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impulsereaderLater today I'll post the first Baker Street interlude, and as this snippet will atest, I am busy writing another half dozen of them. The story continues!
*****
Sherlock knew it would be childish, downright churlish in fact, to complain. It was his fault they were in this situation and he was quite lucky to have landed in it with a doctor who actually had some chance of putting things right. But he was freezing cold, and his body was suffused with pain, and he really just wanted to be left alone. John ‘having a look’ was bound to change the pain from throbbing to sharp and there seemed no hope at all that he would somehow magically become dry, warm, and back at Baker Street. Then again, seeming childish was usually not a deterrent to Sherlock. “I’m cold.”
John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m hoping the fire will help after a bit.”
“It hurts.”
“God, Sherlock, I know, I’m so sorry.” He paused. “It’s going to hurt more before I’m done.”
Fabulous. He’d been both childish and churlish and it hadn’t got him anything. Some days Sherlock despised being alive. A giddy inner voice assured him that soon, that might no longer be a problem.
John was removing the pad and the shock of cold that hit his wound as a consequence made him grit his teeth and he could hear his own indrawn breath hiss in the quiet of the long-abandoned room.
“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
An astonished bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, and he cringed at the pain the jarring caused. “This is hardly the moment for running lines, John.”
More firmly, his trusty physician and lately Benedick prompted again, “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
Oh, what the bloody hell, he thought, at least the response was appropriate. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”
*****
Sherlock knew it would be childish, downright churlish in fact, to complain. It was his fault they were in this situation and he was quite lucky to have landed in it with a doctor who actually had some chance of putting things right. But he was freezing cold, and his body was suffused with pain, and he really just wanted to be left alone. John ‘having a look’ was bound to change the pain from throbbing to sharp and there seemed no hope at all that he would somehow magically become dry, warm, and back at Baker Street. Then again, seeming childish was usually not a deterrent to Sherlock. “I’m cold.”
John sighed. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m hoping the fire will help after a bit.”
“It hurts.”
“God, Sherlock, I know, I’m so sorry.” He paused. “It’s going to hurt more before I’m done.”
Fabulous. He’d been both childish and churlish and it hadn’t got him anything. Some days Sherlock despised being alive. A giddy inner voice assured him that soon, that might no longer be a problem.
John was removing the pad and the shock of cold that hit his wound as a consequence made him grit his teeth and he could hear his own indrawn breath hiss in the quiet of the long-abandoned room.
“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
An astonished bark of laughter escaped Sherlock, and he cringed at the pain the jarring caused. “This is hardly the moment for running lines, John.”
More firmly, his trusty physician and lately Benedick prompted again, “Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?”
Oh, what the bloody hell, he thought, at least the response was appropriate. “Yea, and I will weep a while longer.”
