Holmes Drabbles
Feb. 3rd, 2006 04:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
venetianarchivePosted as ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
killalla, September 6, 2005 as a gift for k_haldane
The Other Brother
He had always said that it was a difference of ambition and energy that
separated him from his brother, but she knew otherwise. For it was not he
who had kept silent for three long years, in the face of the sorrow of a
nation and the heartbreak of a friend. It was not he who placed the
political over the personal, who calculated risk and sacrificed lives with
no concern for anything but 'the safety of England.' The public might
believe Sherlock Holmes cold and unfeeling, but she knew that it was
Mycroft Holmes who truly lacked a heart.
Posted as campiontremontaine, June 27, 2005 on the holmesslash yahoogroup
An Extraordinary Inheritance
(So, we know that Holmes is descended from the French artist Vernet,
but who *else* might he be descended from? ;)
When the boy was three, he stopped speaking. His elder brother had
left for school, and lacking companionship, he fell into a strange
and unnatural silence. His mother worried, and thought of taking
him to a specialist in London, but before she could, his paternal
grandmother intervened. "It is perfectly natural," she wrote
"that a child who is bored with the outside world has no wish to
interact with it. I did not speak at all until I was almost four,
but then in Gaelic, English, and even Spanish. Send the boy to stay
with me, and all will be well." And so he spent a long summer on
the Sussex Downs, in a great stone house near the sea. His
grandmother spoke to him in every language she knew,
indiscriminately, but she never forced him to respond. He was free
to explore the countryside and the wondrous collection of specimens
and artefacts which cluttered the attic. Better still, grandmother
told him tales, both of her own adventures and those of her beloved
father, his great-grandfather, who had served as a surgeon and spy
during the wars of the last generation. "For he was particular
friends with a naval Captain, and together they sailed to the far
side of the world. When you are older, I shall give you his
diaries," she said "and if you decipher the codes, then you
can read the stories for yourself." "I should like that very
much, Grandmother Brigid," the boy replied. "Thank you."
For anyone going, "Huh?" the intended crossover is with the
Aubrey/Maturin novels of Patrick O'Brien. Grandmother Brigid, is of
course, the daughter of Stephen Maturin. Hey, it fits - she's the
right age to be an ancestor, and there are similarities one can
identify - the theory of a kind of autism or similar, the mind, the
boredom and drug use, even the recurring connection to the navy.
(See The Naval Treaty and The Bruce-Partington Plans.) And the
Downs, of course!
Posted askillalla, May 31, 2005 to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cox_and_co
An Equal Mystery
A double drabble. Mild H/W/H implied. No spoilers, standard disclaimers. Just playing with some of the ideas I raised below, with some thought of developing a more substantial fic.
“It’s not as if you rely on the income, Martha.” Her friends were quick to ponder it. “You’re young enough, and would not lack for suitors if you wanted. You’ve no need to keep lodgers anymore.” True, she could have sold up and retired to the country ages ago. But Baker Street was home, and while her most famous tenant might have a reputation as the worst lodger in London, he paid his rent regular enough; even paid for damages caused by his clients. Oh, there might be some danger in it, perhaps, but the cavalcade of celebrities, criminals and policemen that came through her door certainly made life interesting. Informative, too - over the years, she had learned to observe, deduce and pick locks with the best. And while the Detective and the Doctor would always reserve their greatest affection for each other, few women could claim to have enjoyed the occasional attentions of both the temperamental genius and the gentlemanly medical man who housed beneath her roof. So when the familiar question was raised, with Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Pearce round for afternoon tea, Mrs. Hudson simply shrugged her shoulders and smiled. Some mysteries were better left unsolved.
killalla, September 6, 2005 as a gift for k_haldaneThe Other Brother
He had always said that it was a difference of ambition and energy that
separated him from his brother, but she knew otherwise. For it was not he
who had kept silent for three long years, in the face of the sorrow of a
nation and the heartbreak of a friend. It was not he who placed the
political over the personal, who calculated risk and sacrificed lives with
no concern for anything but 'the safety of England.' The public might
believe Sherlock Holmes cold and unfeeling, but she knew that it was
Mycroft Holmes who truly lacked a heart.
Posted as campiontremontaine, June 27, 2005 on the holmesslash yahoogroup
An Extraordinary Inheritance
(So, we know that Holmes is descended from the French artist Vernet,
but who *else* might he be descended from? ;)
When the boy was three, he stopped speaking. His elder brother had
left for school, and lacking companionship, he fell into a strange
and unnatural silence. His mother worried, and thought of taking
him to a specialist in London, but before she could, his paternal
grandmother intervened. "It is perfectly natural," she wrote
"that a child who is bored with the outside world has no wish to
interact with it. I did not speak at all until I was almost four,
but then in Gaelic, English, and even Spanish. Send the boy to stay
with me, and all will be well." And so he spent a long summer on
the Sussex Downs, in a great stone house near the sea. His
grandmother spoke to him in every language she knew,
indiscriminately, but she never forced him to respond. He was free
to explore the countryside and the wondrous collection of specimens
and artefacts which cluttered the attic. Better still, grandmother
told him tales, both of her own adventures and those of her beloved
father, his great-grandfather, who had served as a surgeon and spy
during the wars of the last generation. "For he was particular
friends with a naval Captain, and together they sailed to the far
side of the world. When you are older, I shall give you his
diaries," she said "and if you decipher the codes, then you
can read the stories for yourself." "I should like that very
much, Grandmother Brigid," the boy replied. "Thank you."
For anyone going, "Huh?" the intended crossover is with the
Aubrey/Maturin novels of Patrick O'Brien. Grandmother Brigid, is of
course, the daughter of Stephen Maturin. Hey, it fits - she's the
right age to be an ancestor, and there are similarities one can
identify - the theory of a kind of autism or similar, the mind, the
boredom and drug use, even the recurring connection to the navy.
(See The Naval Treaty and The Bruce-Partington Plans.) And the
Downs, of course!
Posted as
killalla, May 31, 2005 to cox_and_coAn Equal Mystery
A double drabble. Mild H/W/H implied. No spoilers, standard disclaimers. Just playing with some of the ideas I raised below, with some thought of developing a more substantial fic.
“It’s not as if you rely on the income, Martha.” Her friends were quick to ponder it. “You’re young enough, and would not lack for suitors if you wanted. You’ve no need to keep lodgers anymore.” True, she could have sold up and retired to the country ages ago. But Baker Street was home, and while her most famous tenant might have a reputation as the worst lodger in London, he paid his rent regular enough; even paid for damages caused by his clients. Oh, there might be some danger in it, perhaps, but the cavalcade of celebrities, criminals and policemen that came through her door certainly made life interesting. Informative, too - over the years, she had learned to observe, deduce and pick locks with the best. And while the Detective and the Doctor would always reserve their greatest affection for each other, few women could claim to have enjoyed the occasional attentions of both the temperamental genius and the gentlemanly medical man who housed beneath her roof. So when the familiar question was raised, with Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Pearce round for afternoon tea, Mrs. Hudson simply shrugged her shoulders and smiled. Some mysteries were better left unsolved.
