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alexs_storybook) wrote2018-01-07 10:01 am
alexs_storybook) wrote2018-01-07 10:01 am
Entry tags:
FIC: The Pomeranian Affair (Sherlock Holmes)
Title: The Pomeranian Affair
Recipient: a_different_equation
Author: alexcat
Verse: Guy Ritchie films
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Queen Victoria
Rating: Gen
Warnings: None
Summary: Holmes finally has a case!
Holmes was again without a case, but that was no wonder. He turned down at least a dozen cases a day. He refused to hunt lost dogs or husbands. Nor would he hunt wayward wives or missing children. No. He wanted to be challenged, needed the challenge, he said.
So what we got was crazy, bored Holmes.
Crazy, bored Holmes tried yet again to kill poor Gladstone, but the pup is a tough sort and survived once again. Mrs. Hudson was beside herself when I got home from a house call to one of my shut-in patients. He was accusing her of poisoning him and she was afraid he was going to accidentally set the house on fire with whatever noxious smelling experiment he was working on.
He had a Bunsen burner going and some bubbling concoction over it. There was blue smoke and the smell, the smell was worse than awful. It was death and filth and every foul thing ever and then more on top of that.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?” I yelled at him, since he seemed so completely absorbed in his experiment.
“Making tea.”
“That isn’t tea, Holmes!” I rushed to open the window and then turned the burner off. “You’ll kill all of London with your experiments!”
“Oh, very well then,” he said nonchalantly.
“What else have you done?” I asked, looking around.
“I might have taken a case.”
“Oh? Who might have hired you?”
“Mycroft.”
“Holmes? Your brother? What on earth for?” Sherlock Holmes was the second strangest person in the world. His brother, Mycroft, was the strangest. He worked for the Queen in some clandestine capacity that he was not allowed to explain. He stayed at the Diogenes Club with its silent membership and looked down his long nose at his younger brother. They agreed on little and seemed not the least bit fond of one another.
Holmes actually blushed. “It would seem that Her Majesty has lost one of her dogs.”
I couldn’t hold back the laughter. “You? Looking for a dog? This is rich!”
“I agree, but what can I do? The Queen has requested our aid.”
“Our? Aren’t you the one who tells me all the time that you are the consulting detective?” I removed my hat and coat and went in search of real tea. Mrs. Hudson usually brought up a pot at four.
“There is no tea,” he said before I asked. “I told her to keep her poison.”
“She isn’t trying to poison you. Why do you persist in this?”
He shrugged.
I popped downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson if she’d make us a pot of tea.
“I was getting a pot ready since I saw you come in, Dr. Watson. You know how he is lately. I decided not to bother until you were here. No one likes being accused of attempted murder every day.”
I sighed. “I know. He is bored and when he is bored, he goes a bit crazy.”
“His brother was here this morning. He is a strange one,” she continued as she put sugar and milk on the tray. “Biscuits?”
“Yes, please. I haven’t eaten all day.”
She patted my hand. “You work too hard.”
“Did you talk to Mycroft?” I asked as she loaded the tray with goodies to eat with the tea.
“Oh dear, no! Well, I said hello but he looked at me as if he were terrified and hurried up the stairs.”
I laughed. “That would be Mycroft.”
When everything was ready, I took the tray upstairs to the parlor and poured myself a cup. Holmes sat across from me and looked expectantly at me. I poured him a cup, too.
“So tell me about the Queen’s dog being lost.”
“Mycroft suspects dognapping.”
“To what purpose?”
“Mycroft had no answer for that.”
I raised an eyebrow. Mycroft usually had an answer for everything.
“Well, he thinks it’s some sort of foreign plot.”
“And what do you think, Holmes?” I tasted one of the biscuits.
“I think someone has accidentally locked the dog in some room and he can’t get out.”
That actually seemed more plausible than a devious foreign plot to get secret information from Queen Victoria’s lapdog.
We finished our tea in silence. Holmes moved to the sofa and began his reading of the evening papers. He read them all, all the London papers, from front to back every day. After he finished and lay the last one aside, he said, “Nothing there to help us.”
“So no ransom?”
“No. I still think the wretched thing is lost or hiding.”
“I don’t suppose Mycroft can get you into the palace to search?”
“I’d say no but the queen does love her pets.” Queen Victoria had always kept many animals, even a herd of goats that descended from a pair of goats given her by the Shah of Persia when she took the throne. She always had dogs as well.
*
The next day found us in a carriage with Mycroft, heading for Buckingham Palace to find a missing dog. I secretly found this very funny, though I dare not laugh out loud in front of either Holmes or Mycroft. Neither had much sense of humor and neither could ever laugh at themselves. Stuffy is the word I’d use for both of them.
We were shown into the palace and soon were meeting the Queen herself. I had not expected this and was a bit taken aback. Mycroft, given that he worked in one of her agencies, had presumably met her before. He was quite up to date on the proper etiquette when meeting the Queen. He mumbled under his breath instructions to both Holmes and myself and I assume we performed adequately since we were not taken away and shot.
“We would be most pleased to have our precious pup back. We worry terribly that something bad has befallen her,” the ruler of the British Empire told us as we stood before her.
“May I ask a few questions?” Holmes murmured to his brother.
Mycroft nodded.
“Your Majesty, when did you last see her?”
“She was in the bed beside me two nights ago and was gone upon my waking the next morning. We called for her and she did not appear. None have seen her and we fear she has come to harm. Your brother assures us that you can find her, if anyone can.”
A manservant showed us where the Queen slept. Holmes walked around her bedchamber, looking at this and that, lifting something here, peeping on top of a cabinet there until it seemed he was satisfied with what he’d seen.
I admit that I am not the world’s most astute detective, but I do usually have some clue what he is up to. That day, nothing. I saw nothing at all enlightening.
We went to the places where the dog regularly went. No sign of the little Pomeranian, for that is what she was. Her name was Imogen, of all things. I think I might have called a white Pomeranian Fluffy. The servants had not seen the little thing either and I was beginning to fear that we might end up in prison for not finding her.
“We should separate,” Holmes said. “You go with Mycroft and I shall go alone.”
Mycroft sent the manservant with Holmes and he and I took our leave. We found another escort for ourselves and began our own search. We began in the kitchens. We both thought any self-respecting canine would visit the kitchens now and then for a treat, or even for a respite from being loved and petted to death.
The head cook swore that there had been no sign of Imogen in the last two days. We did take the time to eat a few treats and have a cup of tea that were offered us by the cook, who seemed to know and like Mycroft from some previous event.
After our bellies were happy, Mycroft suggested we look some more. We wandered here and there, not really having any idea where to look for a missing dog that might have run away or could have been stolen by someone from inside or outside the palace itself.
The day wore on with no sign of the dog or of Holmes. We actually began looking in earnest late in the morning and had a rather thorough search of the family quarters. We found missing shoes, other pets, random grandchildren and many servants who were surprised when we caught them not working very hard at all.
But no Imogen.
The day was waning as we came back to the drawing room and the Queen. In her arms we saw Imogen! The old woman was smiling happily and cooing at the tiny dog.
“We were beginning to think we might have to search for you, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Look what else the other Mr. Holmes found.”
She pointed to a box at her feet. Inside I saw some soft blankets and two puppies so small they might have been mistaken for mice.
“It seems that Imogen decided to have her puppies in privacy and found a place in the very back of one of the linen closets for the guest apartments. Mr. Holmes is brilliant, is he not?”
Holmes bowed deeply and solemnly to Queen Victoria.
*
We were reading the morning papers the next morning before he spoke a word about the whole affair.
“That went rather well,” I remarked as I poured another cup of tea.
Holmes glared at me over his paper. “Did it?”
“You found the dog.”
“Anyone could have done that. One of the maids had made a bed for her before I found her. She was afraid that someone would think she’d stolen the dog so she kept quiet. She’d given her food and water after the pups were born.”
“So no challenge then?”
He shook his head.
“I do hope we get a case before you shoot holes in the walls again.”
Homes smiled rather wickedly at me. “I’m sure you do.”
~end~
Recipient: a_different_equation
Author: alexcat
Verse: Guy Ritchie films
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Queen Victoria
Rating: Gen
Warnings: None
Summary: Holmes finally has a case!
Holmes was again without a case, but that was no wonder. He turned down at least a dozen cases a day. He refused to hunt lost dogs or husbands. Nor would he hunt wayward wives or missing children. No. He wanted to be challenged, needed the challenge, he said.
So what we got was crazy, bored Holmes.
Crazy, bored Holmes tried yet again to kill poor Gladstone, but the pup is a tough sort and survived once again. Mrs. Hudson was beside herself when I got home from a house call to one of my shut-in patients. He was accusing her of poisoning him and she was afraid he was going to accidentally set the house on fire with whatever noxious smelling experiment he was working on.
He had a Bunsen burner going and some bubbling concoction over it. There was blue smoke and the smell, the smell was worse than awful. It was death and filth and every foul thing ever and then more on top of that.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?” I yelled at him, since he seemed so completely absorbed in his experiment.
“Making tea.”
“That isn’t tea, Holmes!” I rushed to open the window and then turned the burner off. “You’ll kill all of London with your experiments!”
“Oh, very well then,” he said nonchalantly.
“What else have you done?” I asked, looking around.
“I might have taken a case.”
“Oh? Who might have hired you?”
“Mycroft.”
“Holmes? Your brother? What on earth for?” Sherlock Holmes was the second strangest person in the world. His brother, Mycroft, was the strangest. He worked for the Queen in some clandestine capacity that he was not allowed to explain. He stayed at the Diogenes Club with its silent membership and looked down his long nose at his younger brother. They agreed on little and seemed not the least bit fond of one another.
Holmes actually blushed. “It would seem that Her Majesty has lost one of her dogs.”
I couldn’t hold back the laughter. “You? Looking for a dog? This is rich!”
“I agree, but what can I do? The Queen has requested our aid.”
“Our? Aren’t you the one who tells me all the time that you are the consulting detective?” I removed my hat and coat and went in search of real tea. Mrs. Hudson usually brought up a pot at four.
“There is no tea,” he said before I asked. “I told her to keep her poison.”
“She isn’t trying to poison you. Why do you persist in this?”
He shrugged.
I popped downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson if she’d make us a pot of tea.
“I was getting a pot ready since I saw you come in, Dr. Watson. You know how he is lately. I decided not to bother until you were here. No one likes being accused of attempted murder every day.”
I sighed. “I know. He is bored and when he is bored, he goes a bit crazy.”
“His brother was here this morning. He is a strange one,” she continued as she put sugar and milk on the tray. “Biscuits?”
“Yes, please. I haven’t eaten all day.”
She patted my hand. “You work too hard.”
“Did you talk to Mycroft?” I asked as she loaded the tray with goodies to eat with the tea.
“Oh dear, no! Well, I said hello but he looked at me as if he were terrified and hurried up the stairs.”
I laughed. “That would be Mycroft.”
When everything was ready, I took the tray upstairs to the parlor and poured myself a cup. Holmes sat across from me and looked expectantly at me. I poured him a cup, too.
“So tell me about the Queen’s dog being lost.”
“Mycroft suspects dognapping.”
“To what purpose?”
“Mycroft had no answer for that.”
I raised an eyebrow. Mycroft usually had an answer for everything.
“Well, he thinks it’s some sort of foreign plot.”
“And what do you think, Holmes?” I tasted one of the biscuits.
“I think someone has accidentally locked the dog in some room and he can’t get out.”
That actually seemed more plausible than a devious foreign plot to get secret information from Queen Victoria’s lapdog.
We finished our tea in silence. Holmes moved to the sofa and began his reading of the evening papers. He read them all, all the London papers, from front to back every day. After he finished and lay the last one aside, he said, “Nothing there to help us.”
“So no ransom?”
“No. I still think the wretched thing is lost or hiding.”
“I don’t suppose Mycroft can get you into the palace to search?”
“I’d say no but the queen does love her pets.” Queen Victoria had always kept many animals, even a herd of goats that descended from a pair of goats given her by the Shah of Persia when she took the throne. She always had dogs as well.
*
The next day found us in a carriage with Mycroft, heading for Buckingham Palace to find a missing dog. I secretly found this very funny, though I dare not laugh out loud in front of either Holmes or Mycroft. Neither had much sense of humor and neither could ever laugh at themselves. Stuffy is the word I’d use for both of them.
We were shown into the palace and soon were meeting the Queen herself. I had not expected this and was a bit taken aback. Mycroft, given that he worked in one of her agencies, had presumably met her before. He was quite up to date on the proper etiquette when meeting the Queen. He mumbled under his breath instructions to both Holmes and myself and I assume we performed adequately since we were not taken away and shot.
“We would be most pleased to have our precious pup back. We worry terribly that something bad has befallen her,” the ruler of the British Empire told us as we stood before her.
“May I ask a few questions?” Holmes murmured to his brother.
Mycroft nodded.
“Your Majesty, when did you last see her?”
“She was in the bed beside me two nights ago and was gone upon my waking the next morning. We called for her and she did not appear. None have seen her and we fear she has come to harm. Your brother assures us that you can find her, if anyone can.”
A manservant showed us where the Queen slept. Holmes walked around her bedchamber, looking at this and that, lifting something here, peeping on top of a cabinet there until it seemed he was satisfied with what he’d seen.
I admit that I am not the world’s most astute detective, but I do usually have some clue what he is up to. That day, nothing. I saw nothing at all enlightening.
We went to the places where the dog regularly went. No sign of the little Pomeranian, for that is what she was. Her name was Imogen, of all things. I think I might have called a white Pomeranian Fluffy. The servants had not seen the little thing either and I was beginning to fear that we might end up in prison for not finding her.
“We should separate,” Holmes said. “You go with Mycroft and I shall go alone.”
Mycroft sent the manservant with Holmes and he and I took our leave. We found another escort for ourselves and began our own search. We began in the kitchens. We both thought any self-respecting canine would visit the kitchens now and then for a treat, or even for a respite from being loved and petted to death.
The head cook swore that there had been no sign of Imogen in the last two days. We did take the time to eat a few treats and have a cup of tea that were offered us by the cook, who seemed to know and like Mycroft from some previous event.
After our bellies were happy, Mycroft suggested we look some more. We wandered here and there, not really having any idea where to look for a missing dog that might have run away or could have been stolen by someone from inside or outside the palace itself.
The day wore on with no sign of the dog or of Holmes. We actually began looking in earnest late in the morning and had a rather thorough search of the family quarters. We found missing shoes, other pets, random grandchildren and many servants who were surprised when we caught them not working very hard at all.
But no Imogen.
The day was waning as we came back to the drawing room and the Queen. In her arms we saw Imogen! The old woman was smiling happily and cooing at the tiny dog.
“We were beginning to think we might have to search for you, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Look what else the other Mr. Holmes found.”
She pointed to a box at her feet. Inside I saw some soft blankets and two puppies so small they might have been mistaken for mice.
“It seems that Imogen decided to have her puppies in privacy and found a place in the very back of one of the linen closets for the guest apartments. Mr. Holmes is brilliant, is he not?”
Holmes bowed deeply and solemnly to Queen Victoria.
*
We were reading the morning papers the next morning before he spoke a word about the whole affair.
“That went rather well,” I remarked as I poured another cup of tea.
Holmes glared at me over his paper. “Did it?”
“You found the dog.”
“Anyone could have done that. One of the maids had made a bed for her before I found her. She was afraid that someone would think she’d stolen the dog so she kept quiet. She’d given her food and water after the pups were born.”
“So no challenge then?”
He shook his head.
“I do hope we get a case before you shoot holes in the walls again.”
Homes smiled rather wickedly at me. “I’m sure you do.”
~end~