Fic: Upon The Irrelevant Uses Of Household Foodstuffs...
Title: Upon The Irrelevant Uses Of Household Foodstuffs For The Repelling Of Non-Mortal Individuals With A Sanguinary Turn - or - Vampires Are Rather Fond Of Garlic
Fandom: Canon
Wordcount: 916
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes, Watson, OMC
Warning(s): Supernatural elements & a bit cracky.
Summary: Wherein Watson puts Mrs Hudson's stash of garlic to good use.
A/N: Written very hurriedly for the watsons_woes July 13th prompt - 'superstitions'. I make no apologies for the title, which amuses me greatly :)
It was a blustery autumn evening, the branches of the plane tree behind 221B scratching against my window whilst the wind did a fine imitation of howling like those wolves within the pages of the novel I was engrossed in. Having repaired to my bedroom some hours earlier in attempt to seek refuge from my fellow-lodger's tirade upon the decline of modern fiction prompted by my “ever inferior” forays into the literary realm - in this instance, Mr Stoker's 'Dracula' - the hour had grown infernally late when there came a low, barely discernible rapping upon my door.
My candle had long since guttered to little more than a stump, casting my cramped garret room in an eerie pall of shadows. It was this cheerless atmosphere, I maintain, and decidedly not my choice of reading material which gave me such a start at the muted, though altogether unexpected disruption.
Setting aside the volume, I called out for my friend to enter, anticipating something akin to an offering of remorse for his merciless chiding. While I should never have expected Holmes to approve of the admittedly sensationalistic tale, and had, through years of exposure, become inured to his haranguing me on the matter, to-night's incident was taking it a bit far.
Why, anyone might have thought he had taken personal affront, what with the way he carried on about the mindlessness of believing in ghouls and spirits in this modern era. My assurances that a fellow need not believe such things to be real to derive enjoyment from the story had in no way assuaged my friend upon the issue.
“Watson,” said he, poking his head into my chamber. “We've a client downstairs who has quite considerately brought us a puzzle which promises to be one of the most outré cases of my career. If you are interested, my dear fellow, I dare say this shall be one for your annals - that is, if you've yet wearied of that sanguinary tripe.”
With that, the door clicked shut, and notwithstanding my great botheration, I'd shirked off my dressing gown with an ejaculation of disgust, and before long found myself settled in my chair before the hearth, listening to what was indeed the queerest account ever presented to my friend, by an equally strange individual.
Holmes, at the very least, would roll his eyes heavenward should the imaginings my brain conjured in the presence of this curious individual ever be known to him. Though where my friend was involved, undoubtedly the twitching of a single hair of my moustache gave away all.
Be that as it may, I could not suppress the feeling of cold dread which passed though me in the company of this cultured foreigner. Everything about him reeked of an old world gaudiness, from the educated drawl of his Romanian accent to the ostentatiously bejeweled fingers, to that sombrely hued attire of silks and velvet so fine it gave one the impression he was of noble birth.
His eyes were the colour of lapis, his shock of over-long hair darker than any raven's wings.
This should have made for a striking impression in the most casual of observers, and yet, it did naught but fill my soul with some nameless horror. Even the very air seemed to have frosted over, and no amount of stoking the fire or adding more coals could permeate the chill.
In the interim, as I grew ever more uneasy in my mind, Holmes, who was splayed languidly over the arm of his chair, hands clasped together, nervous fingers drumming against each other to mark his ever increasing excitement, seemed oblivious to the apprehension which had so thoroughly gripped me. Perhaps it had been unwise to have become so engrossed in a tale worthy of the penny dreadfuls, for all the fanciful notions I harboured of this mysterious stranger.
On one instance, when this curious client who bade us refer to him as The Count, directed a question at me, our glances chanced to meet. So mesmerizing were his lustrous eyes, I, dumbly answering his inquiry, unwittingly tugged at my collar, baring my throat in offering.
“Ah! The doctor and I should be happy to look into the matter,” said Holmes, springing to his feet and effectively breaking the trance. We all three shook hands, though I was understandably reluctant to do so, and make no overstatement when I say The Count’s touch left me cold.
Velvet cloak billowing in his wake, our client took his leave to wait for us down in his brougham. The encounter had unnerved me to such a degree that I was on the verge of making a clean breast of my trepidations on travelling with so dubious a character. Realising full well Holmes would see to it that I should rue that decision, I chose instead to quell my hesitations with a more traditional approach.
That is, I meant to ask Mrs Hudson for all the garlic in her larder.
Of course, there is no keeping a secret from Sherlock Holmes, especially not when you make off to the kitchen only to return awash in so offensive a perfume. Perhaps one of my less esoteric devisings - still, he needn't have taken such amusement at my plight.
“Oh, my Watson,” he managed to gasp out after his fit of laughter had subsided, “See what comes of trusting in your inane fairy tales. Garlic to ward off vampires! What superstitious rot. You know,” here he opened the front door and stepped aside for me to pass, his smile flashing in the moonlight, “How I cannot abide... onions.”
Fandom: Canon
Wordcount: 916
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes, Watson, OMC
Warning(s): Supernatural elements & a bit cracky.
Summary: Wherein Watson puts Mrs Hudson's stash of garlic to good use.
A/N: Written very hurriedly for the watsons_woes July 13th prompt - 'superstitions'. I make no apologies for the title, which amuses me greatly :)
It was a blustery autumn evening, the branches of the plane tree behind 221B scratching against my window whilst the wind did a fine imitation of howling like those wolves within the pages of the novel I was engrossed in. Having repaired to my bedroom some hours earlier in attempt to seek refuge from my fellow-lodger's tirade upon the decline of modern fiction prompted by my “ever inferior” forays into the literary realm - in this instance, Mr Stoker's 'Dracula' - the hour had grown infernally late when there came a low, barely discernible rapping upon my door.
My candle had long since guttered to little more than a stump, casting my cramped garret room in an eerie pall of shadows. It was this cheerless atmosphere, I maintain, and decidedly not my choice of reading material which gave me such a start at the muted, though altogether unexpected disruption.
Setting aside the volume, I called out for my friend to enter, anticipating something akin to an offering of remorse for his merciless chiding. While I should never have expected Holmes to approve of the admittedly sensationalistic tale, and had, through years of exposure, become inured to his haranguing me on the matter, to-night's incident was taking it a bit far.
Why, anyone might have thought he had taken personal affront, what with the way he carried on about the mindlessness of believing in ghouls and spirits in this modern era. My assurances that a fellow need not believe such things to be real to derive enjoyment from the story had in no way assuaged my friend upon the issue.
“Watson,” said he, poking his head into my chamber. “We've a client downstairs who has quite considerately brought us a puzzle which promises to be one of the most outré cases of my career. If you are interested, my dear fellow, I dare say this shall be one for your annals - that is, if you've yet wearied of that sanguinary tripe.”
With that, the door clicked shut, and notwithstanding my great botheration, I'd shirked off my dressing gown with an ejaculation of disgust, and before long found myself settled in my chair before the hearth, listening to what was indeed the queerest account ever presented to my friend, by an equally strange individual.
Holmes, at the very least, would roll his eyes heavenward should the imaginings my brain conjured in the presence of this curious individual ever be known to him. Though where my friend was involved, undoubtedly the twitching of a single hair of my moustache gave away all.
Be that as it may, I could not suppress the feeling of cold dread which passed though me in the company of this cultured foreigner. Everything about him reeked of an old world gaudiness, from the educated drawl of his Romanian accent to the ostentatiously bejeweled fingers, to that sombrely hued attire of silks and velvet so fine it gave one the impression he was of noble birth.
His eyes were the colour of lapis, his shock of over-long hair darker than any raven's wings.
This should have made for a striking impression in the most casual of observers, and yet, it did naught but fill my soul with some nameless horror. Even the very air seemed to have frosted over, and no amount of stoking the fire or adding more coals could permeate the chill.
In the interim, as I grew ever more uneasy in my mind, Holmes, who was splayed languidly over the arm of his chair, hands clasped together, nervous fingers drumming against each other to mark his ever increasing excitement, seemed oblivious to the apprehension which had so thoroughly gripped me. Perhaps it had been unwise to have become so engrossed in a tale worthy of the penny dreadfuls, for all the fanciful notions I harboured of this mysterious stranger.
On one instance, when this curious client who bade us refer to him as The Count, directed a question at me, our glances chanced to meet. So mesmerizing were his lustrous eyes, I, dumbly answering his inquiry, unwittingly tugged at my collar, baring my throat in offering.
“Ah! The doctor and I should be happy to look into the matter,” said Holmes, springing to his feet and effectively breaking the trance. We all three shook hands, though I was understandably reluctant to do so, and make no overstatement when I say The Count’s touch left me cold.
Velvet cloak billowing in his wake, our client took his leave to wait for us down in his brougham. The encounter had unnerved me to such a degree that I was on the verge of making a clean breast of my trepidations on travelling with so dubious a character. Realising full well Holmes would see to it that I should rue that decision, I chose instead to quell my hesitations with a more traditional approach.
That is, I meant to ask Mrs Hudson for all the garlic in her larder.
Of course, there is no keeping a secret from Sherlock Holmes, especially not when you make off to the kitchen only to return awash in so offensive a perfume. Perhaps one of my less esoteric devisings - still, he needn't have taken such amusement at my plight.
“Oh, my Watson,” he managed to gasp out after his fit of laughter had subsided, “See what comes of trusting in your inane fairy tales. Garlic to ward off vampires! What superstitious rot. You know,” here he opened the front door and stepped aside for me to pass, his smile flashing in the moonlight, “How I cannot abide... onions.”