The Bear and Barnacle

Holmes had been brooding, as he was wont to do after the holidays. He decided a change of scene would do him good and since he had a built-in occasion, why not make the most of it? So he phoned the Ritz in London for reservations and rented a Bentley for the drive. A little sight-seeing after luncheon would be interesting. No doubt the city had changed a good deal since he had last seen it. Odd how he hadn’t been out of Margate proper since he’d unexpectedly found himself here. So, promptly at 10.30 in the morning, the Bentley purred up to the curb outside Holmes’ house. Taking up his hat and stick, Holmes descended the steps and entered the elegant car. His driver (in quite proper chauffeur attire) shut the door and got in himself. They left the curb almost noiselessly, and Holmes sat back, enjoying the smell of the car's leather interior. This was a bit of an extravagant folly to be sure, but one doesn’t turn 156 every day. Five minutes later, the Bentley pulled up outside the pub and the horn blatted discreetly.

Upon entering the pub, Holmes naturally noticed the cork board with its new display of pictures. Curious as always, he strolled over to examine them. Recognising Dora’s handwriting, he nodded and smiled at some, nodded and frowned at others. When he came to the one of himself, he froze for the briefest of instants.

“Oh, what place is this?” he murmured. Trumbull would have to tighten his security. Shaking his head, Holmes turned away. He decided not to tell Iago and Xellos that their ward had been visiting a funeral parlour. He did wonder how she had done it though. He was fairly sure he hadn’t been followed. Holmes knew that Dora could alter her appearance, but not to the extent that he wouldn’t recognise her. And he knew that some witches and wizards could change into animals. But he hadn’t heard anything about Dora being able to do such a thing. Still, he couldn’t rule it out. But where would she keep the camera? Unless the child could change into a kangaroo. Further investigation was called for.

‘It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor when he became a specialist in crime.’ Watson on Holmes A Scandal in Bohemia

Wearing a rumpled brown suit, blue shirt and a blue and orange striped tie, Holmes inspected himself in the mirror. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked down and he’d put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles (no prescription). He also hadn’t shaved that day and he looked appropriately seedy but not objectionable. If anyone noticed him, they’d remember the hair and the glasses. And the tie, which looked as if it had come from a novelty shop because it had. Such superficial accents were crucial to a disguise in that they could be easily removed and ones normal appearance restored with ease. Mindful of the precautions already in place, Holmes was merely going to the council meeting to observe. Slumping to conceal his height and armed with his laptop and one of those excessively large (and excessively overpriced!) coffees, he stepped out, confident that no one who didn’t know him wouldn’t recognise him.

The way I see it, alchemists are going at it all wrong. Why waste time trying to turn lead into gold when, with just four ingredients (five in this case), you can make shortbread? Truly. It's that good. And an easier recipe would be hard to find. Holmes is currently serving them to Severus and Dumbledore for tea. I do implore you though, don't use dried or ground rosemary in this recipe. It won't work. Use the freshest rosemary needles you can find. My mom keeps an extensive herb garden and I make these often during the summer.

( Rosemary Shortbread )

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who was overly concerned with tidiness. In fact, if you were feeling petty, you’d call him a slob. It wasn’t that his house was dirty, it was just…cluttered. Very. He was loathe to throw anything away, and papers, books and newspapers were everywhere. At least there weren’t any bullet –pocks on the walls of this house. Still, he did keep cigars in a coal scuttle (bought especially for that purpose; no one used coal heaters any more) and his unanswered mail was indeed transfixed with a jack-knife to the mantelpiece. The Persian slipper for tobacco had been forgone, as it was now much easier to smoke cigarettes that had been rolled rather than getting loose tobacco. All in all, his house was a mess, but Holmes didn’t mind in the least. He knew where everything was and could lay his hands upon any document with a minimum of fuss. However, today he was expecting company (not clients; clients had to take as they found), so he felt a bit of dusting was in order. Holmes bounded down the stairs, exceeding grateful that whatever malady had afflicted him last month seemed to have cured itself. He glanced around the lounge and started to gather the newspapers into a neat(ish) pile. As he straightened the papers, his eyes narrowed. He felt as if he was being watched. He’d long ago cultivated the habit and it had never failed him. He had no weapon; he certainly hadn’t thought he’d need one. He could, however, throw the newspapers at the intruder and distract him while he went for the poker. Holmes turned, drawing himself into a crouch, papers at the ready. Instead of throwing them however, he dropped them. He gaped at what stood before him. “Watson?!” he inhaled the name. “I say Watson, is that you?!” He started forward and the shadowy form turned toward him, an expression of bewilderment on the familiar face. “Holmes!” he cried, though the voice was rather faint. “Is it really you?”

Sherlock Holmes peered into the mirror, having to lean in close and squint a bit. His vision seemed cloudy. He ran a hand through thinning hair. “I should be grateful the whole hundred-six years weren’t dropped on me in one go,” he commented dryly to himself. He needed to go to the pub and see if he was the only one affected by this sudden onset of age. He turned, wincing as his joints protested the sudden movement. Sighing, Holmes made his was slowly downstairs, hanging onto the rail. It seemed chillier than it ought, and Holmes put on his coat and cap, having a dreadful time doing up the buttons. It appeared his fingers weren’t as nimble as they once were. Taking a cane from the stand, Holmes walked slowly of necessity, finding it amusingly ironic that he had on more than one occasion assumed the disguise of an old man. He’d gotten the pace wrong, he thought as he ambled his way along. Arriving at the pub, slightly breathless, Holmes struggled just a bit with the door and carefully negotiated the step up. He had to wait as his eyes adjusted to the dimness within. He scanned the patrons, scowling as he had to squint once more. “Ah,” Holmes murmured to himself, noting the sudden profusion of youngsters in the pub, a couple of whom he was able to identify. “Not an individualised phenomenon then.” He shuffled over to his usual table and sank gratefully into a seat.

As anxious as Holmes was to test his new formula, he knew that using anesthetic gas on men on ladders and wielding acetylene torches would be detrimental, if not downright dangerous. So he went to the pub. ( Read more... )

After listening to the first few selections, Holmes dashes out of the pub. After about fifteen minutes, he's back, violin case in hand. He politely waits his turn, then steps up to the front of the room. "I hope you won't have any objection if I play rather than sing for you," he tells the audience. "A selection by Paganini." Holmes reverently removes his Stradivarius from the case, checks the tuning, rosins his bow and begins.

Holmes sits quietly in his usual booth, smoke from his pipe drifting lazily about his head. Secrets, he thinks. What an interesting topic for discussion. Secrets, finding them out, telling them (to the proper authorities) and sometimes keeping them have been his life’s work. Watson had been the soul of discretion when penning the stories of his cases, not mentioning, or changing the names of those involved when necessary, as well as places and dates. In some cases, Holmes had refused outright to have anything about them referred to at all, though he knew quite well that the good doctor had written about them in his private papers. He supposed that in most instances it would do no harm to tell of those adventures. Still, some of them were, or had been, vital to national security and it went against his nature to blather indiscreetly, no matter how long the principals involved had been dead. One he can tell, however. And apparently some people have been curious. “In 1902, I was offered a knighthood but refused. Instead, I asked for a favour to be done, to honour a man who deserved the accolades far more than I. I asked that the head of British Intelligence always be given the code-name ‘M’, for my brother Mycroft, who was the very first to be so designated. I understand that the practice is still followed to this day.”

One afternoon, in addition to the usual letters, the postman places a book




in the box of the house that Val shares with Jack Harkness and Zelgadis. Taped to the inside cover of the book is an envelope with: To Val, written on it. Inside are two pieces of paper. ( The first one reads: )

“I abhor idleness,” Holmes says, barely looking up from the microscope on the table in his basement laboratory. There is a sharp smell of carbolic acid and a Bunsen burner purrs quietly with a blue flame. “I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? And now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turns back to his analyzing.

Holmes sat back in a booth and lit his pipe. When he had it going to his satisfaction, he spoke softly as he watched smoke idly curl from the bowl. "I have known men who did monstrous things," he began, "Milverton, Moriarty, Moran, and I suppose that makes them monsters. And there was one, a truly terrible individual, that I knew of but never had the fortune to meet. But I did encounter one monster, a real one, though he was not a monster in and of himself, but the product of a mad schemer. A product of his upbringing and an example of what maltreatment leads to." He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment. "It was in Dartmoor, a dismal place, perfect for curses and monsters both, though in this instance they were both perpetuated by nothing more than human greed." Holmes took a deep breath. "Actually, the monster was a dog, an enormous thing, about the size of a lioness, a cross between a mastiff and a bloodhound. Daubed with a bit of phosphorus in order to achieve a spectral glow and you have a ready-made demon. A dog kept half-starved and savage. He caused the deaths of two men and nearly that of another, and I’m afraid he killed a small spaniel as well. Killed and ate it. I was quite fortunate that Watson and I were able to put and end to both the dog’s reign of terror and the evil creature that had made him."

Holmes sits in his no-longer-spotless kitchen. "Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms."

Sherlock Holmes sat up and blinked in surprise. Why on earth was he on the floor? He looked around. He was in the basement laboratory, right where he should be. He frowned. Something had happened, but what? ( Read more... )