The · Astounding · Bottomless · Tin · Dispatch · Box

Here is Chapter 2 of the Kitty Vanishes.  For chapter one, scroll down to the previous entry, or click on the tag below.

I cannot remember how much of The Kitty Vanishes I've posted elsewhere, but since none of it is archived here I figured I'd start from the beginning.  So here is chapter one of what will hopefully be a no-more-than-four-chapter mystery.  I'm just so darn long-winded that it's not certain how long it will be when its finished.  At least now there's  a definite end point.

In addition, I have received a few complaints concerning the journal's colors so the theme has been changed to something that's hopefully more readable.  If you are still having trouble, let me know.

That's all the business, onto the fic!

Instead of a drabble, I am posting a little teaser of a little PWP I'm working on.  Suggestions, comments, criticisms  are all  welcome.  I actually did research for this! But if my billiards terms are wonky, let me know.

Billiards

I suppose it is a requirement of every bachelor estate that there should be a smoking room equipped with a sturdy, serviceable billiard table.  The enormous gothic monstrosity that passed for Lord Delaney’s estate was no exception.  The lord of the manor had engaged Holmes to discover the whereabouts of his most recent manservant, and so we were both compelled to travel to his holdings in Cornwall.  The case proved to be a relatively simple one, uninteresting and unworthy of Holmes’ extensive abilities, but the mansion itself was entertaining enough to compensate for the lackluster mystery.  

 

The case had been completed to Holmes’ satisfaction in just under a week, but we remained at Lord Delaney’s manor house over the weekend at his behest.  He was a pleasant host, and we both enjoyed his company, but even above his surprisingly interesting conversation we relished the expensively luxurious billiard table.  That billiard table, with its perfectly polished mahogany legs and brilliant green wool cover was the pride and joy of Lord Delaney’s collection of “gentlemen’s entertainment.”  It stood in a prominent corner of the gaming room, surrounded by racks of the highest quality cues made of all sorts of exotic woods, some of which boasted beautiful inlay patterns.  I discovered over the course of the investigation that Holmes loved billiards and was a terrific player, even to the point where Lord Delaney, who was himself quite accomplished, refused to play against him.  I have never minded basking in Holmes’ shadow and losing to him at billiards was the easiest thing in the world.  It allowed me, with perfect decorum, to admire his lean figure and long, delicate hands for hours on end.  In return, Holmes passed many contented hours without sparing a thought to the cocaine needle that seemed to always loom above the end of a less than satisfactory investigation.

 

It had become our practice to retire to the gaming room instead of the smoking room after dinner for conversation and, of course, to put the magnificent billiard table through its paces.  To this end, Holmes and I remained awake after Lord Delaney retired the night before we planned to go back to London, intending to play billiards by the low gaslight.  So it happened that on our final night in Cornwall we found ourselves engaged in a long, emotional goodbye not to our host, who had retired quite early, but to his magnificent billiard table. 

 

Holmes was in the process of racking the balls, a thin cigar balanced daintily between his teeth.  He maneuvered around the table with an admirable economy of movement, his penchant for perfection requiring he check the racked balls from every angle before breaking them.  From the first moment his cue hit the porcelain I knew the game would be a short one.  I fervently hoped another would follow it, not out of any particular love for billiards, though I did enjoy the game.  Rather, I shamelessly hoped that my observation of Holmes’ stunning figure would not be interrupted by something so inconvenient as the end of a short game.

 

Holmes is not a classically attractive man.  His body is far too lean and his face far too angular to be considered beautiful, but by the warm gaslight that seemed to rest like a human presence in the air of the wood-paneled room, the shadows made him seem dark and mysterious.  His eyes glinted like mirrors, made bright by his intense concentration.  All in all, the effect was astonishingly stunning.

Here is the long awaited sequel to Procrastination featuring Holmes and Doyle,  but sadly, no Lestrade.

Punctuality

I wake up with a cramp in my neck and the sound of low, deep breathing in my ear.  Sure signs that I am in Watson’s room.  When I open my eyes, their data confirms my hypothesis.  The ceiling is unfamiliar and out of the corner of my eye I can see Watson sleeping with his mouth open beside me.

It is very pleasant to wake up in Watson’s bed.  His room is cool and dim in the mornings, with only the barest hint of light penetrating the curtains and while he sleeps I am free to bask in the comfort of his arms without fear of becoming over-sentimental.  I am filled with a deep-seated peace in this room that I have not been able to find anywhere else.  For a moment I allow myself to merely lie in bed listening to his regular breathing without sparing extra thought for deduction or analysis, my senses filled with sensual memories of the night before.  I carry reminders of Watson’s enthusiasm in my limbs.  From their stiffness I know I will feel sore when I get out of bed, which gives me all the more reason to remain horizontal as long as possible.  With a self-satisfied smile I reflect that Watson’s “One Hour” very quickly became a night-long dalliance.  No doubt he will wake with a groan complaining that he has missed yet another deadline.

As I awaken more fully, the full brunt of a weeks worth of inactivity hits me and I begin to feel restless.  I would like nothing more than to remain here all day, but I find that I cannot without dwelling on the oppressive sense of boredom that seems to hover like a rain cloud just above my head.  I rise from bed gingerly, careful not to wake Watson, don my dressing gown and retreat to the sitting room in search of something to keep me occupied until Watson wakes up.  I realize when I enter the sitting room that it is still quite early.  He will not rise for several hours at least.  Cursing my inability to keep civil hours, I fill a pipe and stride to the bow window to watch the passers-by.

There are very few people in the street at this early hour and with nothing else to do I occupy myself in watching a tradesman amble his way up the street, pushing a cart with slow, measured steps.  He has a wife and three children at home, all of which are probably very young and very hungry.  If Watson were here I would tell him that this man in the street below used to be quite well to-do but has fallen on hard times and Watson’s expression would instantly become sympathetic and concerned.  I contemplate briefly running and getting a plate of sandwiches from Mrs. Hudson, for surely that is what Watson would do, but then I remember belatedly that Mrs. Hudson is still asleep and this stranger probably neither needs nor wants my charity.  He has a proud look about him.

The tradesman has nearly passed by and there is little else to keep my attention so I prepare to turn away from the window when a cab races down the street only to stop directly in front of my door.  Out of it jumps a large, rosy-cheeked Scotsman.  He has a round, pleasant face, one well-accustomed to smiling though today it carries a decidedly menacing frown.  I recognize the man and I know exactly what he’s frowning about.  I prepare myself for his entrance, stepping away from the bow window to lean casually, uncaringly, against the mantelpiece. 

I do not have long to wait. There is a vigorous ringing of the bell, and the scrambling sounds of Mrs. Hudson hurrying to open the door, followed by a brief conversation and then the sound of two sets of feet ascending the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson enters the sitting room quietly, obviously not expecting to find either of her residents awake.  Thus, seeing me standing by the cold fireplace comes as somewhat of a shock.  She recovers quickly, approaching me stealthily and whispering in my ear.

“I’ll tell the doctor you’re still asleep if you hurry into your bedroom, Mr. Holmes.”

I am halfway to the bedroom door by the time she finishes “You’re a jewel among landladies, Mrs. Hudson,” I begin to whisper, but I am interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  He has worked himself into a powerful rage, as only the Scottish can, and seems to practically be breathing fire out of his nostrils.

“I heard whispering.  I demand an audience, Mr. Holmes,” He booms menacingly.

“It is a rather uncivil hour for conversation, my dear Doctor.  Perhaps you’d be good enough to return in a few hours?”

“I haven’t got a few hours, I must speak with doctor Watson immediately.” Mrs. Hudson attempts to usher him out of the room, but he eludes her.  With a gesture I dismiss her to her bed.  She lifts her eyes to heaven despairingly and retires quietly.  My attention is arrested once again by my florid visitor.  “Mr. Holmes, the matter is urgent, where is Doctor Watson?”

“Sir Arthur, if a man is dying, that is an urgent matter.  If he is about to burn his dinner, it is pressing.  Missing a publication is not even trifling.”

“Perhaps to a man who holds the destinies of men in his hands a mere missed deadline may seem trifling indeed, but I assure you to me it is vital.  And this is no mere missed publication; it is, in effect, three.  You see, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson was due to give me a new short story a fortnight ago. Only a few days before the deadline he came to me explaining that due his busy schedule he had been unable to complete the story he had begun.  I gave him an extra week.  Last week he came to me again asking for an extension and I gave him until yesterday to give me the manuscript.  Yesterday has, obviously, come and gone with no sign of the manuscript.  My editors are threatening to pull the story from the magazine all-together if they do not get a copy soon.  Thus I am here at this ungodly hour asking where is it?”

Sir Arthur breaths heavily, having given this explanation at an alarmingly rapid pace.  I allow him to catch his breath before replying placidly, “Dr. Watson is getting some much needed sleep.  He was rather energetic yesterday.  Go home, Sir Arthur, and I will have him contact you at a more civil hour.”

This last comment my visitor ignores completely. Given his stubbornness, I decide that more drastic methods of persuasion are called for.  With a secret smile I begin to plan a sure method to propel the good doctor out of our door and, if I am lucky, convince him to think carefully before calling on 221B at early hours in the future. “Why is there no manuscript, Mr. Holmes?”  Doyle demands.

“Because Dr. Watson was otherwise engaged yesterday,” I responded blandly.  He of course does not accept this reply and his response is quick and forceful.

“I demand either a copy of the manuscript or a convincing explanation for its absence.”

He responds exactly as I expect, and his curt demand plays directly into my hands.  I dearly wish to leer at him suggestively, but instead I carefully keep my expression dispassionate and neutral.  I reach behind me to fill a pipe for all the world as though the information I am giving him is no more interesting or abnormal than a grocery list.

“Dr. Watson did not finish the manuscript last night because we were engaged in rather enthusiastic sexual intercourse.”

Sir Arthur’s face was a sight to behold.  He transforms in the space of a moment from mere anger to cold fury, followed by disbelief, and finally confusion.

“I think I must have misunderstood, you said Dr. Watson was distracted by…”

“My sexual advances yes.  You could say he was distracted by my prick, I suppose, he did spend a good part of the night with it in his mouth.Of course, I reciprocated; Watson has a weakness for fellatio…”

 Here I am suddenly interrupted by a shout from the doctor.  He holds both his hands in front of him, palms out, as though to keep me away by the force of the air between us.  His eyes are wild and fearful and he backs slowly towards the door.  As he does so, he shouts authoritatively, "OUT DEMON! Leave this man in peace to do God's work upon the earth."

However, as Doyle reaches the door he abruptly switches to a fervent whisper, “I see now that you are tormented by evil spirits. Do not fear, Mr. Holmes, I will do all in my power to exorcise them.  I will pray for you.” And with that he exits the room at a panicked run.

I have barely enough time to dissolve into helpless laughter before Watson emerges sleepily from my bedroom, clad in one of my old dressing gowns.

“I heard a commotion, Holmes, is everything all right?”

“Quite all right Watson, Sir Arthur has just left.”

He smacks his head with a small gasp, “Oh dear, the manuscript!”

“Never fear, as promised I have dealt with him. I persuaded him to give you an extension.”

“Holmes, when I said you would have to deal with Doyle I didn’t mean…” he pauses as my words register, “An extension? How on earth did you manage that?”

I smile and put a finger to my lips.  “A magician never tells his secrets.  I used a rather unorthodox method of persuasion.”  I pull him into a tight embrace, slowly kissing his neck in his favorite spot, at the pulse point just below his jaw.  As predicted, he shivers with pleasure.  “Perhaps you would permit me to demonstrate some more conventional methods of persuasion?” I purr into his ear.

Watson laughs and kisses me, but he shakes his head when we break apart gasping for air.  “Your efforts would keep the gospel writers from finishing the Bible.  However, I am determined not to be distracted by you any longer.  A man cannot procrastinate forever.”

With a sigh I release him.  “I see I must resign myself to seeing your fanciful little tales in print.  You are too stubborn to be deterred.”  He retreats to his own room still chuckling and I collapse on the settee, exhausted by the events of the morning.

Is that how you spell sillyness or is it silliness?  They both look wrong...

This is for LS who had a headache and demanded slashy medicine.  Well, it's a little late to take the headache away (at least I hope so, that would be one persistant headache) but perhaps it will prevent future ones.  Hope you're feeling better! 

Spring Fever

I do not know what it was that drew me to the small crumpled paper resting innocently under Holmes’ desk.  Certainly there is no shortage of paper in our rooms, for Holmes is extremely disorganized and under his influence I also have become rather lax in my cleanliness.  There are mountains of paper on practically every vertical surface, and yet my eye was drawn to that small, unassuming wad shoved into the shadows under Holmes’ desk chair.  

 

Holmes had been gone for several days on an investigation and I had remained behind to care for my patients.  I had begun to regret my decision when days and weeks went by with no word from him.  At a loss as to what to do with myself and my free time I began the monumental task cleaning and organizing the sitting room.  At least the noise and dust that this activity kicked up were enough to banish the unnatural quiet that had settled over 221B without Holmes in it.  

 

I had been cleaning for several hours when I paused for a break, seated at Holmes’ desk.  My feet kicked the ball of paper I have mentioned and I picked it up with the intention of throwing it away.  However, I am incurably curious.  It is at once one of my best and worst qualities, as Holmes is fond of reminding me.  It was that damnable curiosity that drove me to smooth out the piece of foolscap on my knee and read its contents.

 

In truth, I was not aware that my friend possessed such exact anatomical knowledge, not such superior artistic skills.  He had drawn a rather lewd sketch of the two of us on some nameless surface engaged in—I am blushing bright scarlet at the mere memory—private acts.  It was quite clear who the figures were meant to be, for one was almost skeletally skinny and the other had a mustache.  

 

Never before have I more regretted my curiosity.  Instantly, the phrase my mother used to recite to me flashed into my brain.  I could hear her caution, “Curiosity killed the cat.”  For a moment I believed it literally true, that I would die of hyperventilation brought on by extreme shock and laughter.  I found my breath coming in short, shallow bursts and was forced to sit down on the floor immediately to prevent succumbing to the sudden light-headedness.  Holmes and I had only been lovers a short while at the time, and I had no idea that his sense of humor could be expressed in such… odd ways.

 

It was the caption Holmes had included that truly did me in.  When I read it I nearly, literally, died laughing.  Each figure had his mouth wide open with a little speech bubble above his head.  The lean figure’s proclaimed, “Kiss me now and forever, for your thrusts have made me your willing slave!” which I actually found rather sweet and flattering.  The mustachioed figure, engaged busily with a certain sensitive part of the lean figure’s anatomy, proclaimed with perhaps appropriate lasciviousness given the situation, “Please, my heart's fluttering so, in rivulets of fire! Quickly, unleash your fluids and put it out!" 

 

I could not decide whether to be affronted, excited, or amused at the words Holmes had put in my mouth.  After somewhat regaining my composure from the initial shock and laughter that assailed me, I decided on a combination of the latter two.  I carefully saved the sketch, determined upon Holmes’ return to punish him for his carelessness in leaving it where I could find it.  Gleefully, I planned out the perfect scenario for his punishment, deciding to make a reference to the sketch to just before Holmes reached a crucial moment in our intimate relations. Even as I write this, I am grinning madly in anticipation of his reaction.

For the purposes of this short fic I have arbitrarily moved the Naval Treaty to a much earlier date in the partnership.  It has no title, maybe it will eventually.   This is a response to the bonus, "Five thoughts Watson had on seeing Holmes in his nightshirt for the first time." I have no idea if there are five responses here or not.  Waston isn't exactly capable of coherent thought, so he hopes you'll forgive him.

I may write another on the Gregson/Lestrade theme if I have time, but for now here's a longish drabble from a rather smitten Watson (not betad because I don't have one and I'm too lazy to do it myself right now)...

I had only been living with Sherlock Holmes a few months when I had the opportunity to place a case before him.  Furthermore, the case provided an unusual opportunity to rouse him from sleep, an event which, even after many years of co-habitation, is still rare.  But I had received an urgent telegram from poor Tadpole, or more properly Percy Phelps, an old school friend of mine, asking me to come immediately with my friend.  Tadpole made it sound like life or death, and so I hurried to Holmes’ room, and yet even with the death of an old acquaintance on my head I could not bring myself to cross the threshold without trepidation.  I paused to gather my wits and opened the door resolutely.

 

It was a warm night and Holmes had fallen asleep with the window still open.  A light breeze blew the curtains aside, throwing a pale blue ray of moonlight on my friend’s bed.  He lay splayed among a ruin of sheets that had been restlessly cast aside in the middle of the night so that nothing but his thin linen nightshirt separated his body from the humid night air.  

 

I must confess I had become aware that I harbored certain feelings for my friend and flat mate.  I have never considered myself a lover of men, but for Sherlock Holmes I might as well been as bent as a country road.  When he entered a room, my whole being became focused on him.  The hairs at the back of my neck rose and my very blood seemed to alter it’s path to follow him about the room.  After nearly a month of coping with such unfamiliar feelings I had become resigned to carefully guarding myself in his presence and had been relatively successful at hiding my nature from his perceptive sight.

 

However, that night I entered his room with my mind focused on Percy Phelps, unprepared for the image of Holmes lying in his night shirt bathed in moonlight.  Passion hit me with the force of a speeding train and for a long moment I could not move or speak.  I could barely breathe much less gather my thoughts enough to wake him.  When finally my brain did stutter into action once more it was to register his appearance and observe him like some piece of fine art.

 

I cannot properly recall my thought process but I believe the first thing I remarked on was his extreme leanness.   He verged unpleasantly on the side of emaciated and the sight of his ribs, clearly visible even underneath the white cotton woke in me a desire to protect him.  Lying open as he was he looked strangely vulnerable and fragile. 

 

In the moonlight, his night shirt was rather transparent and I selfishly took a moment to openly admire his body while he was unaware of the attention.  Holmes is tall and terribly lean, but he is also remarkably strong and what little flesh he did have was mostly muscle.  He is rather pleasing to look at, and with so little clothing between that body and my eyes I scanned him with the eyes of a critical artist.  His face is too angular and narrow, but there is a quality of the bird of prey about it that is strangely thrilling especially when his piercing eyes glitter with the thrill of the chase.  The bones of his ribs protruded, but his biceps and abdominal muscles were also very clearly defined.  I watched his chest rise and fall with his deep breaths as my eyes traveled down over the pointed hipbones to admire his firm thighs, build strong and lean like those of a thoroughbred stallion.

 

My eyes roamed over his body and came to rest inexorably at the dark patch of hair between his thighs clearly visible, even slightly open to the air as the night shirt had ridden up during the night.  It was then that I felt his eyes on me and with a start tried desperately to collect myself enough to stutter out my original reason for entering his bedroom.  His eyes glittered mischievously as he requested I call a cab while he dressed.  I left the room feeling chastised, uncomfortably aware of a certain tightness in my trousers, my palms clammy with sweat like those of an adolescent boy’s in the midst of his first violent crush.  For one of the few times in my life I did not immediately follow Holmes’ instructions.  I stood in my own room reigning in the strong lust that had overtaken me, washing my face with cold water and shaking hands.  

My hard drive is full of these bits and pieces of fics that enter my head and won't leave until they've been given some actual development.  This particular idea might expand someday into the Alzheimer's based story or play I've wanted to write since my grandfather died of the disease years ago.  If you've never been to an Alzheimer's ward in a  nursing home, then the fic is a little hard to explain.  It's a very interesting place to set a play.  It's full of people who were once brilliant but now are mere shells of themselves.  This whole fic idea stemmed from an experience I had.  I went to visit my grandfather and ended up sitting on the porch with one of the nurses (seeing him upset me).  Patients came in and sat with us for a while, talked to us about the "stew" they had on the oven, the "war" their husband had gone off to fight, the "new baby" their sister was expecting and as they came and went the nurse explained who they were, "He was a doctor, a surgeon, a lawyer, the governor"  So strange.

Anyway forgive the ramble, it was an interesting experience.  But the point is that it spawned a fic idea that I've never been quite able to get rid of.  However, all I have is the very begining.  The intro to the character that will take us to the nursing home.  I'm not even sure at this point whether he's got alzheimers (I think he does) or whether someone he knows has it.  And I had this really strange idea to set him, suffering from the early stages of alzheimer's disease, as the detective in a rather odd nursing-home mystery...  But maybe that's a whole other story.

I'll post this bit here for your perusal.  Maybe you can figure out who he is based on this little glimpse of him.  If you find out, let me know, will you?  He won't tell me.

Obviously, this is a work in progress.  It isn't even a drabble.  So it doesn't really end so much as fall off a literary cliff.  But it has a title!

THE PAPER NAPKIN CONFESSIONS

Professor Martinez was a man of habits.  Every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 8:05 am he would walk into the café on campus wearing a white shirt, a striped tie, and, if the weather was especially cold, a v-necked sweater vest.  The baristas always greeted him by name.  Professor Martinez was a particular favorite of the servers at the café because he tipped well and always seemed to remember to wish them a happy birthday on the appropriate day. 

 

The baristas memorized his meal, for he always ordered the same thing: an amaretto croissant and a tall low-fat latte.  The moment Professor Martinez entered the café, a barista would begin preparing his order, and by the time he had pulled his wallet out at the counter, his coffee was prepared and handed to him in a tall, steaming, dark-blue mug.  Professor Martinez would then drop the extra change into the tip jar, smile and thank the server, and settle himself in the small table in the left corner of the room.  The baristas had named it “The Professor’s table” as no one but Professor Martinez ever sat there.  Professor Martinez always chose the chair facing the room and would eat his croissant by tearing off little pieces, a method which caused him to habitually catch crumbs in his salt-and-pepper beard.  He would sip his coffee slowly, blowing on it intermittently to cool it.  Between bites and sips he made notes in a little spiral-bound notebook, telling whoever would listen that they were ideas for his “Great Novel.”  Professor Martinez’s life ambition was to write a New York Times best-seller and with the number of people who had promised to buy the long-awaited book, he would probably achieve it if he could ever manage to finish a chapter.

 

Professor Martinez was as much an institution at the college as he was at the café.  He had, at one time, been a student, and now he was the chair of the Latin department.  He also occasionally taught a beginning Spanish class during terms where Latin students were hard to come by and Spanish students were crawling out of the cracks in the building’s ancient woodwork.  He was fast approaching seventy and the closing ceremony of the spring term would mark his fiftieth year at the school.  Everyone knew Professor Martinez and everyone liked him, and thus he had spent much of the year receiving congratulations and hugs from the colleagues he had worked with for umpteen years as well as the students he barely knew. 

 

The year had been hard for him.  More and more, Professor Martinez had difficulty concentrating on his teaching and administrative duties.  He found himself forgetting appointments if he did not make careful note of them.  He was always forgiven, but Martinez hated tardiness, and had avoided it all his life.  Now, however, he would sometimes arrive at the café at 8:07 instead of 8:05 and leave just slightly too late to have time to properly prepare for his 9:10 class.  He felt rushed, hurried, and stressed at a place where, for the majority of his career, he had always been calm and happy.  It was because of this that Professor Martinez (although truthfully, the decision had really come from Martinez’s wife, Ann) decided to retire from teaching, and so the year became doubly celebratory.  It was both his fiftieth year and his final year at the college in which he had spent the majority of his life.

 

On the morning of January 23^rd it snowed.  It was the first good snow of the season, yielding several inches of high-quality sledding material.  The public schools closed for the day, but the college, of course, remained open.  The students groaned as the trudged to class through the unappetizing combination of half-melted slush and mud, grumbling that the college hadn’t closed for anything since the civil war.  The administration did not bother to point out that this was strictly incorrect.  In the seventies, a terrible ice storm had closed down nearly every public building in the county including the hospital, and the college had canceled class for a full two days (though the public schools were out for nearly two weeks).  The heavy snow made it difficult for Professor Martinez to get his car out of the steep driveway, and so he was forced, for the first time in 20 years, to get his coffee and croissant to go.  The change in his routine threw him off unpleasantly and he was rather grateful that he had only two students in class due to the minor rebellion the students were waging against the administration.  He lectured without really thinking about the subject matter, issued a homework assignment, packed up his books, and left the building to go home to his wife.