Sherlock fic: like mastodons calling across primeval swamps
Droubble (not a drabble... couldn't do it in only 100 words. :-( ) for July Prompt #20 at watsons_woes.
like mastodons calling across primeval swamps
When his Great Aunt Rachel told him via his blog that he needed to bring Sherlock to her house to help her with “something mysterious,” John’s first impulse was to delete the comment and pretend that he hadn’t received it.
Before John could figure out how to delete the comment, Sherlock had replied that they would see her the next morning, at ten o’clock precisely.
Which, he'd thought, might actually be a good-even entertaining-thing. Aunt Rachel was one of those relations. He'd chuckled to himself as he imagined Sherlock’s scathing retorts when she insulted his looks, his taste, his upbringing, or, best of all, his intelligence. Sherlock disregarded the social conventions that kept people like John from speaking their minds to old ladies.
What he hadn’t counted on was…
“Well, it’s no wonder he’s only working as a locum. When he was in primary school he was terrible in most subjects. I told my niece, 'he’s either lazy or stupid, and I’m inclined to think that he’s both.'”
“I can easily believe it, Miss Miller…”
“Oh, do call me Rachel, dear.”
“Thank you, Rachel. As I was saying, when we…”
It was going to be a long day.
like mastodons calling across primeval swamps
When his Great Aunt Rachel told him via his blog that he needed to bring Sherlock to her house to help her with “something mysterious,” John’s first impulse was to delete the comment and pretend that he hadn’t received it.
Before John could figure out how to delete the comment, Sherlock had replied that they would see her the next morning, at ten o’clock precisely.
Which, he'd thought, might actually be a good-even entertaining-thing. Aunt Rachel was one of those relations. He'd chuckled to himself as he imagined Sherlock’s scathing retorts when she insulted his looks, his taste, his upbringing, or, best of all, his intelligence. Sherlock disregarded the social conventions that kept people like John from speaking their minds to old ladies.
What he hadn’t counted on was…
“Well, it’s no wonder he’s only working as a locum. When he was in primary school he was terrible in most subjects. I told my niece, 'he’s either lazy or stupid, and I’m inclined to think that he’s both.'”
“I can easily believe it, Miss Miller…”
“Oh, do call me Rachel, dear.”
“Thank you, Rachel. As I was saying, when we…”
It was going to be a long day.