Holmes fic: Country Holiday 2/4
Title: Country Holiday 2/4
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes, Watson, village folk including OFC
Wordcount: 1,749 for this part
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".
Part one
After Watson departed for Chichester, Holmes spent a good deal of time in the churchyard, studying the paths of approach and noting where the constable had chosen to set up his watch. He took over the watch for some hours in the afternoon and evening, departing only when the lightly-falling snow thickened, swirling and drifting to an extent that no one would want to brave unless absolutely necessary. The vicar's daughter promised to keep an ear out for any disturbance, but Holmes judged his quarry would not emerge on such a night.
He returned to the inn and passed the nighttime hours in deep thought.
After his night of introspection, Holmes was fairly confident that the supposed Sir Thaddeus would make an attempt that day to return the register to the vestry. He relieved the constable and spent the morning lurking alongside the building where he could see but not be seen.
When midday passed with no sign of anyone and the outside temperature dropped several degrees, Holmes decided to move indoors. He went into the church through the main entrance and approached the vestry from inside to ensure that he would not leave any tracks for Thaddeus Smith to see. He slipped into a dark corner behind the door into the church and resumed his vigil.
Dusk was falling when Holmes heard footsteps crunching through the snow and the outside door creaked open. The cloaked figure that entered had a covered lantern, which he opened slightly to light his way in the dim room. He went straight to the cabinet and set his lantern down so he could use both hands to slip the missing register back into its place. All was, so far, just as Holmes had anticipated.
Then came something unanticipated: the man withdrew a flask from a pocket and poured something down the front of the cabinet and on the floor in front of it. Holmes smelled lamp oil, and he cried, "Halt!" as he sprang from his hiding place toward the intruder.
The man whirled and a gleam of metal in his hand provided the only warning before four bullets were fired in Holmes' direction. Since the light was not shining in his direction, the shots were fired blind and Holmes was able to evade all but one, which grazed his side as he approached the man. He was able to knock the gun from Smith's hand, and it slid somewhere behind Holmes.
Thaddeus Smith threw himself at Holmes with a roar, and they struggled hand-to-hand for some time. He was shorter and heavier than Holmes, but had evidently had some training and was an even match for Holmes in his less-than-peak condition.
At length Smith had Holmes backed against the wall and pushed him with enough force that Holmes struck his head against the wall and his grip faltered. With another shove that dazed Holmes enough to make him slump to the floor, Smith turned away to finish what he'd started.
Holmes had enough presence of mind to notice the gun lying just beyond his reach; he crawled for it and fired, striking Smith in the shoulder. Enraged, Smith turned and fell upon him, striking him with his fists until Holmes lay limply on the floor, knocked senseless by the blows.
Abigail had always made a round of the church at nightfall to secure the doors and extinguish the lamps and candles. On this particular evening, she did her round later than usual after waking from an unplanned nap--she had not slept well since her father's death--and quickly smelled smoke where there should not be.
The sanctuary was as still and silent as ever, but the smoke smell was stronger here than in the entryway, so she checked all of the rooms off the sanctuary. The vestry was last, and she knew even as she felt the warmth through the door that the fire was there. She pushed open the door a crack and spied a conflagration well beyond her means to quench.
She closed the door again and ran for the bell, grasping the rope above her head and, throwing all of her slight weight into pulling it, she managed to get the bell moving. Soon she had it ringing in great peals, and left it, still swinging from its momentum, to throw open the front doors and cry, "Fire!"
The unexpected ringing of the bell had quickly drawn the nearest neighbors from their homes, and the cry of fire rapidly spread throughout the village, all inhabitants converging on the church with buckets in hand.
Fortunately there was a pump just in front of the church, and a line of men was soon passing water toward the blaze. The men at the front pushed open the outer vestry door and tried to cast water on the source of the flames; as soon as they did so, an exclamation went up that there was a man inside.
The fire was too intense to retrieve him at first, so they threw water over his body to keep him from burning. When there was a chance to do so, one of the men crawled in and grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him from the blazing room. Another man helped carry him a short distance from the vestry and set him in the snow, then returned to the bucket line.
Abigail hurried to tend the motionless man and was horrified to find it was Mr. Holmes. He was still breathing but was already beginning to shiver from being doused and then set in the snow, so she left him long enough to fetch an armful of blankets and quilts from the rectory.
She was returning to his side when she spied Dr. Watson making his way up the hill. "Doctor!" she cried, rushing up to him. "You must come and help him."
Watson was horrified to find Holmes was the injured party. Abigail spread some of the blankets and then helped him move Holmes onto them as she told him about the discovery of Holmes in the vestry, which was now engulfed in flames.
Holmes was bleeding from his side and his breathing was labored; he had not roused though he shivered greatly in the frigid air. "We need to move him indoors," Watson said. "Is the rectory at a safe enough distance from the church?"
"So long as there is no wind, I believe it will be preserved. Can you carry him?"
"If you can take his legs, we should be able to manage." Watson did not wish to take any of the villagers away from the task of trying to save their church, though it looked to be a lost cause.
Abigail directed him to the bedroom that had been her father's, despite Watson's protestations, and efficiently provided hot water and towels, then ran back to retrieve the medical bag Watson had to leave behind in order to carry Holmes.
Once Holmes was undressed, dried, and propped up on pillows to aid his breathing, there was little Watson could do but wait. The graze on his side did not require stitches and Watson did not want to bandage it for fear of hampering Holmes' respiratory function. Watson was somewhat reassured by the fact that Holmes' color had improved since being brought indoors--he was no longer blue around the mouth--but did not like the rasp in Holmes' breathing, nor his lack of response to anything Watson did to him.
Holmes finally ceased shivering after nearly an hour beneath a pile of blankets, the room itself warmed by a roaring fire, and began coughing instead. Watson considered this an improvement since it would hopefully clear Holmes' lungs of the fluid that caused the earlier rasping.
Abigail stopped by periodically to see if he needed anything but the answer was always no. After a while Watson noticed she hadn't come in a while and wondered if that meant the fire had spread. Then she appeared with a tray of tea and sandwiches and apologized for her absence; she had been making tea and sandwiches for everyone who had come to fight the fire.
"Did they have any success?"
"I'm afraid not. The roof has collapsed; nothing more can be done."
"I'm very sorry," Watson said sincerely.
"I am glad Father did not live to see it, that is all," Abigail said with a small shrug. "Oh, and the constable found blood and tracks in the snow, so he and a few others are following them to try to find the one who did this to your friend."
Watson was glad to hear it and hoped no more bloodshed would result.
After several sleepless hours watching Holmes for any sign of improvement, Watson's exertions had him dozing off in his chair, so he stretched himself out atop the covers next to Holmes--the bed was quite large--and slept for a while. He woke abruptly when there was movement next to him. "Watson?" Holmes' hoarse voice croaked, then a fit of coughing seized him.
"I'm here, Holmes. Don't try to talk," Watson said immediately, rising on his knees and turning up the lamp so he could see better.
Holmes was pale and his breathing was labored, but he was awake and aware, and that was good enough for Watson for the time being. He helped Holmes drink some water to clear any soot from his throat. "I want you to tell me something. You can nod for yes and shake your head for no. Was it Thaddeus Smith?"
Holmes nodded.
"I did not find any record of his parents' marriage, as you suspected. Did you expect him to set the place afire?"
Holmes shook his head emphatically.
"Well, that's something. They'll have to add arson to his charges when they catch him."
Holmes frowned.
"The constable went after him. You managed to shoot him--I'm guessing with his gun, since we didn't bring mine--so he left a trail behind."
Holmes took a breath as if to speak, but coughed instead.
"What did I tell you about talking? You really ought to rest," Watson scolded, giving Holmes more sips of water. "I'll be right here if you need anything."
Holmes nodded, his eyelids already drooping.
Watson watched until he was sure Holmes was asleep. Holmes felt warm to the touch, but that may have been from an excess of blankets. Watson removed a few layers, stoked the fire, and laid down again.
Continued
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes, Watson, village folk including OFC
Wordcount: 1,749 for this part
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".
Part one
After Watson departed for Chichester, Holmes spent a good deal of time in the churchyard, studying the paths of approach and noting where the constable had chosen to set up his watch. He took over the watch for some hours in the afternoon and evening, departing only when the lightly-falling snow thickened, swirling and drifting to an extent that no one would want to brave unless absolutely necessary. The vicar's daughter promised to keep an ear out for any disturbance, but Holmes judged his quarry would not emerge on such a night.
He returned to the inn and passed the nighttime hours in deep thought.
After his night of introspection, Holmes was fairly confident that the supposed Sir Thaddeus would make an attempt that day to return the register to the vestry. He relieved the constable and spent the morning lurking alongside the building where he could see but not be seen.
When midday passed with no sign of anyone and the outside temperature dropped several degrees, Holmes decided to move indoors. He went into the church through the main entrance and approached the vestry from inside to ensure that he would not leave any tracks for Thaddeus Smith to see. He slipped into a dark corner behind the door into the church and resumed his vigil.
Dusk was falling when Holmes heard footsteps crunching through the snow and the outside door creaked open. The cloaked figure that entered had a covered lantern, which he opened slightly to light his way in the dim room. He went straight to the cabinet and set his lantern down so he could use both hands to slip the missing register back into its place. All was, so far, just as Holmes had anticipated.
Then came something unanticipated: the man withdrew a flask from a pocket and poured something down the front of the cabinet and on the floor in front of it. Holmes smelled lamp oil, and he cried, "Halt!" as he sprang from his hiding place toward the intruder.
The man whirled and a gleam of metal in his hand provided the only warning before four bullets were fired in Holmes' direction. Since the light was not shining in his direction, the shots were fired blind and Holmes was able to evade all but one, which grazed his side as he approached the man. He was able to knock the gun from Smith's hand, and it slid somewhere behind Holmes.
Thaddeus Smith threw himself at Holmes with a roar, and they struggled hand-to-hand for some time. He was shorter and heavier than Holmes, but had evidently had some training and was an even match for Holmes in his less-than-peak condition.
At length Smith had Holmes backed against the wall and pushed him with enough force that Holmes struck his head against the wall and his grip faltered. With another shove that dazed Holmes enough to make him slump to the floor, Smith turned away to finish what he'd started.
Holmes had enough presence of mind to notice the gun lying just beyond his reach; he crawled for it and fired, striking Smith in the shoulder. Enraged, Smith turned and fell upon him, striking him with his fists until Holmes lay limply on the floor, knocked senseless by the blows.
Abigail had always made a round of the church at nightfall to secure the doors and extinguish the lamps and candles. On this particular evening, she did her round later than usual after waking from an unplanned nap--she had not slept well since her father's death--and quickly smelled smoke where there should not be.
The sanctuary was as still and silent as ever, but the smoke smell was stronger here than in the entryway, so she checked all of the rooms off the sanctuary. The vestry was last, and she knew even as she felt the warmth through the door that the fire was there. She pushed open the door a crack and spied a conflagration well beyond her means to quench.
She closed the door again and ran for the bell, grasping the rope above her head and, throwing all of her slight weight into pulling it, she managed to get the bell moving. Soon she had it ringing in great peals, and left it, still swinging from its momentum, to throw open the front doors and cry, "Fire!"
The unexpected ringing of the bell had quickly drawn the nearest neighbors from their homes, and the cry of fire rapidly spread throughout the village, all inhabitants converging on the church with buckets in hand.
Fortunately there was a pump just in front of the church, and a line of men was soon passing water toward the blaze. The men at the front pushed open the outer vestry door and tried to cast water on the source of the flames; as soon as they did so, an exclamation went up that there was a man inside.
The fire was too intense to retrieve him at first, so they threw water over his body to keep him from burning. When there was a chance to do so, one of the men crawled in and grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him from the blazing room. Another man helped carry him a short distance from the vestry and set him in the snow, then returned to the bucket line.
Abigail hurried to tend the motionless man and was horrified to find it was Mr. Holmes. He was still breathing but was already beginning to shiver from being doused and then set in the snow, so she left him long enough to fetch an armful of blankets and quilts from the rectory.
She was returning to his side when she spied Dr. Watson making his way up the hill. "Doctor!" she cried, rushing up to him. "You must come and help him."
Watson was horrified to find Holmes was the injured party. Abigail spread some of the blankets and then helped him move Holmes onto them as she told him about the discovery of Holmes in the vestry, which was now engulfed in flames.
Holmes was bleeding from his side and his breathing was labored; he had not roused though he shivered greatly in the frigid air. "We need to move him indoors," Watson said. "Is the rectory at a safe enough distance from the church?"
"So long as there is no wind, I believe it will be preserved. Can you carry him?"
"If you can take his legs, we should be able to manage." Watson did not wish to take any of the villagers away from the task of trying to save their church, though it looked to be a lost cause.
Abigail directed him to the bedroom that had been her father's, despite Watson's protestations, and efficiently provided hot water and towels, then ran back to retrieve the medical bag Watson had to leave behind in order to carry Holmes.
Once Holmes was undressed, dried, and propped up on pillows to aid his breathing, there was little Watson could do but wait. The graze on his side did not require stitches and Watson did not want to bandage it for fear of hampering Holmes' respiratory function. Watson was somewhat reassured by the fact that Holmes' color had improved since being brought indoors--he was no longer blue around the mouth--but did not like the rasp in Holmes' breathing, nor his lack of response to anything Watson did to him.
Holmes finally ceased shivering after nearly an hour beneath a pile of blankets, the room itself warmed by a roaring fire, and began coughing instead. Watson considered this an improvement since it would hopefully clear Holmes' lungs of the fluid that caused the earlier rasping.
Abigail stopped by periodically to see if he needed anything but the answer was always no. After a while Watson noticed she hadn't come in a while and wondered if that meant the fire had spread. Then she appeared with a tray of tea and sandwiches and apologized for her absence; she had been making tea and sandwiches for everyone who had come to fight the fire.
"Did they have any success?"
"I'm afraid not. The roof has collapsed; nothing more can be done."
"I'm very sorry," Watson said sincerely.
"I am glad Father did not live to see it, that is all," Abigail said with a small shrug. "Oh, and the constable found blood and tracks in the snow, so he and a few others are following them to try to find the one who did this to your friend."
Watson was glad to hear it and hoped no more bloodshed would result.
After several sleepless hours watching Holmes for any sign of improvement, Watson's exertions had him dozing off in his chair, so he stretched himself out atop the covers next to Holmes--the bed was quite large--and slept for a while. He woke abruptly when there was movement next to him. "Watson?" Holmes' hoarse voice croaked, then a fit of coughing seized him.
"I'm here, Holmes. Don't try to talk," Watson said immediately, rising on his knees and turning up the lamp so he could see better.
Holmes was pale and his breathing was labored, but he was awake and aware, and that was good enough for Watson for the time being. He helped Holmes drink some water to clear any soot from his throat. "I want you to tell me something. You can nod for yes and shake your head for no. Was it Thaddeus Smith?"
Holmes nodded.
"I did not find any record of his parents' marriage, as you suspected. Did you expect him to set the place afire?"
Holmes shook his head emphatically.
"Well, that's something. They'll have to add arson to his charges when they catch him."
Holmes frowned.
"The constable went after him. You managed to shoot him--I'm guessing with his gun, since we didn't bring mine--so he left a trail behind."
Holmes took a breath as if to speak, but coughed instead.
"What did I tell you about talking? You really ought to rest," Watson scolded, giving Holmes more sips of water. "I'll be right here if you need anything."
Holmes nodded, his eyelids already drooping.
Watson watched until he was sure Holmes was asleep. Holmes felt warm to the touch, but that may have been from an excess of blankets. Watson removed a few layers, stoked the fire, and laid down again.
Continued