Sherlock Fic - Welcome to London - 2/2
May. 6th, 2012 07:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impulsereaderTitle: Welcome to London
Author: impulsereader
Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock; gen; case!fic
Length: ~12,000 words
Find 1/2 here with notes http://impulsereader.livejournal.com/11048.html
One final taxi ride brings them to the restaurant and they settle into a corner table where they can see the entire room. Things are quiet for a long while. Genuinely hungry, but trying to pace himself as he isn’t sure how protracted a matter this may actually turn out to be, John works his way through a dish of the pork buns, then tackles the crispy duck spring rolls as well as the prawn and fish wrap; Sherlock predictably turns up his nose at all his offers to share.
His companion instead divides his attention between correcting the guidebook - with a green pen he’s managed to produce from thin air - and spectacularly invading the privacy of their fellow diners. He has just begun telling John what the man sitting in the opposite corner gets up to with his sister over the Christmas holidays each year when a large group of girls comes in the door and things finally start to get interesting.
As he has done each time the door has opened since they sat down, John looks up and checks out the new arrivals. He doesn’t see anything terribly interesting about the girls, and Sherlock has been quite clear that a large man had performed the disembowelling of their victims, so he turns back to his companion with the intention of getting him on to some topic other than sexual deviants of the incestuous sort. What he finds is an intense Sherlock, one who is rapidly processing information. After a quick flash of this he asserts quietly to himself, “Oh, that is clever. Very clever.” He then turns that insightful gaze to John. “Isn’t it clever?”
John shakes his head. “Sorry, you’re going to have to be more specific. Are you talking about all those girls?”
Sherlock’s reply to this question takes the rather startling form of his clapping one of his hands over John’s eyes, and his warm breath tickling against his ear as he purrs, “Yes. How many girls to make a gaggle, John?”
“What?” squeaks a startled John. “What are you on about?” He swats weakly at Sherlock’s arm.
“They would be women if it were two or three, but you’ve reduced this larger gaggle to girls. How many girls just came through the door?” he clarifies in what passes as a patient tone for him; still close, his lips practically touching John’s ear.
Huffing out a breath, he replies, “I don’t bloody know, Sherlock. Six or more maybe. A lot of them.”
“And how many of them were leaking intestines, Dr. Watson?”
“What?” Feeling ridiculous, he makes a more serious effort to shift the hand from his face now, and Sherlock lets go, leans back out of his personal space. He visually checks the group of girls again, who seem to have only disdain for their menus and are already ordering. Though he is sure he isn’t meant to state the obvious now that his impromptu blindfold has been removed, he notes that there are in fact eight of them. “None of them, at least not yet. Are you saying those are our potential victims? The others were travelling alone, aren’t these ones all together?”
Sherlock’s world-weary sigh indicates he is once again being an idiot, but this time he’s really just not following. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary about this tableful of girls. They’re not girls as in children obviously, he’d say a little younger than the first victim. Not one of them is ugly enough or beautiful enough to attract automatic attention. It’s just a group of girlfriends out for dinner; they’ll likely end up in the pub and have to all stuff themselves into a series of taxis at the end of the night.
Sherlock narrows his eyes again at his mystified expression, as if judging whether or not John has really put in enough effort to have earned the reveal. He must pass, though he supposes barely. “When women travel in a group like that no one stops to count them. They left behind each victim and no one spared them a glance; not even the pigeons,” he finishes a little snidely, and John would normally have addressed that, but he is too busy shifting his gaze back to this harmless-looking group of chattering girls that his partner is accusing of murder.
“Hang on, you said our murderer was a man, and how the hell do you know that this particular lot of girls did that?”
“I know because this is the killer’s hunting ground during both lunch and dinner hours, and that ‘particular lot of girls’,” and on this phrase the snide tone is back in full force, “has left our garden-variety murderer a seat.”
There is in fact an empty seat at the table, and it does sort of scream ‘head of the family’ considering its position, with the girls all grouped round it. “All right,” John starts slowly, “so you’re saying that those girls gathered up the body, supported it into the square -”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupts him impatiently, “they walked the body over to the stairs as part of their group, propped it against the railing for a little while, sat all around it chattering inanely away, then one of them tugged its ankle just before they left, likely in two different groups, causing the sprawl that finally attracted attention after they’d gone.”
John spends a few minutes visualizing this scenario. “Sherlock, I don’t think that would work on the Eye -,” he begins but is interrupted by a snort which reminds him that, oh yes, he’s an idiot.
“Please, John, you can’t possibly have been under the impression that someone left a body on the Eye - remaining unobserved while doing so - without having an inside man, or in this case an inside girl. The issue at hand is that the man who is about to join our gaggle of girls is the murderer and he is now neatly caught thanks solely to our efforts.”
John reflects that only Sherlock could consider a criminal on whom he has yet to lay eyes neatly caught. He so clearly considers the case solved that he has turned his attention to the few remaining pieces of dim sum still on the table. John has worked up enough objections to at least have a go at an argument when he is abruptly saved the future embarrassment that doing so would have brought down upon him. A large bearded man joins the girls, taking up the empty chair. He gives up on scepticism and speed dials Lestrade.
Lestrade instructs them to stay where they are; well, he instructs John to do his best to make sure Sherlock stays put for the duration, and since the variable in question is now deeply immersed in employing his green pen liberally throughout the guidebook - angry slashes and cramped letters in the margin accompanied by amused snorts – and occasionally criticizing the quality of the food as well as the fact that it has gone cold, it seems a good bet this won’t be as difficult as it might have proven at other times. He signals the waitress for more pork buns to be safe. He isn’t surprised when Lestrade informs him that to avoid storming the restaurant, an attempt will be made to apprehend the suspects after they’ve left the building. John knows that the two of them are trusted - okay, maybe mostly John himself - to deal with anything that might crop up before then.
Sherlock is, for some reason John can’t quite pin down, complaining about the glowing write-up the British Library has been given when the Murder Table requests their bill around eight. John quickly does the same, texts Lestrade, then bundles Sherlock and his new best friend the green pen up and out on the heels of the last of the girls. The ruckus starts about sixty yards on, so they’re too late to hear whatever official phrase from Lestrade causes the subsequent riot, but they are in time to see London’s finest bodily swarmed by a gaggle of girls - eight girls to a gaggle, thinks John inanely - and their quarry takes the opportunity to set off running. As one, John and Sherlock bound after him, and John is about to get an inkling that now is when this heretofore really rather pleasant day turns completely, unavoidably, dodgy in the extreme.
Waterloo Bridge is a road and foot traffic bridge crossing the River Thames in London, England between Blackfriars Bridge and Hungerford Bridge. The name of the bridge is in memory of the Anglo-Dutch and Prussian victory at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Thanks to its location at a strategic bend in the river, the views of London (Westminster, the South Bank and London Eye to the west, the City of London and Canary Wharf to the east) from the bridge are widely held to be the finest from any spot at ground level. – Excerpt from Wikipedia
“Didn’t you tell him how many girls there were?” Sherlock demands petulantly.
“Of course I did!”
“Do you even know how many there were? You never did answer the question properly!”
John decides to punch Sherlock in the mouth later instead of wasting his breath now when it is infinitely more useful for running.
The fleeing murderer decides to cross the river and they’re about half way over Waterloo Bridge when he suddenly jinks across all four lanes of traffic.
Safety
London has its share of crime, but in general it's one of the safest big cities in the world for travelers.
Traffic is perhaps your greatest mortal danger in the city center. Be careful crossing all roads, and be on your lookout for bikes, mopeds, delivery trucks, cars, buses, even rollerbladers when you step onto the road. – Excerpt from frommers.com
Here, the thing that John is almost always afraid is going to happen - does - and one of the cars which Sherlock ignores in favour of running headlong through moving traffic doesn’t stop moving quite as quickly as any of the parties involved would have liked.
“Sherlock!”
Worse, he is now already two lanes away from John who is dancing with a moving vehicle of his own. To hell with the car, he decides, and uses its bonnet to vault himself back into forward motion without pausing for apology.
He’s too late, though, because the murderer has got there first and is hauling Sherlock up from his hands and knees by the scruff of his coat. A flash later he is holding an enormous hunting knife to his throat. John pulls out his gun and flicks the safety off in one smooth movement, bringing the sight up for a kill shot.
Ready now to take appropriate action if needed, he flicks his eyes to Sherlock who looks fully aware despite the tumble he’s taken. He gets an eye roll and the most infinitesimal of nods from his partner. Right, he thinks, agreeing with the assessment; confusing their murderer as to where the weapon is and which of them is more dangerous will split his focus nicely.
London Thames River Dinner Cruise
2 hours 30 minutes approx.
Departs: London, United Kingdom
From USD$126.89
Description
Breathtaking views, relaxing atmosphere, a 4-course meal and after-dinner dancing - what more could you ask for? {You mean, I suppose, aside from a cyanide capsule?} A Thames River dinner cruise is the perfect indulgence, from the welcome cocktail you'll receive when you step onboard, to dancing cheek to cheek on the dance floor after dinner.
Your four-course la carte dinner features modern European cuisine, {Parsley on a plate - if you’re lucky.} freshly prepared by a talented team of chefs and professionally served and presented by the friendly team onboard.
A musical blend of jazz is performed during your dinner cruise by the resident band, which comprises some of London's finest musicians. The highlight of your Thames River dinner cruise is the after-dinner dancing to music from the 60s right through to the hits of today. {Make sure to bring an adequate supply of ear plugs to avoid this assault upon your senses.}
While dining and dancing you'll cruise in style past London's famous sights, including the Houses of Parliament, London Eye, Tate Modern, Millennium Bridge, Shakespeare's Globe, St. Paul's Cathedral and Tower Bridge. The sensation of cruising past London's famous attractions while dining onboard a Thames River dinner cruise is a unique and memorable experience, not to be missed when visiting London.
Schedule details
Departure point - Embankment Pier
Departure time - Refer to your voucher for details.
Return details - Returns to original departure point at approximately 10:45pm
2 hours 30 minutes approx. – Excerpt from viator.com
“Put your gun down or your friend dies.” All part of the plan, of course. The demand is as old as time itself if you substitute ‘rock’ for ‘gun’. John obeys, kicking the gun as precisely as he can and manages quite nicely, Sherlock is pleased to note.
Now Sherlock gives a good, broad, distracting wail of, “Oh please don’t kill me!” as he burdens his captor’s one supporting arm with all his weight and scrabbles wildly at the face next to his with one hand while the other unerringly finds the pressure points he wants. All of this, along with a decisive twist of his body, has him rolling neatly away on the precise angle which allows him to scoop up the gun on his way back to standing, smoothly targeting as he rises.
Unfortunately, in the seconds during Sherlock’s rolling and rising again, something has gone slightly wrong. He has missed precisely what that something was, but that hardly matters now. Whichever tiny bit of timing ended up not working correctly tonight results in the sight Sherlock is now subjected to - the murderer twisting his knife in John’s gut, removing it swiftly and toppling him backwards over the railing with what appears to be sickening ease.
Sherlock shoots this garden-variety murderer in the forehead and wonders vaguely why it took him so long to do this.
“John!” Now he is leaning over the railing and yelling John’s name. Why is he doing this? It is completely nonsensical. Normally John falling into the Thames would be a matter to be treated fairly lightly. John falling into the Thames while losing blood at a rapid rate is a different story altogether. Abruptly, he realizes once again that he is wasting time.
Sherlock empties the gun of bullets and throws them into the water, dropping the now useless gun after them. He then sheds his coat as worse than useless and vaults over the barrier.
He is submerged for only a short time, but enough seconds elapse that his troublesomely brilliant brain has more than sufficient time to point out that not only is John’s wound causing him to bleed out into the river, but the river is also assiduously applying itself and all its inherent bacteria to John’s wound. Infection, that complication which would have been rather unlikely if this little Thames interlude had been avoided, is now quite certain to set in. On this troubling thought he surfaces.
Swimming with the current, Sherlock employs the breaststroke so that he can keep his head above water as much as possible. He must find him quickly, there is too much that could go wrong; there are boats about and it is getting darker, and no one other than he is looking out for a helpless body in the water. The evening has already offered up one unpleasant surprise and he is unwilling to risk another. This is all easier said than done, of course, and it is several minutes - ten minutes and forty-two seconds his brain offers up inevitably, though almost apologetically - before he spots a differently coloured, textured patch large enough that it could be a man floating in complete control of the current. He swims in earnest now to catch up to it.
It is John. However; he is now faced with a new challenge. John is no longer breathing and there is absolutely nothing Sherlock can do about this until he gets both of them onto solid ground. So he quietly seethes with white hot frustration as he spends the next several minutes - twelve mi-SHUT UP - reteaching his body whatever they had called this rescue backstroke which he had thought long since deleted, and fighting the current because all of those bloody boats which had been so dangerous moments before have all very inconveniently disappeared now that they would have been transformed into useful objects with life rings and obligingly flat, solid decks. Damn them all to whatever hell they believe exists. It occurs to him to wonder where the River Police are, surely someone has reported two men plunging into the Thames to the proper authority by now; still, he cannot simply tread water hoping for rescue so he begins composing a new concerto - very difficult with neither instrument nor pen and paper to hand - to block the tick of seconds in his head and orders his legs to move him through the water more quickly.
Finally, after many too many minutes that he absolutely refuses to allow his brain to report; Sherlock finally reaches a point where he can stand instead of swim and staggers onto solid ground. He tows John clear of the water and sets him down gently. There is a couple heading toward them looking concerned. Knowing his phone will be useless at this point he takes advantage of this unexpected company and snaps loudly, “You, woman, call for an ambulance. You,” he points at the man and instructs, “take off your jacket and apply pressure to this wound.” He pulls up John’s shirt and tries very hard not to look at the gaping wound too closely; his immediate attention is needed elsewhere. The man hurries to do as ordered, dropping to his knees on the other side of John’s body – NO – the other side of JOHN - and shrugging out of his jacket as Sherlock begins trying to retrieve his partner.
As he rhythmically compresses his chest - he knows exactly how much pressure to apply, knows exactly how much is too much and would injure him further - he obligingly explains to him why he is going to be very, very angry with him sometime in the future, perhaps once they are back home at Baker Street.
“John, as much as I appreciate your attempting to inject a modicum of excitement -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “into an otherwise dull case I must insist that next time you find -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “some other way of doing so. I understand this was not your intention -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “but nonetheless, your actions have caused me to almost certainly lose my coat tonight -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “as well as having rendered both of our phones useless.” breath - breath - breath - breath, “Surely you can see how needlessly destructive these results have been.” breath - breath - breath - breath, “John, breathe, dammit! If you don’t breathe your brain will suffer damage -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “and I will have no further use for you! You are a doctor for god’s sake,” breath - breath - breath - breath, “I shouldn’t have to tell you this!” And then, as if in protest that he does in fact know all these things and Sherlock doesn’t have to go on about them so, John is spluttering and coughing, and Sherlock feels dizzy - from all this breathing for two, surely; he probably shouldn’t have added yelling into the equation.
So his head is spinning, just a bit, as he savours the musical retching and hacking which is serving to expel water from abused lungs, and it takes him a moment longer than it should to realize that his draftee has deserted his post. Presumably put off by the fact that John has curled up into the foetal position as his body violently protests the contents of the Thames it has recently been forced to take in, the infuriatingly dense man has simply stopped applying pressure all together. Sherlock snatches the blood-sodden jacket away from him and gently but firmly forces John’s torso flat, leaving his head turned to the side to allow him to continue the expulsion of water, as he takes over this now all-important duty himself.
As if to cement the fact that outside help is now as little required as it is desired, a siren can be heard screaming in the distance. “You may go now.” After a pause, Sherlock belatedly thinks to add, “Thank you for your help,” because John would normally do that part, and it doesn’t seem right to leave it off with John right here, though he is incapable for the moment of doing it himself.
“Um...right. No problem.”
Sherlock dimly registers that this response is not followed by the man’s actually leaving. He spares him a glance, feeling peevish and wishing he hadn’t added John’s bit after all. “Well?”
London has several distinct retail districts and shopping streets, many of which have their own themes or specialities. {All shopping is BORING, despite John’s claim the machines put up a good fight.}
Savile Row
Known worldwide as the home of bespoke British tailoring, Savile Row is the place to come if you want a handmade suit crafted the old-fashioned way (with a price tag to match). Credited with inventing the tuxedo Henry Poole & Co – also the first Savile Row tailor – is still cutting cloth at no. 15. Other big names include Gieves & Hawkes, H. Huntsman & Sons and Ozwald Boateng. On the corner of this "golden mile" of tailoring you'll also find the flagship Abercrombie & Fitch store.
Nearest Tube: Bond Street or Piccadilly Circus – Excerpt from visitlondon.com
“Oh, well, um - my - my jacket, you see...” the comment trails off awkwardly.
Sherlock’s lip curls in distaste as he registers the wad of cloth between his hands and John’s wound. “You don’t actually think the blood is going to come out, do you?” The man just blinks at him stupidly, so using a volume reserved for those who don’t understand the language currently being voiced, Sherlock instructs very clearly and slowly, “Buy a new one, you dolt.”
Whether you're a science buff, a budding surgeon or just have a curious mind, London is full of fascinating science and medical museums.
Museum of St Bart's Hospital
This museum brings the history of St Bart's Hospital to life using interactive displays. At the click of a button, visitors are transported back into the world of a 13th-century sister or a 15th-century apprentice surgeon. Original drawings illustrate interesting cases; look out for the patient with a tumour of the tongue...
The Anaesthesia Museum
You'll be knocked out by the 2,000 objects related to anaesthesia at London's unusual Anaesthesia Museum! Whether you're an anaesthetist or just curious, the collection dating from 1774 to the present day provides an absorbing story and historical account of advancements in medicine and pain relief. Free entry
Old Operating Theatre
This is a real one off – the only remaining 19th-century operating theatre in England, which sits at the top of an old church. Inside, you can watch demonstrations of surgical techniques and volunteer to be "operated on". The smells emanating from the herb garret (originally used to store and cure medicinal herbs) just add to the atmosphere.
Wellcome Collection
A free museum for curious minds, the Wellcome Collection gives visitors a unique insight into what it means to be human. Many of the collections are nothing short of bizarre; showcasing everything from a Peruvian mummified man to a robot used in the human genome project. Free guided tours take place most days. - Excerpt from visitlondon.com
Sherlock’s brain knows precisely how long it has been since John had been brutally stabbed with a knife then shoved over the side of a bridge into the Thames; it cannot be sure precisely how long he had spent not breathing within that larger time frame, but in its infinitely brilliant manner it is willing to offer an extremely educated opinion on the point. Sherlock himself refuses to entertain any intelligence from that source regarding what these lengths of time might be - Why? Why had he been so slow tonight of all nights - the night when it finally counted so very much how quick and clever Sherlock actually is - could have - should have been? John had not gained any form of coherence on their journey by ambulance, so he has no way of knowing if he successfully restored oxygen flow to his brain in time. His focus has now narrowed to the extreme discomfort involved in hospital seating and the fact that John has been cut open - again - as doctors who have not been properly vetted by either of them - why is there no time for anything today, why? - attempt to piece together his insides.
He engages the part of his brain which most urgently needs engagement by picturing John’s insides. He is concentrating on picturing them whole, as they should appear, as they did earlier today - NO, he still has absolutely no interest in what amount of time they have spent not being whole thankyouverymuch - he suddenly wants to sketch them for reference and show this to the surgeons, surely they could use a bit of help if it comes from someone as utterly brilliant as he. It certainly couldn’t hurt, could it? For all he knows they are complete dullards who have never seen a sketch more accurate than a valentine’s heart drawn by an infant. He is contemplating the nearest place to obtain the necessary supplies for this; a very large piece of thick, expensive white paper - John’s heart is enormous and he will need room for it - drawing pencils in lurid shades of red - there had been so much of John’s blood, Sherlock is still covered in it though those patches are going brown now - perhaps he should buy a variety pack rather than choose individual shades - when he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Sherlock.” The way Lestrade says his name tells him it is not the first time he has done so. “Can I get you anything? I can get you some clean clothes and bring Mrs. Hudson to sit with you. Do you want anything else from the flat?”
Sherlock shoves himself to his feet violently; paces away to try and draw in a clean breath of air. The stink of hospital is choking him. The way Lestrade is looking at him is intolerable, as if he needs help, or to be coddled as you would a child. The fact that his hands are shaking and he wants a little desperately to ask Lestrade for paper and drawing pencils is entirely beside the point.
“Clothing would be appreciated. Mrs. Hudson would not.” He is pleased that his voice is crisp and steady even if his hands have proven themselves traitorous.
Lestrade’s eyebrows go up in a display of scepticism. “Are you sure? She might be angry with us if we don’t tell her what happened right away.”
Sherlock hesitates, because he is right. The thought of company is appalling, but may have to be tolerated. “Very well,” he allows, “but do convey that she would do just as well to wait until he is conscious to visit. I am not in need of companionship.”
“Right. I’ll do my best. Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”
Sherlock sinks wearily back into his seat as he asks in a tone comprised of equal parts wistfulness and petulance, “I don’t suppose you found my coat?”
With his eyes closed, it takes John’s brain a long while to meld the crisp cotton against his skin with the steady beep of monitors and the universal tang of a medical facility into the fact that he is in hospital. It’s a little ridiculous, really, how long it takes since he is a doctor and these things are therefore necessarily more familiar to him than most of the general public. As soon as he decides that it’s a little ridiculous, though, he also airily decides that it doesn’t matter. After another moment - he’s a doctor and meant to be clever about these things, dammit - he connects this whole ‘doesn’t matter’ conclusion to another aspect of hospitalization - pain medication. Yes, he twitches his hand slightly and the resulting sensations tell him he’s hooked up to an IV. See! He’s got it now, can’t keep a good man down, no sir!
This is the basic state his mind is in when John first regains consciousness after what he will eventually come to refer to as That Day We Went For a Swim - incurring Sherlock’s infuriated sputtering indignation each and every time he does so.
He opens bleary eyes to a profusion of flowers, but not much else. He’s in a room alone, which is - hang on, he thinks, no one ever wakes up alone in a hospital room on the telly - why is he alone? John frowns and tries to decide how this makes him feel. After a moment he gives a little snort. What did he expect? Mycroft, umbrella in hand, sitting vigil at his bedside? This initially comic image gives way to the more disturbing one of Mycroft, umbrella in hand, sitting vigil at Sherlock’s bedside, and that sobering thought makes him concentrate his resources on remembering what landed him here in the first place.
Luckily, someone has obligingly - as well as rather negligently - left his chart on his bedside table. John reviews it while he experimentally sips some water from a cup which he supposes is his, since he is alone after all, and has enough success to banish the worst of the fuzziness from his mouth. He winces when he realizes just how much of the Thames has likely taken up residence inside of him. Still, the facts bring all the actual events rushing back and he at least can be sure that he didn’t witness Sherlock being injured so there’s a good chance he isn’t laid up as well.
“John.”
He looks up from the chart to find Sherlock frozen in the doorway, looking startled. “Oh good, you didn’t get yourself stabbed as well. I’m a little loopy, I’ll warn you straight off.” His voice is rusty and he wonders how long he’s been out. Indicating the chart as he returns it to the table he goes on, “‘sall right though considering what they’re giving me, to be expected.”
“You’ve read your chart and you understand it all?” Sherlock questions him, which puzzles him a bit. Isn’t he meant to understand it?
“Of course,” he replies cautiously, wary of the dangers of speaking volubly under the influence.
Sherlock’s body relaxes, there’s no other way to put it; his every angle – and Sherlock is all angles – flows from rigid to liquid in an instant. “That’s good.” He clears his throat and then asks politely, “Would you like anything?”
John considers this. He hesitates for a moment, but the drugs are just good enough to urge him to go ahead and say what he says next. “Actually, yeah, there is something you could do for me.”
“Anything.”
Hunterian Museum
4.5 star rating
Category: Museums
35-43 Lincoln's Inn Fields
London WC2A 3PE
Neighborhood: Holborn
http://www.hunterianmuseum.org
Organ Specimens
Nearest Transit: Holborn Chancery Lane Temple
Hours: Tue-Sat 10 am - 5 pm
Good for Kids: Yes
Reviews of Hunterian Museum
Northampton
5.0 star rating
10/13/2011
One of the most visually stunning places in London, though not for the squeamish as the collection is absolutely unflinching.
Amazingly, the museum is built around the collection and research of one man - John Hunter - a Scottish anatomist whose attitude toward the study of the human body often clashed with the popular attitude of 18th century England. For instance, many of his specimens were obtained illegally as scientific study of the dead remained taboo. (In one of the more upsetting cases, he originally approached Charles Byrne, the Irish Giant, when he was alive and asked permission to study him after his death. Byrne was appalled and made arrangements to be buried at sea in a secure coffin. Money was exchanged post-mortem, however, and you can see his skeleton on display here.) There are many preserved human and animal parts, as Hunter was interested above all in mapping the mystery of nature via dissection. {Possibly interesting}
And all this strange historic wonder for free. *swoon*
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London
5.0 star rating
The array of dissected, formaldehyde soaked animal and human parts is fascinating. The progressive collections of surgical equipment and their uses only goes to reinforce the gratitude for all the endeavours this museum represents. There is much to marvel at and the odd section to feel a little uneasy with.
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- Excerpt from yelp.com
“Could you make sure that from now on there’s always something in the fridge that I’ll want to yell at you about?”
The drugs are nothing to the way putting that look on his utterly brilliant flatmate’s face makes him feel. Sherlock Holmes is stumped at his request - utterly stumped - and John is completely chuffed by this for exactly two and a half seconds before this satisfying expression changes from stumped to wildly alarmed and every single centimetre of him tenses back up again.
“State your full name,” Sherlock snaps at him, almost viciously.
“What are you on about?”
“State your full name,” he insists sharply.
“John Hamish Watson,” he obliges, feeling floaty and confused now. He wonders if he is dreaming.
Sherlock purses his lips, thinking. He suddenly whirls around and flies back out the door.
John wonders what the hell is going on.
Sherlock stalks back into the room seconds later, dragging a resigned-looking Lestrade after him by the arm. “Who is this man?” he demands, one hand flat against Lestrade’s back firmly shoving him forward, presumably for John’s inspection.
“Sherlock,” John asks slowly, fighting through the drugs fog now because he’d really like to understand what’s happening around him and determine if it is reality or not. “What is going on? Why are you dragging Lestrade about and asking me these questions?”
“Yeah, I’d like to know that too, actually,” Lestrade puts in.
“Oh good, is this not making sense to you either? I was starting to wonder if they’ve given me something funny and left it off the chart. Did he get knocked on the head or something after I fell into the water?”
“No, no, he’s fine; or at least as fine as he gets,” Greg assures him.
“All right, then never mind about the fridge, Sherlock. I’m changing my request to your acting slightly less Sherlockian right now before you start making my head hurt even through the drugs. Would you do that for your poor, injured, recently half-drowned flatmate?”
Frantic purposefulness is stripped from Sherlock’s person by his words; but just for a tick, then something seems to occur to him because his face lights up for a split second and he is suddenly gone again. John feels the beginnings of that headache inch a little closer.
Lestrade clears his throat and says, “Good to see you awake, I won’t bother asking how you feel.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He’d feel more grateful for the sentiment if the detective wasn’t suppressing laughter.
“I’d stay a while but I’ve just had a call. I’ll be by tomorrow though, and I’ll fill you in on anything Sherlock leaves out – you know, otherwise known as my bits.”
“Sure. Great. That’ll be great.” He waves him off to his escape, much more concerned with whatever Sherlock is up to at the moment and What Comes Next.
What does in fact Come Next is exactly what John had hoped wouldn’t. Sherlock returns, propelling yet another person into his room by force. This new victim gets the same shove as Lestrade toward the bed. “He is now awake, as you so unreasonably insisted he should be. Scan his brain,” he demands and points an imperious finger directly at John’s head to underscore his equally imperious order.
“Hello, Dr. Watson. I’m glad to see you’re awake. I’m Dr. Bates.” She recovers from the manhandling well, and picks up his chart. “How are you feeling?”
“Confused,” John admits.
“And are you in any pain?”
“Erm,” he decides not to mention the incipient headache for now. “No, not really.”
“Do you remember the events which caused your hospitalization?”
“Yes, I was stabbed and shoved into the Thames.”
“And where were you when this occurred?”
“Waterloo Bridge.”
“What did you last eat for breakfast?”
“Tea and toast,” he answers wistfully.
“How many siblings do you have?”
“One, a sister called Harry, short for Harriet.”
“Very good, thank you, Doctor.” She turns to Sherlock. “He’s perfectly fine, Mr. Holmes. He does not need an MRI or CAT scan at present.”
“He requested,” Sherlock spits venomously at her, “that I store human organs in our refrigerator on a permanent basis. Does that sound ‘perfectly fine’ to you?”
The doctor shoots a look of uncertainty John’s way, but her patient has finally caught on to what’s actually going on, and has consequently buried his face in his hands. This causes the beginning of his reply to be slightly muffled. “No, it’s all right - I mean I did, but I can explain - or at least, sort of.” He scrubs his face with his hands and lets out a long breath. “I’m fine, really. Give us a minute and let me see if I can sort it out, otherwise you can scan me just to make him leave you alone.”
He can tell she doesn’t know what to think at this point, but she makes a noise that is distantly related to agreement and wisely makes her escape as well.
Sherlock has crossed his arms firmly across his chest. “I want them to scan your brain,” he insists firmly.
“Yes, so I’ve gathered. Sherlock, I’m fine. All evidence to the contrary, I promise that the fridge thing was actually me in my right mind, but you don’t have to take it seriously if you don’t want to; call it a whim of the drugs. It’s just,” he sighs, because he really doesn’t want to explain this but there is clearly no alternative if he’s to get some sleep, “this morning you collected the eyeballs from the fridge and since then I’ve had this odd sort of off feeling because there wasn’t anything in there that I’d be justified in yelling at you about, and now here I am in hospital. It’s completely mad of course, but pain meds will do that sort of thing.” He adds, a bit petulantly, “I did warn you, you know, that I was a bit loopy.”
He finds himself on the receiving end of a Holmesian look he cannot interpret at all, and suddenly something slots into place which should have done much, much sooner. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how he had got out of the river, because of course Sherlock had been the one to rescue him, that was simply the way their world worked. Therefore; the consequences of his friend feeling that he was in charge of rescuing John hadn’t occurred to him either.
“You did fine, Sherlock,” he tells him firmly. “You fished me out in time. Thank you, by the way.”
“You never need to thank me, John.”
“Yes, well, I’ve done it anyway. Now, if you’re going to insist on their scanning me, can we at least wait a day or two? I’m a bit tired and I’d like to try and go back to enjoying these drugs they’ve got me on for a little while. You can understand that bit I’m sure.”
There is a pause before the answer comes, “Yes, of course. It can wait until morning.”
“Thank you.” John scrunches himself down a bit, grimacing when there is a resulting dull stab of pain in his side. “You’ll have to tell me what I missed, you know. What actually happened to our murderer?” But when he looks back over, Sherlock is gone. “Oh for the love of – ten seconds ago he was worried about me and now he’s off god knows where.”
He feels a little abandoned, if he’s completely honest with himself, but he tries to ignore that and concentrates instead on finding a comfortable position to spend the night. If he grumbles under his breath while he does so, “Complete nutter, dragging people around and demanding unnecessary scans. The least he could do is tell me how it all worked out,” then he does it very quietly and pretends that he hasn’t.
British Library - Very Highly Recommended
96 Euston Rd., NW1, London
Frommer's Review
Hours Mon and Wed-Fri 9:30am-6pm; Tues 9:30am-8pm; Sat 9:30am-5pm; Sun 11am-5pm
Location North London
Transportation Tube: King's Cross or Euston
Web site www.bl.uk
Prices Free admission
One of the world's great repositories of books, the British Library receives a copy of every single title published in the U.K., which are stored on 400 miles of shelves. In 1996, the whole lot (14 million books, manuscripts, sound recordings, and other items) was moved from the British Museum to the library's new home in St. Pancras. The current building may be a lot less elegant than its predecessor, but the bright, roomy interior is far more inviting than the rather dull, redbrick exterior suggests. Within are a number of permanent galleries, the highlight being the "Treasures of the British Library," where some of the library's most precious possessions are displayed, including a copy of Magna Carta (1215), a Gutenberg Bible, and the 1728 to 1779 journals of Captain Cook. – Excerpt from frommers.com
The British Library St Pancras 96 Euston Road London NW1 2DB, United Kingdom
Categories: GCID: Conference_center, Whats On, Non-Profit Organization, ...
Hours: Today 9:30 am – 6:00 pm
Transit: British Library (Stop C) (34 ft E) Buses 10,30,59,73,91,205,390,476
1 review
4 days ago
A treasure trove! I love that the museums in London are mostly free to visit and the British Library is no exception. There is a 'treasures' collection that can be viewed every day and there really are some wonderful historic documents from original Elgar manuscripts and Dickens first editions to original Mercator projection maps and of course a copy (incomplete due to fire) of the Magna Carta. There are also examples of literature and printing from the world's history. I highly recommend a visit and give yourself a few hours to do it. Also, the coffee shop has an offer that isn't advertised - coffee and churros for a very reasonable price (around £3 as I write). {Churros? At the British Library? This is disgusting.}
Was this review helpful? Yes - No - Flag as inappropriate – Excerpt from maps.google.com
Title: Marcus Tullius Cicero's Laelius, or, a Dialogue on friendship With grammatical analysis, explanatory notes, and translation
Author: Marcus Tullius Cicero
Publication Details: London : Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 1880.
Uniform Title: Single Works Laelius Latin and English
Identifier: System number 000704846
Physical Description: vii, 257 p. ; 8º.
Series: [Analytical Series of Greek and Latin Classics.]
Shelfmark(s): General Reference Collection 11305.d.20/3.
UIN: BLL01000704846
“It is virtue, virtue, which both creates and preserves friendship. On it depends harmony of interest, permanence, fidelity. When Virtue has reared her head and shewn the light of her countenance, and seen and recognised the same light in another, she gravitates towards it, and in her turn welcomes that which the other has to shew; and from it springs up a flame which you may call love or friendship as you please. Both words are from the same root in Latin; and love is just the cleaving to him whom you love without the prompting of need or any view to advantage - though this latter blossoms spontaneously on friendship, little as you may have looked for it.” – From Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero, with his treatises on friendship and old age; translated by E. S. Shuckburgh.
Title: The adventure of the empty house / by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle Sir, 1859-1930
Other Titles: Variant Title: Empty house
Subjects: English fiction ;
Dewey: 823.912
Publication Details: Paisley : Gleniffer Press, c1994.
Language: English
Identifier: ISBN 0906005280; BNB GB9632731; System number 007435620
Notes: Cover title: The empty house.
Limited ed. of 200 copies.
Miniature book by Gleniffer Press.
Physical Description: 109 p. ; 24 mm.
Shelfmark(s): General Reference Collection Cup.550.g.541
UIN: BLL01007435620
“You’ll come with me tonight?”
“When you like and where you like.”
“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go...” - From The Adventure of the Empty House by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
He has just got, as far as he can judge, about as comfortable as he’s going to when he is startled from the edge of a doze by the sound of something loudly scraping and screeching along the floor out in the hallway. After a practical eternity of this, expecting a nurse every second, Sherlock is revealed to be dragging into his room, not a person this time, but a sofa that he absolutely has to have nicked from someone’s private office. John stifles a groan because he really should have predicted that Sherlock was due to commit some sort of petty theft about now and he shouldn’t be feeling surprised at all. With one final, awful, SCREECH, Sherlock seems to be satisfied with the positioning of the room’s newest piece of furniture.
“Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sherlock.”
As he curls into himself on his newly acquired bed, Sherlock is mentally reviewing what he’ll need to pick up to stock the refrigerator before John is released. He thinks Molly may be helpful there.
Author: impulsereader
Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock; gen; case!fic
Length: ~12,000 words
Find 1/2 here with notes http://impulsereader.livejournal.com/11048.html
One final taxi ride brings them to the restaurant and they settle into a corner table where they can see the entire room. Things are quiet for a long while. Genuinely hungry, but trying to pace himself as he isn’t sure how protracted a matter this may actually turn out to be, John works his way through a dish of the pork buns, then tackles the crispy duck spring rolls as well as the prawn and fish wrap; Sherlock predictably turns up his nose at all his offers to share.
His companion instead divides his attention between correcting the guidebook - with a green pen he’s managed to produce from thin air - and spectacularly invading the privacy of their fellow diners. He has just begun telling John what the man sitting in the opposite corner gets up to with his sister over the Christmas holidays each year when a large group of girls comes in the door and things finally start to get interesting.
As he has done each time the door has opened since they sat down, John looks up and checks out the new arrivals. He doesn’t see anything terribly interesting about the girls, and Sherlock has been quite clear that a large man had performed the disembowelling of their victims, so he turns back to his companion with the intention of getting him on to some topic other than sexual deviants of the incestuous sort. What he finds is an intense Sherlock, one who is rapidly processing information. After a quick flash of this he asserts quietly to himself, “Oh, that is clever. Very clever.” He then turns that insightful gaze to John. “Isn’t it clever?”
John shakes his head. “Sorry, you’re going to have to be more specific. Are you talking about all those girls?”
Sherlock’s reply to this question takes the rather startling form of his clapping one of his hands over John’s eyes, and his warm breath tickling against his ear as he purrs, “Yes. How many girls to make a gaggle, John?”
“What?” squeaks a startled John. “What are you on about?” He swats weakly at Sherlock’s arm.
“They would be women if it were two or three, but you’ve reduced this larger gaggle to girls. How many girls just came through the door?” he clarifies in what passes as a patient tone for him; still close, his lips practically touching John’s ear.
Huffing out a breath, he replies, “I don’t bloody know, Sherlock. Six or more maybe. A lot of them.”
“And how many of them were leaking intestines, Dr. Watson?”
“What?” Feeling ridiculous, he makes a more serious effort to shift the hand from his face now, and Sherlock lets go, leans back out of his personal space. He visually checks the group of girls again, who seem to have only disdain for their menus and are already ordering. Though he is sure he isn’t meant to state the obvious now that his impromptu blindfold has been removed, he notes that there are in fact eight of them. “None of them, at least not yet. Are you saying those are our potential victims? The others were travelling alone, aren’t these ones all together?”
Sherlock’s world-weary sigh indicates he is once again being an idiot, but this time he’s really just not following. There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary about this tableful of girls. They’re not girls as in children obviously, he’d say a little younger than the first victim. Not one of them is ugly enough or beautiful enough to attract automatic attention. It’s just a group of girlfriends out for dinner; they’ll likely end up in the pub and have to all stuff themselves into a series of taxis at the end of the night.
Sherlock narrows his eyes again at his mystified expression, as if judging whether or not John has really put in enough effort to have earned the reveal. He must pass, though he supposes barely. “When women travel in a group like that no one stops to count them. They left behind each victim and no one spared them a glance; not even the pigeons,” he finishes a little snidely, and John would normally have addressed that, but he is too busy shifting his gaze back to this harmless-looking group of chattering girls that his partner is accusing of murder.
“Hang on, you said our murderer was a man, and how the hell do you know that this particular lot of girls did that?”
“I know because this is the killer’s hunting ground during both lunch and dinner hours, and that ‘particular lot of girls’,” and on this phrase the snide tone is back in full force, “has left our garden-variety murderer a seat.”
There is in fact an empty seat at the table, and it does sort of scream ‘head of the family’ considering its position, with the girls all grouped round it. “All right,” John starts slowly, “so you’re saying that those girls gathered up the body, supported it into the square -”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupts him impatiently, “they walked the body over to the stairs as part of their group, propped it against the railing for a little while, sat all around it chattering inanely away, then one of them tugged its ankle just before they left, likely in two different groups, causing the sprawl that finally attracted attention after they’d gone.”
John spends a few minutes visualizing this scenario. “Sherlock, I don’t think that would work on the Eye -,” he begins but is interrupted by a snort which reminds him that, oh yes, he’s an idiot.
“Please, John, you can’t possibly have been under the impression that someone left a body on the Eye - remaining unobserved while doing so - without having an inside man, or in this case an inside girl. The issue at hand is that the man who is about to join our gaggle of girls is the murderer and he is now neatly caught thanks solely to our efforts.”
John reflects that only Sherlock could consider a criminal on whom he has yet to lay eyes neatly caught. He so clearly considers the case solved that he has turned his attention to the few remaining pieces of dim sum still on the table. John has worked up enough objections to at least have a go at an argument when he is abruptly saved the future embarrassment that doing so would have brought down upon him. A large bearded man joins the girls, taking up the empty chair. He gives up on scepticism and speed dials Lestrade.
Lestrade instructs them to stay where they are; well, he instructs John to do his best to make sure Sherlock stays put for the duration, and since the variable in question is now deeply immersed in employing his green pen liberally throughout the guidebook - angry slashes and cramped letters in the margin accompanied by amused snorts – and occasionally criticizing the quality of the food as well as the fact that it has gone cold, it seems a good bet this won’t be as difficult as it might have proven at other times. He signals the waitress for more pork buns to be safe. He isn’t surprised when Lestrade informs him that to avoid storming the restaurant, an attempt will be made to apprehend the suspects after they’ve left the building. John knows that the two of them are trusted - okay, maybe mostly John himself - to deal with anything that might crop up before then.
Sherlock is, for some reason John can’t quite pin down, complaining about the glowing write-up the British Library has been given when the Murder Table requests their bill around eight. John quickly does the same, texts Lestrade, then bundles Sherlock and his new best friend the green pen up and out on the heels of the last of the girls. The ruckus starts about sixty yards on, so they’re too late to hear whatever official phrase from Lestrade causes the subsequent riot, but they are in time to see London’s finest bodily swarmed by a gaggle of girls - eight girls to a gaggle, thinks John inanely - and their quarry takes the opportunity to set off running. As one, John and Sherlock bound after him, and John is about to get an inkling that now is when this heretofore really rather pleasant day turns completely, unavoidably, dodgy in the extreme.
Waterloo Bridge is a road and foot traffic bridge crossing the River Thames in London, England between Blackfriars Bridge and Hungerford Bridge. The name of the bridge is in memory of the Anglo-Dutch and Prussian victory at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Thanks to its location at a strategic bend in the river, the views of London (Westminster, the South Bank and London Eye to the west, the City of London and Canary Wharf to the east) from the bridge are widely held to be the finest from any spot at ground level. – Excerpt from Wikipedia
“Didn’t you tell him how many girls there were?” Sherlock demands petulantly.
“Of course I did!”
“Do you even know how many there were? You never did answer the question properly!”
John decides to punch Sherlock in the mouth later instead of wasting his breath now when it is infinitely more useful for running.
The fleeing murderer decides to cross the river and they’re about half way over Waterloo Bridge when he suddenly jinks across all four lanes of traffic.
Safety
London has its share of crime, but in general it's one of the safest big cities in the world for travelers.
Traffic is perhaps your greatest mortal danger in the city center. Be careful crossing all roads, and be on your lookout for bikes, mopeds, delivery trucks, cars, buses, even rollerbladers when you step onto the road. – Excerpt from frommers.com
Here, the thing that John is almost always afraid is going to happen - does - and one of the cars which Sherlock ignores in favour of running headlong through moving traffic doesn’t stop moving quite as quickly as any of the parties involved would have liked.
“Sherlock!”
Worse, he is now already two lanes away from John who is dancing with a moving vehicle of his own. To hell with the car, he decides, and uses its bonnet to vault himself back into forward motion without pausing for apology.
He’s too late, though, because the murderer has got there first and is hauling Sherlock up from his hands and knees by the scruff of his coat. A flash later he is holding an enormous hunting knife to his throat. John pulls out his gun and flicks the safety off in one smooth movement, bringing the sight up for a kill shot.
Ready now to take appropriate action if needed, he flicks his eyes to Sherlock who looks fully aware despite the tumble he’s taken. He gets an eye roll and the most infinitesimal of nods from his partner. Right, he thinks, agreeing with the assessment; confusing their murderer as to where the weapon is and which of them is more dangerous will split his focus nicely.
London Thames River Dinner Cruise
2 hours 30 minutes approx.
Departs: London, United Kingdom
From USD$126.89
Description
Breathtaking views, relaxing atmosphere, a 4-course meal and after-dinner dancing - what more could you ask for? {You mean, I suppose, aside from a cyanide capsule?} A Thames River dinner cruise is the perfect indulgence, from the welcome cocktail you'll receive when you step onboard, to dancing cheek to cheek on the dance floor after dinner.
Your four-course la carte dinner features modern European cuisine, {Parsley on a plate - if you’re lucky.} freshly prepared by a talented team of chefs and professionally served and presented by the friendly team onboard.
A musical blend of jazz is performed during your dinner cruise by the resident band, which comprises some of London's finest musicians. The highlight of your Thames River dinner cruise is the after-dinner dancing to music from the 60s right through to the hits of today. {Make sure to bring an adequate supply of ear plugs to avoid this assault upon your senses.}
While dining and dancing you'll cruise in style past London's famous sights, including the Houses of Parliament, London Eye, Tate Modern, Millennium Bridge, Shakespeare's Globe, St. Paul's Cathedral and Tower Bridge. The sensation of cruising past London's famous attractions while dining onboard a Thames River dinner cruise is a unique and memorable experience, not to be missed when visiting London.
Schedule details
Departure point - Embankment Pier
Departure time - Refer to your voucher for details.
Return details - Returns to original departure point at approximately 10:45pm
2 hours 30 minutes approx. – Excerpt from viator.com
“Put your gun down or your friend dies.” All part of the plan, of course. The demand is as old as time itself if you substitute ‘rock’ for ‘gun’. John obeys, kicking the gun as precisely as he can and manages quite nicely, Sherlock is pleased to note.
Now Sherlock gives a good, broad, distracting wail of, “Oh please don’t kill me!” as he burdens his captor’s one supporting arm with all his weight and scrabbles wildly at the face next to his with one hand while the other unerringly finds the pressure points he wants. All of this, along with a decisive twist of his body, has him rolling neatly away on the precise angle which allows him to scoop up the gun on his way back to standing, smoothly targeting as he rises.
Unfortunately, in the seconds during Sherlock’s rolling and rising again, something has gone slightly wrong. He has missed precisely what that something was, but that hardly matters now. Whichever tiny bit of timing ended up not working correctly tonight results in the sight Sherlock is now subjected to - the murderer twisting his knife in John’s gut, removing it swiftly and toppling him backwards over the railing with what appears to be sickening ease.
Sherlock shoots this garden-variety murderer in the forehead and wonders vaguely why it took him so long to do this.
“John!” Now he is leaning over the railing and yelling John’s name. Why is he doing this? It is completely nonsensical. Normally John falling into the Thames would be a matter to be treated fairly lightly. John falling into the Thames while losing blood at a rapid rate is a different story altogether. Abruptly, he realizes once again that he is wasting time.
Sherlock empties the gun of bullets and throws them into the water, dropping the now useless gun after them. He then sheds his coat as worse than useless and vaults over the barrier.
He is submerged for only a short time, but enough seconds elapse that his troublesomely brilliant brain has more than sufficient time to point out that not only is John’s wound causing him to bleed out into the river, but the river is also assiduously applying itself and all its inherent bacteria to John’s wound. Infection, that complication which would have been rather unlikely if this little Thames interlude had been avoided, is now quite certain to set in. On this troubling thought he surfaces.
Swimming with the current, Sherlock employs the breaststroke so that he can keep his head above water as much as possible. He must find him quickly, there is too much that could go wrong; there are boats about and it is getting darker, and no one other than he is looking out for a helpless body in the water. The evening has already offered up one unpleasant surprise and he is unwilling to risk another. This is all easier said than done, of course, and it is several minutes - ten minutes and forty-two seconds his brain offers up inevitably, though almost apologetically - before he spots a differently coloured, textured patch large enough that it could be a man floating in complete control of the current. He swims in earnest now to catch up to it.
It is John. However; he is now faced with a new challenge. John is no longer breathing and there is absolutely nothing Sherlock can do about this until he gets both of them onto solid ground. So he quietly seethes with white hot frustration as he spends the next several minutes - twelve mi-SHUT UP - reteaching his body whatever they had called this rescue backstroke which he had thought long since deleted, and fighting the current because all of those bloody boats which had been so dangerous moments before have all very inconveniently disappeared now that they would have been transformed into useful objects with life rings and obligingly flat, solid decks. Damn them all to whatever hell they believe exists. It occurs to him to wonder where the River Police are, surely someone has reported two men plunging into the Thames to the proper authority by now; still, he cannot simply tread water hoping for rescue so he begins composing a new concerto - very difficult with neither instrument nor pen and paper to hand - to block the tick of seconds in his head and orders his legs to move him through the water more quickly.
Finally, after many too many minutes that he absolutely refuses to allow his brain to report; Sherlock finally reaches a point where he can stand instead of swim and staggers onto solid ground. He tows John clear of the water and sets him down gently. There is a couple heading toward them looking concerned. Knowing his phone will be useless at this point he takes advantage of this unexpected company and snaps loudly, “You, woman, call for an ambulance. You,” he points at the man and instructs, “take off your jacket and apply pressure to this wound.” He pulls up John’s shirt and tries very hard not to look at the gaping wound too closely; his immediate attention is needed elsewhere. The man hurries to do as ordered, dropping to his knees on the other side of John’s body – NO – the other side of JOHN - and shrugging out of his jacket as Sherlock begins trying to retrieve his partner.
As he rhythmically compresses his chest - he knows exactly how much pressure to apply, knows exactly how much is too much and would injure him further - he obligingly explains to him why he is going to be very, very angry with him sometime in the future, perhaps once they are back home at Baker Street.
“John, as much as I appreciate your attempting to inject a modicum of excitement -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “into an otherwise dull case I must insist that next time you find -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “some other way of doing so. I understand this was not your intention -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “but nonetheless, your actions have caused me to almost certainly lose my coat tonight -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “as well as having rendered both of our phones useless.” breath - breath - breath - breath, “Surely you can see how needlessly destructive these results have been.” breath - breath - breath - breath, “John, breathe, dammit! If you don’t breathe your brain will suffer damage -” breath - breath - breath - breath, “and I will have no further use for you! You are a doctor for god’s sake,” breath - breath - breath - breath, “I shouldn’t have to tell you this!” And then, as if in protest that he does in fact know all these things and Sherlock doesn’t have to go on about them so, John is spluttering and coughing, and Sherlock feels dizzy - from all this breathing for two, surely; he probably shouldn’t have added yelling into the equation.
So his head is spinning, just a bit, as he savours the musical retching and hacking which is serving to expel water from abused lungs, and it takes him a moment longer than it should to realize that his draftee has deserted his post. Presumably put off by the fact that John has curled up into the foetal position as his body violently protests the contents of the Thames it has recently been forced to take in, the infuriatingly dense man has simply stopped applying pressure all together. Sherlock snatches the blood-sodden jacket away from him and gently but firmly forces John’s torso flat, leaving his head turned to the side to allow him to continue the expulsion of water, as he takes over this now all-important duty himself.
As if to cement the fact that outside help is now as little required as it is desired, a siren can be heard screaming in the distance. “You may go now.” After a pause, Sherlock belatedly thinks to add, “Thank you for your help,” because John would normally do that part, and it doesn’t seem right to leave it off with John right here, though he is incapable for the moment of doing it himself.
“Um...right. No problem.”
Sherlock dimly registers that this response is not followed by the man’s actually leaving. He spares him a glance, feeling peevish and wishing he hadn’t added John’s bit after all. “Well?”
London has several distinct retail districts and shopping streets, many of which have their own themes or specialities. {All shopping is BORING, despite John’s claim the machines put up a good fight.}
Savile Row
Known worldwide as the home of bespoke British tailoring, Savile Row is the place to come if you want a handmade suit crafted the old-fashioned way (with a price tag to match). Credited with inventing the tuxedo Henry Poole & Co – also the first Savile Row tailor – is still cutting cloth at no. 15. Other big names include Gieves & Hawkes, H. Huntsman & Sons and Ozwald Boateng. On the corner of this "golden mile" of tailoring you'll also find the flagship Abercrombie & Fitch store.
Nearest Tube: Bond Street or Piccadilly Circus – Excerpt from visitlondon.com
“Oh, well, um - my - my jacket, you see...” the comment trails off awkwardly.
Sherlock’s lip curls in distaste as he registers the wad of cloth between his hands and John’s wound. “You don’t actually think the blood is going to come out, do you?” The man just blinks at him stupidly, so using a volume reserved for those who don’t understand the language currently being voiced, Sherlock instructs very clearly and slowly, “Buy a new one, you dolt.”
Whether you're a science buff, a budding surgeon or just have a curious mind, London is full of fascinating science and medical museums.
Museum of St Bart's Hospital
This museum brings the history of St Bart's Hospital to life using interactive displays. At the click of a button, visitors are transported back into the world of a 13th-century sister or a 15th-century apprentice surgeon. Original drawings illustrate interesting cases; look out for the patient with a tumour of the tongue...
The Anaesthesia Museum
You'll be knocked out by the 2,000 objects related to anaesthesia at London's unusual Anaesthesia Museum! Whether you're an anaesthetist or just curious, the collection dating from 1774 to the present day provides an absorbing story and historical account of advancements in medicine and pain relief. Free entry
Old Operating Theatre
This is a real one off – the only remaining 19th-century operating theatre in England, which sits at the top of an old church. Inside, you can watch demonstrations of surgical techniques and volunteer to be "operated on". The smells emanating from the herb garret (originally used to store and cure medicinal herbs) just add to the atmosphere.
Wellcome Collection
A free museum for curious minds, the Wellcome Collection gives visitors a unique insight into what it means to be human. Many of the collections are nothing short of bizarre; showcasing everything from a Peruvian mummified man to a robot used in the human genome project. Free guided tours take place most days. - Excerpt from visitlondon.com
Sherlock’s brain knows precisely how long it has been since John had been brutally stabbed with a knife then shoved over the side of a bridge into the Thames; it cannot be sure precisely how long he had spent not breathing within that larger time frame, but in its infinitely brilliant manner it is willing to offer an extremely educated opinion on the point. Sherlock himself refuses to entertain any intelligence from that source regarding what these lengths of time might be - Why? Why had he been so slow tonight of all nights - the night when it finally counted so very much how quick and clever Sherlock actually is - could have - should have been? John had not gained any form of coherence on their journey by ambulance, so he has no way of knowing if he successfully restored oxygen flow to his brain in time. His focus has now narrowed to the extreme discomfort involved in hospital seating and the fact that John has been cut open - again - as doctors who have not been properly vetted by either of them - why is there no time for anything today, why? - attempt to piece together his insides.
He engages the part of his brain which most urgently needs engagement by picturing John’s insides. He is concentrating on picturing them whole, as they should appear, as they did earlier today - NO, he still has absolutely no interest in what amount of time they have spent not being whole thankyouverymuch - he suddenly wants to sketch them for reference and show this to the surgeons, surely they could use a bit of help if it comes from someone as utterly brilliant as he. It certainly couldn’t hurt, could it? For all he knows they are complete dullards who have never seen a sketch more accurate than a valentine’s heart drawn by an infant. He is contemplating the nearest place to obtain the necessary supplies for this; a very large piece of thick, expensive white paper - John’s heart is enormous and he will need room for it - drawing pencils in lurid shades of red - there had been so much of John’s blood, Sherlock is still covered in it though those patches are going brown now - perhaps he should buy a variety pack rather than choose individual shades - when he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Sherlock.” The way Lestrade says his name tells him it is not the first time he has done so. “Can I get you anything? I can get you some clean clothes and bring Mrs. Hudson to sit with you. Do you want anything else from the flat?”
Sherlock shoves himself to his feet violently; paces away to try and draw in a clean breath of air. The stink of hospital is choking him. The way Lestrade is looking at him is intolerable, as if he needs help, or to be coddled as you would a child. The fact that his hands are shaking and he wants a little desperately to ask Lestrade for paper and drawing pencils is entirely beside the point.
“Clothing would be appreciated. Mrs. Hudson would not.” He is pleased that his voice is crisp and steady even if his hands have proven themselves traitorous.
Lestrade’s eyebrows go up in a display of scepticism. “Are you sure? She might be angry with us if we don’t tell her what happened right away.”
Sherlock hesitates, because he is right. The thought of company is appalling, but may have to be tolerated. “Very well,” he allows, “but do convey that she would do just as well to wait until he is conscious to visit. I am not in need of companionship.”
“Right. I’ll do my best. Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”
Sherlock sinks wearily back into his seat as he asks in a tone comprised of equal parts wistfulness and petulance, “I don’t suppose you found my coat?”
With his eyes closed, it takes John’s brain a long while to meld the crisp cotton against his skin with the steady beep of monitors and the universal tang of a medical facility into the fact that he is in hospital. It’s a little ridiculous, really, how long it takes since he is a doctor and these things are therefore necessarily more familiar to him than most of the general public. As soon as he decides that it’s a little ridiculous, though, he also airily decides that it doesn’t matter. After another moment - he’s a doctor and meant to be clever about these things, dammit - he connects this whole ‘doesn’t matter’ conclusion to another aspect of hospitalization - pain medication. Yes, he twitches his hand slightly and the resulting sensations tell him he’s hooked up to an IV. See! He’s got it now, can’t keep a good man down, no sir!
This is the basic state his mind is in when John first regains consciousness after what he will eventually come to refer to as That Day We Went For a Swim - incurring Sherlock’s infuriated sputtering indignation each and every time he does so.
He opens bleary eyes to a profusion of flowers, but not much else. He’s in a room alone, which is - hang on, he thinks, no one ever wakes up alone in a hospital room on the telly - why is he alone? John frowns and tries to decide how this makes him feel. After a moment he gives a little snort. What did he expect? Mycroft, umbrella in hand, sitting vigil at his bedside? This initially comic image gives way to the more disturbing one of Mycroft, umbrella in hand, sitting vigil at Sherlock’s bedside, and that sobering thought makes him concentrate his resources on remembering what landed him here in the first place.
Luckily, someone has obligingly - as well as rather negligently - left his chart on his bedside table. John reviews it while he experimentally sips some water from a cup which he supposes is his, since he is alone after all, and has enough success to banish the worst of the fuzziness from his mouth. He winces when he realizes just how much of the Thames has likely taken up residence inside of him. Still, the facts bring all the actual events rushing back and he at least can be sure that he didn’t witness Sherlock being injured so there’s a good chance he isn’t laid up as well.
“John.”
He looks up from the chart to find Sherlock frozen in the doorway, looking startled. “Oh good, you didn’t get yourself stabbed as well. I’m a little loopy, I’ll warn you straight off.” His voice is rusty and he wonders how long he’s been out. Indicating the chart as he returns it to the table he goes on, “‘sall right though considering what they’re giving me, to be expected.”
“You’ve read your chart and you understand it all?” Sherlock questions him, which puzzles him a bit. Isn’t he meant to understand it?
“Of course,” he replies cautiously, wary of the dangers of speaking volubly under the influence.
Sherlock’s body relaxes, there’s no other way to put it; his every angle – and Sherlock is all angles – flows from rigid to liquid in an instant. “That’s good.” He clears his throat and then asks politely, “Would you like anything?”
John considers this. He hesitates for a moment, but the drugs are just good enough to urge him to go ahead and say what he says next. “Actually, yeah, there is something you could do for me.”
“Anything.”
Hunterian Museum
4.5 star rating
Category: Museums
35-43 Lincoln's Inn Fields
London WC2A 3PE
Neighborhood: Holborn
http://www.hunterianmuseum.org
Organ Specimens
Nearest Transit: Holborn Chancery Lane Temple
Hours: Tue-Sat 10 am - 5 pm
Good for Kids: Yes
Reviews of Hunterian Museum
Northampton
5.0 star rating
10/13/2011
One of the most visually stunning places in London, though not for the squeamish as the collection is absolutely unflinching.
Amazingly, the museum is built around the collection and research of one man - John Hunter - a Scottish anatomist whose attitude toward the study of the human body often clashed with the popular attitude of 18th century England. For instance, many of his specimens were obtained illegally as scientific study of the dead remained taboo. (In one of the more upsetting cases, he originally approached Charles Byrne, the Irish Giant, when he was alive and asked permission to study him after his death. Byrne was appalled and made arrangements to be buried at sea in a secure coffin. Money was exchanged post-mortem, however, and you can see his skeleton on display here.) There are many preserved human and animal parts, as Hunter was interested above all in mapping the mystery of nature via dissection. {Possibly interesting}
And all this strange historic wonder for free. *swoon*
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London
5.0 star rating
The array of dissected, formaldehyde soaked animal and human parts is fascinating. The progressive collections of surgical equipment and their uses only goes to reinforce the gratitude for all the endeavours this museum represents. There is much to marvel at and the odd section to feel a little uneasy with.
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- Excerpt from yelp.com
“Could you make sure that from now on there’s always something in the fridge that I’ll want to yell at you about?”
The drugs are nothing to the way putting that look on his utterly brilliant flatmate’s face makes him feel. Sherlock Holmes is stumped at his request - utterly stumped - and John is completely chuffed by this for exactly two and a half seconds before this satisfying expression changes from stumped to wildly alarmed and every single centimetre of him tenses back up again.
“State your full name,” Sherlock snaps at him, almost viciously.
“What are you on about?”
“State your full name,” he insists sharply.
“John Hamish Watson,” he obliges, feeling floaty and confused now. He wonders if he is dreaming.
Sherlock purses his lips, thinking. He suddenly whirls around and flies back out the door.
John wonders what the hell is going on.
Sherlock stalks back into the room seconds later, dragging a resigned-looking Lestrade after him by the arm. “Who is this man?” he demands, one hand flat against Lestrade’s back firmly shoving him forward, presumably for John’s inspection.
“Sherlock,” John asks slowly, fighting through the drugs fog now because he’d really like to understand what’s happening around him and determine if it is reality or not. “What is going on? Why are you dragging Lestrade about and asking me these questions?”
“Yeah, I’d like to know that too, actually,” Lestrade puts in.
“Oh good, is this not making sense to you either? I was starting to wonder if they’ve given me something funny and left it off the chart. Did he get knocked on the head or something after I fell into the water?”
“No, no, he’s fine; or at least as fine as he gets,” Greg assures him.
“All right, then never mind about the fridge, Sherlock. I’m changing my request to your acting slightly less Sherlockian right now before you start making my head hurt even through the drugs. Would you do that for your poor, injured, recently half-drowned flatmate?”
Frantic purposefulness is stripped from Sherlock’s person by his words; but just for a tick, then something seems to occur to him because his face lights up for a split second and he is suddenly gone again. John feels the beginnings of that headache inch a little closer.
Lestrade clears his throat and says, “Good to see you awake, I won’t bother asking how you feel.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He’d feel more grateful for the sentiment if the detective wasn’t suppressing laughter.
“I’d stay a while but I’ve just had a call. I’ll be by tomorrow though, and I’ll fill you in on anything Sherlock leaves out – you know, otherwise known as my bits.”
“Sure. Great. That’ll be great.” He waves him off to his escape, much more concerned with whatever Sherlock is up to at the moment and What Comes Next.
What does in fact Come Next is exactly what John had hoped wouldn’t. Sherlock returns, propelling yet another person into his room by force. This new victim gets the same shove as Lestrade toward the bed. “He is now awake, as you so unreasonably insisted he should be. Scan his brain,” he demands and points an imperious finger directly at John’s head to underscore his equally imperious order.
“Hello, Dr. Watson. I’m glad to see you’re awake. I’m Dr. Bates.” She recovers from the manhandling well, and picks up his chart. “How are you feeling?”
“Confused,” John admits.
“And are you in any pain?”
“Erm,” he decides not to mention the incipient headache for now. “No, not really.”
“Do you remember the events which caused your hospitalization?”
“Yes, I was stabbed and shoved into the Thames.”
“And where were you when this occurred?”
“Waterloo Bridge.”
“What did you last eat for breakfast?”
“Tea and toast,” he answers wistfully.
“How many siblings do you have?”
“One, a sister called Harry, short for Harriet.”
“Very good, thank you, Doctor.” She turns to Sherlock. “He’s perfectly fine, Mr. Holmes. He does not need an MRI or CAT scan at present.”
“He requested,” Sherlock spits venomously at her, “that I store human organs in our refrigerator on a permanent basis. Does that sound ‘perfectly fine’ to you?”
The doctor shoots a look of uncertainty John’s way, but her patient has finally caught on to what’s actually going on, and has consequently buried his face in his hands. This causes the beginning of his reply to be slightly muffled. “No, it’s all right - I mean I did, but I can explain - or at least, sort of.” He scrubs his face with his hands and lets out a long breath. “I’m fine, really. Give us a minute and let me see if I can sort it out, otherwise you can scan me just to make him leave you alone.”
He can tell she doesn’t know what to think at this point, but she makes a noise that is distantly related to agreement and wisely makes her escape as well.
Sherlock has crossed his arms firmly across his chest. “I want them to scan your brain,” he insists firmly.
“Yes, so I’ve gathered. Sherlock, I’m fine. All evidence to the contrary, I promise that the fridge thing was actually me in my right mind, but you don’t have to take it seriously if you don’t want to; call it a whim of the drugs. It’s just,” he sighs, because he really doesn’t want to explain this but there is clearly no alternative if he’s to get some sleep, “this morning you collected the eyeballs from the fridge and since then I’ve had this odd sort of off feeling because there wasn’t anything in there that I’d be justified in yelling at you about, and now here I am in hospital. It’s completely mad of course, but pain meds will do that sort of thing.” He adds, a bit petulantly, “I did warn you, you know, that I was a bit loopy.”
He finds himself on the receiving end of a Holmesian look he cannot interpret at all, and suddenly something slots into place which should have done much, much sooner. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how he had got out of the river, because of course Sherlock had been the one to rescue him, that was simply the way their world worked. Therefore; the consequences of his friend feeling that he was in charge of rescuing John hadn’t occurred to him either.
“You did fine, Sherlock,” he tells him firmly. “You fished me out in time. Thank you, by the way.”
“You never need to thank me, John.”
“Yes, well, I’ve done it anyway. Now, if you’re going to insist on their scanning me, can we at least wait a day or two? I’m a bit tired and I’d like to try and go back to enjoying these drugs they’ve got me on for a little while. You can understand that bit I’m sure.”
There is a pause before the answer comes, “Yes, of course. It can wait until morning.”
“Thank you.” John scrunches himself down a bit, grimacing when there is a resulting dull stab of pain in his side. “You’ll have to tell me what I missed, you know. What actually happened to our murderer?” But when he looks back over, Sherlock is gone. “Oh for the love of – ten seconds ago he was worried about me and now he’s off god knows where.”
He feels a little abandoned, if he’s completely honest with himself, but he tries to ignore that and concentrates instead on finding a comfortable position to spend the night. If he grumbles under his breath while he does so, “Complete nutter, dragging people around and demanding unnecessary scans. The least he could do is tell me how it all worked out,” then he does it very quietly and pretends that he hasn’t.
British Library - Very Highly Recommended
96 Euston Rd., NW1, London
Frommer's Review
Hours Mon and Wed-Fri 9:30am-6pm; Tues 9:30am-8pm; Sat 9:30am-5pm; Sun 11am-5pm
Location North London
Transportation Tube: King's Cross or Euston
Web site www.bl.uk
Prices Free admission
One of the world's great repositories of books, the British Library receives a copy of every single title published in the U.K., which are stored on 400 miles of shelves. In 1996, the whole lot (14 million books, manuscripts, sound recordings, and other items) was moved from the British Museum to the library's new home in St. Pancras. The current building may be a lot less elegant than its predecessor, but the bright, roomy interior is far more inviting than the rather dull, redbrick exterior suggests. Within are a number of permanent galleries, the highlight being the "Treasures of the British Library," where some of the library's most precious possessions are displayed, including a copy of Magna Carta (1215), a Gutenberg Bible, and the 1728 to 1779 journals of Captain Cook. – Excerpt from frommers.com
The British Library St Pancras 96 Euston Road London NW1 2DB, United Kingdom
Categories: GCID: Conference_center, Whats On, Non-Profit Organization, ...
Hours: Today 9:30 am – 6:00 pm
Transit: British Library (Stop C) (34 ft E) Buses 10,30,59,73,91,205,390,476
1 review
4 days ago
A treasure trove! I love that the museums in London are mostly free to visit and the British Library is no exception. There is a 'treasures' collection that can be viewed every day and there really are some wonderful historic documents from original Elgar manuscripts and Dickens first editions to original Mercator projection maps and of course a copy (incomplete due to fire) of the Magna Carta. There are also examples of literature and printing from the world's history. I highly recommend a visit and give yourself a few hours to do it. Also, the coffee shop has an offer that isn't advertised - coffee and churros for a very reasonable price (around £3 as I write). {Churros? At the British Library? This is disgusting.}
Was this review helpful? Yes - No - Flag as inappropriate – Excerpt from maps.google.com
Title: Marcus Tullius Cicero's Laelius, or, a Dialogue on friendship With grammatical analysis, explanatory notes, and translation
Author: Marcus Tullius Cicero
Publication Details: London : Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 1880.
Uniform Title: Single Works Laelius Latin and English
Identifier: System number 000704846
Physical Description: vii, 257 p. ; 8º.
Series: [Analytical Series of Greek and Latin Classics.]
Shelfmark(s): General Reference Collection 11305.d.20/3.
UIN: BLL01000704846
“It is virtue, virtue, which both creates and preserves friendship. On it depends harmony of interest, permanence, fidelity. When Virtue has reared her head and shewn the light of her countenance, and seen and recognised the same light in another, she gravitates towards it, and in her turn welcomes that which the other has to shew; and from it springs up a flame which you may call love or friendship as you please. Both words are from the same root in Latin; and love is just the cleaving to him whom you love without the prompting of need or any view to advantage - though this latter blossoms spontaneously on friendship, little as you may have looked for it.” – From Letters of Marcus Tullius Cicero, with his treatises on friendship and old age; translated by E. S. Shuckburgh.
Title: The adventure of the empty house / by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle Sir, 1859-1930
Other Titles: Variant Title: Empty house
Subjects: English fiction ;
Dewey: 823.912
Publication Details: Paisley : Gleniffer Press, c1994.
Language: English
Identifier: ISBN 0906005280; BNB GB9632731; System number 007435620
Notes: Cover title: The empty house.
Limited ed. of 200 copies.
Miniature book by Gleniffer Press.
Physical Description: 109 p. ; 24 mm.
Shelfmark(s): General Reference Collection Cup.550.g.541
UIN: BLL01007435620
“You’ll come with me tonight?”
“When you like and where you like.”
“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful of dinner before we need go...” - From The Adventure of the Empty House by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
He has just got, as far as he can judge, about as comfortable as he’s going to when he is startled from the edge of a doze by the sound of something loudly scraping and screeching along the floor out in the hallway. After a practical eternity of this, expecting a nurse every second, Sherlock is revealed to be dragging into his room, not a person this time, but a sofa that he absolutely has to have nicked from someone’s private office. John stifles a groan because he really should have predicted that Sherlock was due to commit some sort of petty theft about now and he shouldn’t be feeling surprised at all. With one final, awful, SCREECH, Sherlock seems to be satisfied with the positioning of the room’s newest piece of furniture.
“Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sherlock.”
As he curls into himself on his newly acquired bed, Sherlock is mentally reviewing what he’ll need to pick up to stock the refrigerator before John is released. He thinks Molly may be helpful there.
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Date: 2012-12-04 04:50 am (UTC)