registry? Surely the villagers will remember the weddings that have occurred."
"The records taken cover a period some fifty years ago. If the marriage in question was performed quietly, it is quite possible that only a handful of people witnessed it, and those witnesses could all now be dead."
"But the vicar . . ." Watson stopped his own question. "He might have remembered whether he performed such a marriage, and when."
"Now you come to it," Holmes said gravely. "Yes, the vicar would likely have been murdered whether he discovered our culprit in his task or not." They arrived at their inn and Holmes held the door for Watson. "Dinner, then?"
Watson readily agreed, but they did not speak further about the case until they were ensconced in the inn's otherwise empty sitting room, seated in armchairs by the fire. "I may require you to journey to Chichester," Holmes commented as he lit his pipe.
"I suspected as much," Watson said. "I will inquire about the trains tomorrow."
"Good old Watson."
When Watson rose and went down to breakfast, Holmes was deep in conversation with the innkeeper at the bar. Watson sat next to him and listened with interest; the garrulous proprietor was naming every inhabitant of the village and the surrounding area, including their approximate age and occupation. Holmes' expression was bland, but Watson could tell he was absorbing the information with utmost attention.
"As I were saying, there's none as are new to the area," he said to conclude his recitation. "The closest thing would be Sir Thaddeus Smith over at Smith House, but his family has been around for generations. His father, Sir Matthias Smith, died a few years back, and Sir Thaddeus moved down from London nearly a year ago."
"But while his father was alive, he lived in London?" Watson questioned, thinking it somewhat odd.
"He came for visits, but he had friends at court and he preferred to be in London where there was more to do. Not suited for country life, that one."
"And yet he has settled here," Holmes commented.
"Aye. I hear tell he has his eye on a young lady in the next town over, you see, so he had to come and fix up the manor house." The innkeeper winked at them before turning toward the kitchen door and hollering for his wife to bring Watson more bacon and eggs.
After Watson's breakfast had been replenished, Holmes changed the subject. "Are there any disputes between the villagers? Feuds or the like?"
"Only what you'd call the usual sorts of things," the innkeeper said lightly, pouring more coffee for all three of them. "Hard feelings over who won what at the last fair, minor disagreements over property lines, and such like." Then he sobered as he appeared to remember something. "Except . . . then there's Lucy Mortimer. She's a little off in the head, and has long said that she is the rightful heiress of Smith House."
"How does she support this claim?"
"She says that Sir Thaddeus' mother was never actually married to Sir Matthias. As she is the only grandchild of Sir Matthias' aunt and Sir Matthias had no siblings, that makes her the rightful heir."
"Where can we find Miss Mortimer?"
Miss Lucy Mortimer was technically Mrs. Lucy Fitzgerald, as she had married and had a son; her husband had abandoned her and their son when the child was young, so she returned to using her maiden name despite still being married according to the laws of England. Her son clerked in a law office in London. "He must work, since he has been cheated of his rightful inheritance," she said bitterly, then sipped delicately from her cup of tea.
"How are you so certain that Sir Matthias never married?" Holmes inquired bluntly, his cup of tea sitting untouched on the small table beside his chair.
"His marriage isn't in the registry," she said simply. "I was seventeen when Thaddeus was born, and I knew what that meant for me if he was legitimate. I went into the vestry following the service the next week and checked the registry going back to well before they began living as a couple; there was no marriage for Sir Matthias Smith."
"Would there have been an entry if he had married elsewhere?" Watson asked.
"All marriages for residents of the area are recorded, no matter where they occur. Sir Matthias hated traveling, so his marriage would have been performed by our vicar, if a marriage had taken place."
"Sir Thaddeus' mother was from this area?"
"In a manner of speaking. She was the daughter of a wealthy couple that summered here."
"What happened to her?"
"She would take Thaddeus and spent part of the year in London; she died in one of the cholera outbreaks there when Thaddeus was twenty-one. From what I understand, he was able to live off her money and the interest until a few years ago when his debts became too large."
"Does your son know of your accusations concerning Sir Thaddeus?" Holmes broke in.
"Everyone in the village does, but he has listened to the gossip that my claims are nothing more than jealousy. I have not explained to him my reasons, if that's what you're asking. I thought it better that he be ignorant of what should be his, for the sake of his happiness."
"Thank you, you have been most helpful," Holmes said, rising from his chair and taking his leave.
Watson saw nothing wrong with Miss Mortimer's intelligence or reasoning, and said so once they quitted her small house. Holmes agreed with this assessment but said nothing more.
When they arrived at the inn, Holmes went up to their rooms while Watson stopped to ask the innkeeper if they had the train schedules available. He pored over them for some time, jotting the times in his notebook, then thanked the innkeeper and trudged up to the room.
"Going to Chichester will require me to stay there overnight," Watson said, closing the door behind him and coughing a little at the pipesmoke cloud that immediately enveloped him. He crossed the room and cracked open the window. "I can leave first thing in the morning, if you wish me to go."
"Yes," Holmes replied without opening his eyes. "Thank you."
"Will I have to lock you in the room during my absence so you get some rest?" Watson chided.
"I would pick the lock," Holmes said without hesitation.
"I know it full well," Watson grumbled. "Will you at least sleep tonight, then? You look dreadful, Holmes."
Holmes sighed and unfolded himself from the armchair he'd been perched in, then stretched himself out on his bed, his hands behind his head and his pipe still clenched between his teeth. "Better?"
"A bit," Watson said grudgingly and turned his attention to packing a few belongings for his trip on the morrow.
Watson was weary when he arrived in Chichester, but he resisted the urge to rest in the room he'd acquired near the train station. Immediately after depositing his belongings and freshening up, he departed for the city's main building.
It was a good thing he did, for it took several hours of being passed from one clerk to another before one of them knew where the records he desired were kept. Unfortunately, by that time the offices were closing, and they told him to return in the morning to have those files pulled for his review.
Hopeful that his errand would be fruitful, he retired early and woke with plenty of time to arrive promptly at the office when it opened. The clerk from the previous afternoon remembered him and quickly located the proper records.
Watson was presented with a book that looked much like the ones that had been left in the vestry cupboard. He was not permitted to take it from the building, so he studied the pages and the entries therein with an eye to the items Holmes had instructed him to look for.
He remained bent over the tome for hours, taking hurried notes, and finished just in time to stop by the hotel for his bag before catching his train back.
Dusk had fallen and was deepening into night when he arrived back in the village. The cab let him off in front of the inn, which was strangely quiet for that hour of the day. He wondered where everyone was, then realized he smelled smoke. He wandered to the end of the street, looking for the source of the smell.
The sound of shouts and cries drew his attention to the church on the top of the hill. Part of it was on fire, the flames reaching high into the sky.
Watson returned to the inn, exchanged his overnight bag for his medical bag, and hurried up the hill. With a blaze like that, injuries were likely.
Continued
Endnote: The case in this fic is heavily inspired by certain events in Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White. The details are somewhat different, as are some of the effects, but if you've read that book and some of the bits in this fic seem familiar, that's why. :)
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes, Watson, village folk including OFC
Wordcount: 2,375 for this part [8,226 total]
Summary: Watson takes Holmes on holiday for his health, but even small country villages have crimes to solve.
A/N: Canon-based. Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: It seems to me that every time Watson insists that, for the good of Holmes's health, he must go on a holiday to the country...wherever they go there is murder and burglaries and, well, basically, a mystery for Holmes to solve.
So...Holmes is rather ill and run down. Watson takes him to the country. A case pops up. I'm really looking for one of two things: [...]
2. Watson isn't able to stop him and Holmes's health is seriously effected; for once another case is NOT just the cure he was looking for to save him from his latest illness. It puts him seriously at risk.
So basically I want sick!Holmes with either a dose of silliness and humor or seriousness and hurt/comfort or some mix of all these things. Any verse.
Also fills my hc_bingo square "Severe/life-threatening illness".
Sherlock Holmes returned from France a haggard shadow of himself, his face lined with exhaustion and privation, his body trembling from overwork and overstrained nerves. He was jumpy at the slightest provocation, and even several good nights' rest did not ease the tension in his too thin frame. Holmes had been endlessly busy ever since his return from the dead, and now the strain was catching up with him.
Something must be done, so Watson declared they were going away for a bit of space and air. Holmes naturally resisted the idea; that it was nearly Christmas was his ready excuse. However, neither of them made a practice of observing that holiday and Watson's resolve did not waver.
The challenge, however, was determining where to go. A trip to the Continent was out of the question, given Holmes' recent experiences, though Watson thought somewhere along the warm Mediterranean coast would have been ideal. In the end, he chose their destination by selecting, at random, an advertisement in the paper for a cosy village inn conveniently located a short distance from the London-Brighton line.
They arrived two days before Christmas.
Two days after Christmas, the elderly vicar of the village church was found dead in the vestry. Though the villagers had long expected him to expire of natural causes, he was found with his throat slashed open, lying in a pool of his own blood.
Word spread through the village like wildfire. Holmes was out roaming the countryside when the news first reached the inn. Watson's heart sank when he heard, recognizing that Holmes would find the temptation of a case utterly irresistible, for he'd already repeatedly expressed his displeasure at being dragged into the country in the first place. Holmes' little excursion that morning was against Watson's wishes--Holmes had not been sleeping well, if at all, and was slightly feverish--but Watson capitulated in the end, hoping some physical exertion would help Holmes sleep.
But that was not to be.
Predictably, Holmes was interested in the murder even though he dismissed it as likely to be a trivial matter.
The 'trivial matter' quickly proved to be anything but, to Watson's dismay. He had, naturally, accompanied Holmes to survey the scene. The village constable met them there and quickly became the target of Holmes' derision when he found the area less than pristine, for the body had been removed and there were numerous footprints in the dust on the floor, obscuring any the murderer may have left behind.
Holmes quickly fell to work, observing the location of the blood pool that had yet to be cleaned up, the furnishings within the vestry and the layer of dust that coated several of them, the cabinet door that hung ajar, and the two means of entry to the room--an outside door and a door to the sanctuary. "Is there anyone here familiar with how this room is used and arranged?"
"Yessir, the vicar's daughter," the constable said stoutly, but did not move.
Holmes looked at him with exasperation. "Fetch her then, please."
"Of course, sir," he said, hurrying to comply.
The vicar's petite daughter, Abigail, was well into middle age, having returned to the village to care for her father in his advancing years after her husband was killed in a train accident and she was left a childless widow. She had gone in search of her father when he did not appear for breakfast and found his body.
Holmes peppered her with questions about her habits, her father's habits, whether her father's bed had been slept in the previous night, and whether the cabinet always stood open. After answering this last in the negative, Holmes allowed her to examine the contents and she quickly exclaimed that one of the marriage registers was missing. She was able to identify the years covered in the volume, which Watson duly noted, and Holmes inquired whether another copy of the missing records existed.
"I do not know for certain," she admitted. "If there was a copy, it would have been sent to Chichester, the county town."
Holmes provided strict instruction to her and the constable that no one be told of the missing register and told the constable that the room must be watched at all times. "Whoever returns the register to the cabinet is your man," Holmes concluded. He left the vestry by the outside door, Watson following close on his heels, and spent some time outside studying the snow for tracks.
It was dusk before Holmes had finished and set out for the inn, swinging his walking stick gaily. "Have you solved it, then?" Watson asked hopefully as he trailed behind, carefully picking his way through the snow and slush.
"I believe I know what happened and have an inkling why it happened, but I do not know who is the culprit. I require more data about the inhabitants of the area."
"Why do you think the register will be returned?"
"The intent was not to steal it, but to tamper with it. The ink on the desk was uncapped and a pen was dropped on the floor nearby; he was interrupted by the vicar in his task. After killing the vicar, he feared discovery and, rather than conclude his errand there, took the book with him."
"But why tamper with a marriage registry? Surely the villagers will remember the weddings that have occurred."
"The records taken cover a period some fifty years ago. If the marriage in question was performed quietly, it is quite possible that only a handful of people witnessed it, and those witnesses could all now be dead."
"But the vicar . . ." Watson stopped his own question. "He might have remembered whether he performed such a marriage, and when."
"Now you come to it," Holmes said gravely. "Yes, the vicar would likely have been murdered whether he discovered our culprit in his task or not." They arrived at their inn and Holmes held the door for Watson. "Dinner, then?"
Watson readily agreed, but they did not speak further about the case until they were ensconced in the inn's otherwise empty sitting room, seated in armchairs by the fire. "I may require you to journey to Chichester," Holmes commented as he lit his pipe.
"I suspected as much," Watson said. "I will inquire about the trains tomorrow."
"Good old Watson."
When Watson rose and went down to breakfast, Holmes was deep in conversation with the innkeeper at the bar. Watson sat next to him and listened with interest; the garrulous proprietor was naming every inhabitant of the village and the surrounding area, including their approximate age and occupation. Holmes' expression was bland, but Watson could tell he was absorbing the information with utmost attention.
"As I were saying, there's none as are new to the area," he said to conclude his recitation. "The closest thing would be Sir Thaddeus Smith over at Smith House, but his family has been around for generations. His father, Sir Matthias Smith, died a few years back, and Sir Thaddeus moved down from London nearly a year ago."
"But while his father was alive, he lived in London?" Watson questioned, thinking it somewhat odd.
"He came for visits, but he had friends at court and he preferred to be in London where there was more to do. Not suited for country life, that one."
"And yet he has settled here," Holmes commented.
"Aye. I hear tell he has his eye on a young lady in the next town over, you see, so he had to come and fix up the manor house." The innkeeper winked at them before turning toward the kitchen door and hollering for his wife to bring Watson more bacon and eggs.
After Watson's breakfast had been replenished, Holmes changed the subject. "Are there any disputes between the villagers? Feuds or the like?"
"Only what you'd call the usual sorts of things," the innkeeper said lightly, pouring more coffee for all three of them. "Hard feelings over who won what at the last fair, minor disagreements over property lines, and such like." Then he sobered as he appeared to remember something. "Except . . . then there's Lucy Mortimer. She's a little off in the head, and has long said that she is the rightful heiress of Smith House."
"How does she support this claim?"
"She says that Sir Thaddeus' mother was never actually married to Sir Matthias. As she is the only grandchild of Sir Matthias' aunt and Sir Matthias had no siblings, that makes her the rightful heir."
"Where can we find Miss Mortimer?"
Miss Lucy Mortimer was technically Mrs. Lucy Fitzgerald, as she had married and had a son; her husband had abandoned her and their son when the child was young, so she returned to using her maiden name despite still being married according to the laws of England. Her son clerked in a law office in London. "He must work, since he has been cheated of his rightful inheritance," she said bitterly, then sipped delicately from her cup of tea.
"How are you so certain that Sir Matthias never married?" Holmes inquired bluntly, his cup of tea sitting untouched on the small table beside his chair.
"His marriage isn't in the registry," she said simply. "I was seventeen when Thaddeus was born, and I knew what that meant for me if he was legitimate. I went into the vestry following the service the next week and checked the registry going back to well before they began living as a couple; there was no marriage for Sir Matthias Smith."
"Would there have been an entry if he had married elsewhere?" Watson asked.
"All marriages for residents of the area are recorded, no matter where they occur. Sir Matthias hated traveling, so his marriage would have been performed by our vicar, if a marriage had taken place."
"Sir Thaddeus' mother was from this area?"
"In a manner of speaking. She was the daughter of a wealthy couple that summered here."
"What happened to her?"
"She would take Thaddeus and spent part of the year in London; she died in one of the cholera outbreaks there when Thaddeus was twenty-one. From what I understand, he was able to live off her money and the interest until a few years ago when his debts became too large."
"Does your son know of your accusations concerning Sir Thaddeus?" Holmes broke in.
"Everyone in the village does, but he has listened to the gossip that my claims are nothing more than jealousy. I have not explained to him my reasons, if that's what you're asking. I thought it better that he be ignorant of what should be his, for the sake of his happiness."
"Thank you, you have been most helpful," Holmes said, rising from his chair and taking his leave.
Watson saw nothing wrong with Miss Mortimer's intelligence or reasoning, and said so once they quitted her small house. Holmes agreed with this assessment but said nothing more.
When they arrived at the inn, Holmes went up to their rooms while Watson stopped to ask the innkeeper if they had the train schedules available. He pored over them for some time, jotting the times in his notebook, then thanked the innkeeper and trudged up to the room.
"Going to Chichester will require me to stay there overnight," Watson said, closing the door behind him and coughing a little at the pipesmoke cloud that immediately enveloped him. He crossed the room and cracked open the window. "I can leave first thing in the morning, if you wish me to go."
"Yes," Holmes replied without opening his eyes. "Thank you."
"Will I have to lock you in the room during my absence so you get some rest?" Watson chided.
"I would pick the lock," Holmes said without hesitation.
"I know it full well," Watson grumbled. "Will you at least sleep tonight, then? You look dreadful, Holmes."
Holmes sighed and unfolded himself from the armchair he'd been perched in, then stretched himself out on his bed, his hands behind his head and his pipe still clenched between his teeth. "Better?"
"A bit," Watson said grudgingly and turned his attention to packing a few belongings for his trip on the morrow.
Watson was weary when he arrived in Chichester, but he resisted the urge to rest in the room he'd acquired near the train station. Immediately after depositing his belongings and freshening up, he departed for the city's main building.
It was a good thing he did, for it took several hours of being passed from one clerk to another before one of them knew where the records he desired were kept. Unfortunately, by that time the offices were closing, and they told him to return in the morning to have those files pulled for his review.
Hopeful that his errand would be fruitful, he retired early and woke with plenty of time to arrive promptly at the office when it opened. The clerk from the previous afternoon remembered him and quickly located the proper records.
Watson was presented with a book that looked much like the ones that had been left in the vestry cupboard. He was not permitted to take it from the building, so he studied the pages and the entries therein with an eye to the items Holmes had instructed him to look for.
He remained bent over the tome for hours, taking hurried notes, and finished just in time to stop by the hotel for his bag before catching his train back.
Dusk had fallen and was deepening into night when he arrived back in the village. The cab let him off in front of the inn, which was strangely quiet for that hour of the day. He wondered where everyone was, then realized he smelled smoke. He wandered to the end of the street, looking for the source of the smell.
The sound of shouts and cries drew his attention to the church on the top of the hill. Part of it was on fire, the flames reaching high into the sky.
Watson returned to the inn, exchanged his overnight bag for his medical bag, and hurried up the hill. With a blaze like that, injuries were likely.
Continued
Endnote: The case in this fic is heavily inspired by certain events in Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White. The details are somewhat different, as are some of the effects, but if you've read that book and some of the bits in this fic seem familiar, that's why. :)