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holmesticeTitle: The Case of the Frog Murder and the Disembodied Dog’s Head
Recipient:sanspatronymic
Author:a_different_equation
Beta:scfrankles
Verse: Sherlock Holmes – Arthur Conan Doyle
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson; Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson
Rating: Teen and up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings apply
Summary: 'Tis the season for... Victorian Christmas Cards.
Also on AO3: The Case of the Frog Murder and the Disembodied Dog’s Head
The Case of the Frog Murder and the Disembodied Dog’s Head
“I’m hardly in the dog one.”
“The dog one?”
For a second I was not sure what Holmes was referring to, and then it made all sense.
“Oh, you mean The Hound of the Baskervilles!”
In August 1901, The Strand Magazine had started to publish the adventure that took place so many years before and apparently, as has happened so often, my Holmes was in a strop. Since our first case in 1881, that I transformed into A Study in Scarlet for Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887, it has become an ongoing game between the two of us: Holmes pretends to dislike my flights of fancy, to scold me for my romanticism and my sensational style, while there probably is not a single man in England who knows my stories as well as Holmes.
Oh, he might huff and scoff but I know that he is secretly pleased.
The same, I was sure of it, would happen with ‘the dog one’.
Imagine my surprise when nothing of the sort occurred: for the next couple of months, whenever The Strand Magazine published the latest instalment and readers lined outside the magazine’s offices, waiting for it, my companion found new ways to irritate poor Mrs Hudson and me. The maid and our Baker Street Irregulars were shrewd enough to not disturb us on such days any more unless it was of the uttermost urgency. I thanked the God neither of us believed in that the Yard did not seek our assistance nor did a client ask for our help; both cases would have ended in disaster.
In September, it was the epic sulk on the sofa; in October, it was screeching on his violin; in November, it was ignoring me for a whole day in favour of his index; and in December, it was an awful experiment that almost landed us both in hospital. Holmes is a queer fellow; he warned me of his unusual habits (even though he forgot to mention certain aspects) at our first meeting and I do not exaggerate when I say that Mrs Hudson is one of the most long-suffering landladies in London. I love him dearly, but damn him, it was truly something else in those months.
OOOOOOOOO
In December 1901, part five of nine from The Hound of the Baskervilles was published in The Strand Magazine, which meant that the tale was half-way finished and the reunion of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson was imminent. If you are familiar with the case, then you are aware of the fact that Holmes sent me alone to Dartmoor to investigate; or, at least, so it seemed on the surface. As it happened, Holmes hid in a hut on the moor and once again left his Boswell in the dark. Not only the reader would be relieved when they reunited in The Hound of the Baskervilles, I thought carelessly at the time and, to my great shame, it took me another day or two to realize that this was indeed the heart of the matter.
At the time, I had only spotted a pattern between Holmes’ mood and the publication of The Hound of the Baskervilles. It did not took me too long to identify that even for a man like Holmes, his behaviour was out of the ordinary, but what might have caused it, this was for a long time not clear to me. For some weeks, I feared that it would be like the deduction scene of that particular case all over again: I see but I do not observe and if I do, I draw the wrong conclusion. I was aware that the easiest way would be to ask him but I sensed that I had disappointed him in some way with my writing and I did not have any intention of distressing him further. Those weeks drove me mad. My Holmes was in distress and I became agitated in return. We snapped at each other. Some nights I was close to storming out of the flat to clear my head, revisiting my bad habit of gambling to get rid of my pent up energy or even going so far as to start yelling at him. I had wronged him and upset him deeply somehow. I needed to fix this, as a doctor, as his friend, as his colleague, as his biographer, and in particular, as his companion. This was far more important than a stick another doctor, Dr. Mortimer, had left behind in 221B.
Therefore, as Christmas approached, I tossed and turned restlessly in my bed as I spent more nights than not alone in my old room. It would be the worst of celebrations, when we were both in such a state. Nightmares haunted my sleep; these days, it was not the battlefields of Afghanistan or Reichenbach but the hound resembling my guilt of letting Holmes suffer on my account. The hellhound chased me through the streets of London, alone, and no Holmes to aid me. Was it a punishment, a warning or a message? I could not tell.
It was the final days leading up to Christmas, when the answer struck me like a bolt of lightning.
Then, of course, I desperately wanted to find a way to make it up to him.
It had to be nothing too romantic because, although that might be my motivation, even behind our closed doors, my Holmes does not appreciate overly romantic gestures. He is certainly not the automaton I sometimes portray him as in order to protect him and our life at Baker Street, yet being confronted with outburst of emotion does make him feel uneasy. My Holmes is a Typical English Gentleman, even though he and I share a peculiar peculiarity and some other eccentricities.
The eccentric side of my Holmes was what gave me a way to express myself: For the festivities, I would send him a Christmas card.
Oh, not what you are thinking. Not one of the many cards with lace and silk fringes that are so fashionable these days. Or, God forbid, one with animals or little children on it. Certainly, I did not pick one of the religious cards that are more common now. And we were so busy with cases that I had not the time to create my own with a personal message via the secret language of flowers. Moreover, who can guarantee that my Holmes would be able to decipher it anyway? He has, as I have noted in A Study in Scarlet, a peculiar area of knowledge. In the end tough, it was elementary. Or, as my dear Holmes said: “I’m hardly in the dog one”, therefore, I picked The Christmas card of the Disembodied Dog’s Head.
OOOOOOOOO
Christmas morning approached and with it the bell that announced the Robin that would bring Holmes my Christmas card. From our sitting room, I heard Mrs Hudson at the front door. When she presented us with the post, I hoped that she would have witnessed enough eccentricity via our line of work that a Christmas card with such a motif would not upset her, though I was prepared for a bit of scolding. Instead, to my great surprise, I was faced with a mother figure that seemed to be proud and emotional.
“Oh, Mr Holmes, oh Dr. Watson”, she said.
Holmes and I exchanged a confused look. What happened afterwards was even more out of the ordinary. Mrs Hudson took a step towards Holmes and hugged him. My Holmes transformed into a pillar of salt. I was not far behind. I will attest that I handled her hug better than Holmes did, though not by much. What had brought all of this on? While my thoughts were reeling and I tried to make sense of this and in the same second find a way to reassure Holmes who was certainly even more confused than I was, I did not register that Mrs Hudson had already withdraw.
Quietly, like a Christmas Spirit, she had left the room.
Before us on the table lay two Christmas cards.
One card I recognized as it was The Disembodied Dog’s Head, the card I had picked out for Holmes. The second card however was unknown to me. It showed, and for one second I could not believe my eyes, a crime scene. Only, unlike all the others I have visited with Holmes over the years, it was a murder investigation with frogs.
“As always, John, you see but you don’t observe.”
The voice of my Holmes cut through the silence. The voice I have heard so often utter this particular phrase but unlike the other times, it was thick with – dare I say it – emotion. It was not the mocking tone I could detect sometimes but tender and soft. When I looked up from setting the two odd but so fitting Christmas cards on the table, I saw that even his face was tender and soft. It was a rare look on him but oh, so welcome.
“It is not a murder investigation; it’s a scene of a murder.”
“Really, Holmes.”
“Of course, John. Do you not see the small blade that has wounded the frog mortally? Or, so has the artist made us believe. Of course, you as a medical man and I as a detective would argue whether the incident had been portrayed correctly. If a frog would indeed fall down in such a way. In addition, there is the question of why the killed frog is not wearing any clothing and the murderer is. I mean, it is hardly proper to wake around naked outdoors, is it? Furthermore, amphibians cannot hold items in their ‘hands’. Oh, and yes, a sack with £2,000 inside would be bigger. And...”
Before my Holmes could elaborate further, I took the step to him and kissed him.
After all, that is the perfect conclusion of a case. When we parted, I could not help but comment:
“Come to think about it, Holmes, The Case of the Frog Murder sounds rather tame for our daily life. Don’t you agree?”
For a second, I feared he would not share my humour, but then he surprised me (and probably himself) with joyful laughter. And I, John Watson, his Boswell, laughed with him.
OOOOOOOOO
On silent agreement, some minutes later, we pushed our chairs together. It was Christmas morning, we certainly could not go to one of our bedchambers together now – regardless of Mrs Hudson’s display of emotion that had proved again how liberal and doting she was – but we could sit as close as it was decent. Besides, there was still the elephant in the room. I took a deep breath and presented him officially with his Christmas card:
“I should have written The Hound of the Baskervilles differently, Holmes. I am sorry, my love.”
“It made me look like I had abandoned you again, John.”
“The public has not read The Return, Holmes. I have agreed with Doyle that it will not be published for another two years.”
“Are you really trying to pretend to not understand, Watson? I thought that the card was a sign...”
Before he could got upset again, as I now know had happened over the weeks of the publication of The Hound of the Baskervilles, I backpedalled instantly.
“No, I mean, yes, Holmes. I have made a fatal error. It was a mistake to alter so many aspects of the case but to leave this unchanged. It is true that you deceived me back then, you did not include me, and yes, I thought for quite some time that I was on my own while you were hiding in that terrible hut, but you have learned your lesson. You are not the man, we are both not the men, we were back then. A lot has changed in nearly two decades, and more than the public will ever find out.”
I paused for a moment. Should I explain myself, should I lay myself bare, should I tell the whole story? For a second I thought it pointless, but then I thought of Holmes’ actions back then and his reactions over the last months, and then I thought of the message the dog had in his mouth: ‘Wishing you a glad New Year.’ New Year that means New Beginnings. Therefore, I started again:
“You never asked when I knew. Knew that I loved you, I mean. The truth is that perhaps I found you fascinating from the first day onwards, but it was the case I published under the name The Hound of the Baskervilles that really told me how deep my feelings for you run. You deceived me, you let me believe that I was on my own, investigating in this almost no-man’s land, far away from London and from you, and it was horrible. The weather made my joints ache, the household staff, oh you know the tale, Holmes, the moor and everything was dreadful. It appeared to be a great case. What went unsaid in the publication is that it only becomes an adventure with YOU at my side. A hound is only a dog when you are not there.”
I registered that he tried to reach me. I felt his presence; I always do, I always did. However, I knew that I would never finish my tale if he touched me now. I continued and I hoped he would be my brilliant madman and understand me as he always has done.
“The thing that tipped me over the edge? Which really made me realize that I was hopelessly in love with you, you wicked man? That was the moment in the hut. It did not occur to me to be resentful. I fainted when you returned to me. God knows that there were times I wanted to punch you. In addition, we both know that the ones I want to kiss you outnumber those situations. The first time I thought that was the moment in the hut. Instead of being angry, I wanted to have my way with you. I wanted to make you understand with my body what you had done to me. The hurt and the betray, but also the thrill and the adventure. That however, did not seem to be a good idea at the time. How could I know that it would have been welcome? I was an idiot. And I was an idiot when I published it this year.”
“It’s alright, John. I understand.”
He interrupted me. Clearly, he wanted to stop my rambling. Heartfelt confessions were not our strong suit. Even when we came together, it was not with a big speech. Apparently, it was finally the time. Long overdue, come to think about it, so I continued. However, this time I let him take my hand while I talked. From time to time, I felt his thumb caressing my hand.
I did not want to alter it because this case is dear to me. Furthermore, I feared that if I edited parts, my feelings would get the better of me. You complain about my romanticism in my writing too often; I feared that an alternative version would come too close to the truth. After all, how does the saying go: Nothing deceives better than the truth? However, I overlooked you, my dear man, and your feelings on the matter. I, who should know you the best. I hurt you, and even worse, it took me far too long to come to that conclusion. I am sorry, Holmes.”
He only held my hand tighter, and I know, I was forgiven.
OOOOOOOOO
We helped each other to good brandy and seed cake. Later, Holmes would pick up his violin and would play some festive carols for us, and maybe, in the afternoon, we would go to the Turkish Baths, as it has been our special costume for quite some years now. And later still, I knew that I would not sleep on my own. I had whispered my wish in Holmes’ ear before I had taken up both of our Christmas cards and put them under the tree.
There they lay, the Christmas card with The Case of the Frog Murder and the one with The Disembodied Dog’s Head, and in the chairs, there we sat, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, in 221B Baker Street on Christmas morning.
We were as content as two men can be.
THE END
NOTES:
Read more about Frog Murder and boiled children: ‘Merry Christmas’ Victorian style
'Tis the season for frog-on-frog murder (= Holmes’ card for Watson)
‘Wishing you a glad New Year’, the disembodied dog's head said. (= Watson’s card for Holmes)
Recipient:
sanspatronymicAuthor:
a_different_equationBeta:
scfranklesVerse: Sherlock Holmes – Arthur Conan Doyle
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson; Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson
Rating: Teen and up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings apply
Summary: 'Tis the season for... Victorian Christmas Cards.
Also on AO3: The Case of the Frog Murder and the Disembodied Dog’s Head
The Case of the Frog Murder and the Disembodied Dog’s Head
“I’m hardly in the dog one.”
“The dog one?”
For a second I was not sure what Holmes was referring to, and then it made all sense.
“Oh, you mean The Hound of the Baskervilles!”
In August 1901, The Strand Magazine had started to publish the adventure that took place so many years before and apparently, as has happened so often, my Holmes was in a strop. Since our first case in 1881, that I transformed into A Study in Scarlet for Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887, it has become an ongoing game between the two of us: Holmes pretends to dislike my flights of fancy, to scold me for my romanticism and my sensational style, while there probably is not a single man in England who knows my stories as well as Holmes.
Oh, he might huff and scoff but I know that he is secretly pleased.
The same, I was sure of it, would happen with ‘the dog one’.
Imagine my surprise when nothing of the sort occurred: for the next couple of months, whenever The Strand Magazine published the latest instalment and readers lined outside the magazine’s offices, waiting for it, my companion found new ways to irritate poor Mrs Hudson and me. The maid and our Baker Street Irregulars were shrewd enough to not disturb us on such days any more unless it was of the uttermost urgency. I thanked the God neither of us believed in that the Yard did not seek our assistance nor did a client ask for our help; both cases would have ended in disaster.
In September, it was the epic sulk on the sofa; in October, it was screeching on his violin; in November, it was ignoring me for a whole day in favour of his index; and in December, it was an awful experiment that almost landed us both in hospital. Holmes is a queer fellow; he warned me of his unusual habits (even though he forgot to mention certain aspects) at our first meeting and I do not exaggerate when I say that Mrs Hudson is one of the most long-suffering landladies in London. I love him dearly, but damn him, it was truly something else in those months.
In December 1901, part five of nine from The Hound of the Baskervilles was published in The Strand Magazine, which meant that the tale was half-way finished and the reunion of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson was imminent. If you are familiar with the case, then you are aware of the fact that Holmes sent me alone to Dartmoor to investigate; or, at least, so it seemed on the surface. As it happened, Holmes hid in a hut on the moor and once again left his Boswell in the dark. Not only the reader would be relieved when they reunited in The Hound of the Baskervilles, I thought carelessly at the time and, to my great shame, it took me another day or two to realize that this was indeed the heart of the matter.
At the time, I had only spotted a pattern between Holmes’ mood and the publication of The Hound of the Baskervilles. It did not took me too long to identify that even for a man like Holmes, his behaviour was out of the ordinary, but what might have caused it, this was for a long time not clear to me. For some weeks, I feared that it would be like the deduction scene of that particular case all over again: I see but I do not observe and if I do, I draw the wrong conclusion. I was aware that the easiest way would be to ask him but I sensed that I had disappointed him in some way with my writing and I did not have any intention of distressing him further. Those weeks drove me mad. My Holmes was in distress and I became agitated in return. We snapped at each other. Some nights I was close to storming out of the flat to clear my head, revisiting my bad habit of gambling to get rid of my pent up energy or even going so far as to start yelling at him. I had wronged him and upset him deeply somehow. I needed to fix this, as a doctor, as his friend, as his colleague, as his biographer, and in particular, as his companion. This was far more important than a stick another doctor, Dr. Mortimer, had left behind in 221B.
Therefore, as Christmas approached, I tossed and turned restlessly in my bed as I spent more nights than not alone in my old room. It would be the worst of celebrations, when we were both in such a state. Nightmares haunted my sleep; these days, it was not the battlefields of Afghanistan or Reichenbach but the hound resembling my guilt of letting Holmes suffer on my account. The hellhound chased me through the streets of London, alone, and no Holmes to aid me. Was it a punishment, a warning or a message? I could not tell.
It was the final days leading up to Christmas, when the answer struck me like a bolt of lightning.
Then, of course, I desperately wanted to find a way to make it up to him.
It had to be nothing too romantic because, although that might be my motivation, even behind our closed doors, my Holmes does not appreciate overly romantic gestures. He is certainly not the automaton I sometimes portray him as in order to protect him and our life at Baker Street, yet being confronted with outburst of emotion does make him feel uneasy. My Holmes is a Typical English Gentleman, even though he and I share a peculiar peculiarity and some other eccentricities.
The eccentric side of my Holmes was what gave me a way to express myself: For the festivities, I would send him a Christmas card.
Oh, not what you are thinking. Not one of the many cards with lace and silk fringes that are so fashionable these days. Or, God forbid, one with animals or little children on it. Certainly, I did not pick one of the religious cards that are more common now. And we were so busy with cases that I had not the time to create my own with a personal message via the secret language of flowers. Moreover, who can guarantee that my Holmes would be able to decipher it anyway? He has, as I have noted in A Study in Scarlet, a peculiar area of knowledge. In the end tough, it was elementary. Or, as my dear Holmes said: “I’m hardly in the dog one”, therefore, I picked The Christmas card of the Disembodied Dog’s Head.
Christmas morning approached and with it the bell that announced the Robin that would bring Holmes my Christmas card. From our sitting room, I heard Mrs Hudson at the front door. When she presented us with the post, I hoped that she would have witnessed enough eccentricity via our line of work that a Christmas card with such a motif would not upset her, though I was prepared for a bit of scolding. Instead, to my great surprise, I was faced with a mother figure that seemed to be proud and emotional.
“Oh, Mr Holmes, oh Dr. Watson”, she said.
Holmes and I exchanged a confused look. What happened afterwards was even more out of the ordinary. Mrs Hudson took a step towards Holmes and hugged him. My Holmes transformed into a pillar of salt. I was not far behind. I will attest that I handled her hug better than Holmes did, though not by much. What had brought all of this on? While my thoughts were reeling and I tried to make sense of this and in the same second find a way to reassure Holmes who was certainly even more confused than I was, I did not register that Mrs Hudson had already withdraw.
Quietly, like a Christmas Spirit, she had left the room.
Before us on the table lay two Christmas cards.
One card I recognized as it was The Disembodied Dog’s Head, the card I had picked out for Holmes. The second card however was unknown to me. It showed, and for one second I could not believe my eyes, a crime scene. Only, unlike all the others I have visited with Holmes over the years, it was a murder investigation with frogs.
“As always, John, you see but you don’t observe.”
The voice of my Holmes cut through the silence. The voice I have heard so often utter this particular phrase but unlike the other times, it was thick with – dare I say it – emotion. It was not the mocking tone I could detect sometimes but tender and soft. When I looked up from setting the two odd but so fitting Christmas cards on the table, I saw that even his face was tender and soft. It was a rare look on him but oh, so welcome.
“It is not a murder investigation; it’s a scene of a murder.”
“Really, Holmes.”
“Of course, John. Do you not see the small blade that has wounded the frog mortally? Or, so has the artist made us believe. Of course, you as a medical man and I as a detective would argue whether the incident had been portrayed correctly. If a frog would indeed fall down in such a way. In addition, there is the question of why the killed frog is not wearing any clothing and the murderer is. I mean, it is hardly proper to wake around naked outdoors, is it? Furthermore, amphibians cannot hold items in their ‘hands’. Oh, and yes, a sack with £2,000 inside would be bigger. And...”
Before my Holmes could elaborate further, I took the step to him and kissed him.
After all, that is the perfect conclusion of a case. When we parted, I could not help but comment:
“Come to think about it, Holmes, The Case of the Frog Murder sounds rather tame for our daily life. Don’t you agree?”
For a second, I feared he would not share my humour, but then he surprised me (and probably himself) with joyful laughter. And I, John Watson, his Boswell, laughed with him.
On silent agreement, some minutes later, we pushed our chairs together. It was Christmas morning, we certainly could not go to one of our bedchambers together now – regardless of Mrs Hudson’s display of emotion that had proved again how liberal and doting she was – but we could sit as close as it was decent. Besides, there was still the elephant in the room. I took a deep breath and presented him officially with his Christmas card:
“I should have written The Hound of the Baskervilles differently, Holmes. I am sorry, my love.”
“It made me look like I had abandoned you again, John.”
“The public has not read The Return, Holmes. I have agreed with Doyle that it will not be published for another two years.”
“Are you really trying to pretend to not understand, Watson? I thought that the card was a sign...”
Before he could got upset again, as I now know had happened over the weeks of the publication of The Hound of the Baskervilles, I backpedalled instantly.
“No, I mean, yes, Holmes. I have made a fatal error. It was a mistake to alter so many aspects of the case but to leave this unchanged. It is true that you deceived me back then, you did not include me, and yes, I thought for quite some time that I was on my own while you were hiding in that terrible hut, but you have learned your lesson. You are not the man, we are both not the men, we were back then. A lot has changed in nearly two decades, and more than the public will ever find out.”
I paused for a moment. Should I explain myself, should I lay myself bare, should I tell the whole story? For a second I thought it pointless, but then I thought of Holmes’ actions back then and his reactions over the last months, and then I thought of the message the dog had in his mouth: ‘Wishing you a glad New Year.’ New Year that means New Beginnings. Therefore, I started again:
“You never asked when I knew. Knew that I loved you, I mean. The truth is that perhaps I found you fascinating from the first day onwards, but it was the case I published under the name The Hound of the Baskervilles that really told me how deep my feelings for you run. You deceived me, you let me believe that I was on my own, investigating in this almost no-man’s land, far away from London and from you, and it was horrible. The weather made my joints ache, the household staff, oh you know the tale, Holmes, the moor and everything was dreadful. It appeared to be a great case. What went unsaid in the publication is that it only becomes an adventure with YOU at my side. A hound is only a dog when you are not there.”
I registered that he tried to reach me. I felt his presence; I always do, I always did. However, I knew that I would never finish my tale if he touched me now. I continued and I hoped he would be my brilliant madman and understand me as he always has done.
“The thing that tipped me over the edge? Which really made me realize that I was hopelessly in love with you, you wicked man? That was the moment in the hut. It did not occur to me to be resentful. I fainted when you returned to me. God knows that there were times I wanted to punch you. In addition, we both know that the ones I want to kiss you outnumber those situations. The first time I thought that was the moment in the hut. Instead of being angry, I wanted to have my way with you. I wanted to make you understand with my body what you had done to me. The hurt and the betray, but also the thrill and the adventure. That however, did not seem to be a good idea at the time. How could I know that it would have been welcome? I was an idiot. And I was an idiot when I published it this year.”
“It’s alright, John. I understand.”
He interrupted me. Clearly, he wanted to stop my rambling. Heartfelt confessions were not our strong suit. Even when we came together, it was not with a big speech. Apparently, it was finally the time. Long overdue, come to think about it, so I continued. However, this time I let him take my hand while I talked. From time to time, I felt his thumb caressing my hand.
I did not want to alter it because this case is dear to me. Furthermore, I feared that if I edited parts, my feelings would get the better of me. You complain about my romanticism in my writing too often; I feared that an alternative version would come too close to the truth. After all, how does the saying go: Nothing deceives better than the truth? However, I overlooked you, my dear man, and your feelings on the matter. I, who should know you the best. I hurt you, and even worse, it took me far too long to come to that conclusion. I am sorry, Holmes.”
He only held my hand tighter, and I know, I was forgiven.
We helped each other to good brandy and seed cake. Later, Holmes would pick up his violin and would play some festive carols for us, and maybe, in the afternoon, we would go to the Turkish Baths, as it has been our special costume for quite some years now. And later still, I knew that I would not sleep on my own. I had whispered my wish in Holmes’ ear before I had taken up both of our Christmas cards and put them under the tree.
There they lay, the Christmas card with The Case of the Frog Murder and the one with The Disembodied Dog’s Head, and in the chairs, there we sat, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, in 221B Baker Street on Christmas morning.
We were as content as two men can be.
NOTES:
Read more about Frog Murder and boiled children: ‘Merry Christmas’ Victorian style
'Tis the season for frog-on-frog murder (= Holmes’ card for Watson)
‘Wishing you a glad New Year’, the disembodied dog's head said. (= Watson’s card for Holmes)
no subject
Date: 2017-12-12 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-21 07:37 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for your comment. I'm glad that you liked 'The case of the Frog Murder and the Disembodied Dog's Head'; and yes, the Victorian Christmas Cards are really something else. When I first discovered them I knew that I have to write about it some time.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-13 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-21 07:46 pm (UTC)Thank you for your comment. I'm glad that you liked it. The original prompt was for "Bad Christmas" but yeah, I needed a happy ending. So I twisted the prompt a bit. One might say that the Victorian Christmas Cards are "bad" (taste) but I discovered them and instantly thought: "That's so them."
And luckily it seems that sans_patronymic liked it too.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-13 02:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-21 07:49 pm (UTC)Thank you for your comment.
Yes, those are original Victorian Christmas Cards. Of course, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are fictional characters but yes, I agree: the cards are sooooo them.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-13 02:45 am (UTC)Well done you for combining so many of my favorite things: HOUN, sulky!Holmes, horrible Victorian Christmas cards (the frog murder is my favorite!), and a sleuthing Watson. As the youths say these days: I feel very seen.
I like the dynamic between the two of them here, especially like Watson thinking of Holmes's emotional hangups as symptoms of a Typical English Gentleman and rushing to interpret Holmes's touches or interruptions. (I'm sure Holmes would be quick to remind him that jumping to conclusions is not quite the same as deducing). I like Watson thinking of himself as the more emotionally liberated one--perhaps he is, perhaps he isn't, we don't see much of Holmes's side, though a 3-month sulkfest isn't exactly mature.
Interesting, too, to look at Watson writing and publishing HOUN as a sort of healing process. I hadn't really considered that it's the only story published between FINA and EMPT, and published after Holmes has already returned. Of course, it's also a story of Holmes disappearing, deceiving, and returning to make everything right in the end. Beautiful choice to make it the case during which Watson realizes the depth of his feelings. Would Holmes had been clever enough to put all that together, they might have had a much cozier holiday!
And, of course, your first line is absolutely my favorite. I can't help but crack up at picturing Watson walking into the room and Holmes from his chair, with no greeting or preamble, just flatly saying: "I'm hardly in the dog one."
Hilarious, marvelous, just the holiday treat I needed! Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2017-12-21 08:13 pm (UTC)I'm soooo glad that you liked my gift. I'll admit that I was a bit worried that I did not fullfil your original prompt 100%. Actually, I thought that it was not too 'rotten' and 'bad' because it resolved quickly and then it's happy Christmas again.
Oh, and how glad am I that I - accidently - ticked off so many of your favourite tropes. It was fun to write. So THANK YOU for this excellent prompt.
The Hound and the Dog --- yes, that's it.
It all started with the cards. Then there was the dog, I remembered "I'm hardly in the dog one" (that line isn't mine; it's a quote from 'The Abominable Bride', the special episode set in Victorian times of 'BBC SHERLOCK'), and then the story was born. 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' is one of my personal favourites, so yes, I played a bit with canon.
Yes, they're two idiots in love.
Thank you for your long and detailled comment. I'm truly glad that you liked it.
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Date: 2017-12-14 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-21 07:50 pm (UTC)Yes, Holmes & Watson --- two idiots in love.
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Date: 2017-12-21 09:13 am (UTC)This line is complete perfection.
The whole rest of the story is wonderful too, but I keep coming back to this as a flawless summation. <3
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Date: 2017-12-21 07:54 pm (UTC)Oh, you're amazing. Do you know that you quoted my favourite line of 'The Case of the Frog Murderer and the Disembodied Dog's Head'? A writer might not be allowed to have favourites but yes, I do.
Thank you <3
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Date: 2018-01-01 11:32 pm (UTC)