Cue the giant toad stool...
Parcel arrived from porco_modesto all the way from the Ukraine today, containing CD, socks (yay! I was just thinking this morning I needed socks *puts tinfoil hat on to prevent further mind-reading*) and tea!!!! (melissa officinalis [lemon balm, part of the mint family... cool!] and *looks up* bilberry... yummy :D :D).
and just in case anybody was interested in the location of the cheese shop:
Paxton & Whitfield
93 St Jermyn St
St James'
London
SW1Y 6JE
After joking with several people the last few days about Holmes and toad stools, I had a very strange dream involving a toad stool. I think it's a sign so I wrote this.
Title: Little Miss Moffitt...
Rating: PG
Synopsis: Toad stools, feather dusters and the general feeling that everything is watching you. Just a normal day for Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes lounged languidly in his arm chair, his sleeve rolled up, his eyes dreamy and lost. He knew Doctor Watson would be very upset with him, but you can't please everyone and Watson doesn't understand. Ah, Watson. A small smiled played on the corner of his lips as he thought about his ever faithful and constant biographer, good old Watson. As the substance made it's way through his body he became more and more aware of his surroundings, he tried to shrug off the feeling that his Persian slipper was judging him but it only intensified the feeling. Turning his head away his eyes rested on his violin. Smiling again as he thought of the times he had played Watson to sleep, or soothed his nightmares he allowed the satisfied feeling to wash over him.
He was safe, in his armchair, wrapped in Morpheus's protective arms and shielded from any harm that may befall him. There were many things that Watson could inadvertently do to hurt him, one of them was leaving him. He knew it would happen one day as you can't keep people forever but right at this moment he was too secure to think such evil thoughts.
He head the door to the sitting room open and in walked Mrs Hudson, but it wasn't Mrs Hudson. It was some sort of many armed Mrs Hudson, waving several feather dusters about and moving in a strange dance-like manner. The Not-Quite Mrs Hudson danced in his direction, waving her feather dusters about her in a very theatrical manner. Holmes sat back and watched the gentle swaying and sweeping of the dusters, barely flinching when the proceeded to dust him. The dusting was soothing and he giggled slightly as the feathers tickled him, soon the Not-Quite Mrs Hudson danced off out of the room and he was left alone.
Soon though he heard familiar steps upon the stairs and then upon the landing, ah, he smiled and thought of the great friend and companion that was about to walk through the doors. No doubt he would admonish the action he had taken, but try as he might he could not make Watson understand. The door opened and Holmes sat up to greet his companion warmly... except, it wasn't Watson. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
It was a giant toad stool. The type you saw drawn in colourful children's books, the type that only appear in fantasies. He shrank back in his chair, the warm protective feeling gone and now replaced with an overwhelming sense of dread. The toadstool had arms... legs... and as it bounced over to his arm chair he observed that it had a moustache, a bowler hat perched precariously on it's shiny red spotted top.
The toad stool advanced closer, and Holmes tried to make himself as small as possible in the arm chair. He shrieked loudly as an arm, strangely wearing a shirt with black cuff links similar to the ones he had bought Watson for his birthday some years before, reached out to him.
"No!" He moaned and waved his hand wildly to bat away the offending arm. Bringing his knees up to his arms he burrowed his head and rocked himself back and forth, as he always did when the nightmares good too much for him. The toad stool was still there, he could sense it but he wasn't going to look up, he wasn't going to let that toad stool know he was frightened.
"Holmes?" He heard a familiar voice, "Holmes?"
Watson, his protector must have frightened away the toad stool! Was the only logical thought passing through his brain at that precise moment in time. "Watson?" He murmured, finally allowing himself to look up.
"Yes. Are you all right, old fellow?" Watson was on his knee by the chair, one hand on the back and the other on Holmes's knee.
"The toad stool..."
"The toad stool?"
Holmes nodded, observing that Mrs Hudson was standing by the door looking concerned, "you... were a toad stool."
"I was a toad stool?"
"And Mrs Hudson had many, many arms and was... dusting me."
He must have looked quite hopeless as he gibbered about his hallucination in much detail, he could feel the morphine beginning to release it's grip upon his body and slowly he returned to a state of nervous tension. He still must have been partly in it's grip because he was sure for a moment that he saw Watson kick what looked like a large deflated toad stool discreetly out of the way behind his chair and Mrs Hudson hiding a many armed dusting contraption behind the door.
Watson patted his arm soothingly, Holmes observed that he was wearing exactly the same cuff links as the toad stool. "Well, there's no toad stool here. Holmes, this really should teach you not to use morphine."
Holmes had the overwhelming urge to cry, nothing made sense and all he now wanted to do was lie down in a dark room. Not wanting to appear too shaken, he shook his head and looked up at his friend. "Really Watson, you must stop fussing over me." With that, he rose to his feet and swept out of the room and closed his bedroom door behind him.
"Do you think it worked?" Mrs Hudson asked once Holmes was safely in the other room.
"I have no idea." He groaned. "All that bouncing was starting to make me feel sea sick." He added, rubbing his stomach.
"I'll fetch you a nice cup of tea."
Also after random chat with redconverse last night, I may write that 'heatwave at Baker Street' drabble.
and just in case anybody was interested in the location of the cheese shop:
Paxton & Whitfield
93 St Jermyn St
St James'
London
SW1Y 6JE
After joking with several people the last few days about Holmes and toad stools, I had a very strange dream involving a toad stool. I think it's a sign so I wrote this.
Title: Little Miss Moffitt...
Rating: PG
Synopsis: Toad stools, feather dusters and the general feeling that everything is watching you. Just a normal day for Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes lounged languidly in his arm chair, his sleeve rolled up, his eyes dreamy and lost. He knew Doctor Watson would be very upset with him, but you can't please everyone and Watson doesn't understand. Ah, Watson. A small smiled played on the corner of his lips as he thought about his ever faithful and constant biographer, good old Watson. As the substance made it's way through his body he became more and more aware of his surroundings, he tried to shrug off the feeling that his Persian slipper was judging him but it only intensified the feeling. Turning his head away his eyes rested on his violin. Smiling again as he thought of the times he had played Watson to sleep, or soothed his nightmares he allowed the satisfied feeling to wash over him.
He was safe, in his armchair, wrapped in Morpheus's protective arms and shielded from any harm that may befall him. There were many things that Watson could inadvertently do to hurt him, one of them was leaving him. He knew it would happen one day as you can't keep people forever but right at this moment he was too secure to think such evil thoughts.
He head the door to the sitting room open and in walked Mrs Hudson, but it wasn't Mrs Hudson. It was some sort of many armed Mrs Hudson, waving several feather dusters about and moving in a strange dance-like manner. The Not-Quite Mrs Hudson danced in his direction, waving her feather dusters about her in a very theatrical manner. Holmes sat back and watched the gentle swaying and sweeping of the dusters, barely flinching when the proceeded to dust him. The dusting was soothing and he giggled slightly as the feathers tickled him, soon the Not-Quite Mrs Hudson danced off out of the room and he was left alone.
Soon though he heard familiar steps upon the stairs and then upon the landing, ah, he smiled and thought of the great friend and companion that was about to walk through the doors. No doubt he would admonish the action he had taken, but try as he might he could not make Watson understand. The door opened and Holmes sat up to greet his companion warmly... except, it wasn't Watson. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
It was a giant toad stool. The type you saw drawn in colourful children's books, the type that only appear in fantasies. He shrank back in his chair, the warm protective feeling gone and now replaced with an overwhelming sense of dread. The toadstool had arms... legs... and as it bounced over to his arm chair he observed that it had a moustache, a bowler hat perched precariously on it's shiny red spotted top.
The toad stool advanced closer, and Holmes tried to make himself as small as possible in the arm chair. He shrieked loudly as an arm, strangely wearing a shirt with black cuff links similar to the ones he had bought Watson for his birthday some years before, reached out to him.
"No!" He moaned and waved his hand wildly to bat away the offending arm. Bringing his knees up to his arms he burrowed his head and rocked himself back and forth, as he always did when the nightmares good too much for him. The toad stool was still there, he could sense it but he wasn't going to look up, he wasn't going to let that toad stool know he was frightened.
"Holmes?" He heard a familiar voice, "Holmes?"
Watson, his protector must have frightened away the toad stool! Was the only logical thought passing through his brain at that precise moment in time. "Watson?" He murmured, finally allowing himself to look up.
"Yes. Are you all right, old fellow?" Watson was on his knee by the chair, one hand on the back and the other on Holmes's knee.
"The toad stool..."
"The toad stool?"
Holmes nodded, observing that Mrs Hudson was standing by the door looking concerned, "you... were a toad stool."
"I was a toad stool?"
"And Mrs Hudson had many, many arms and was... dusting me."
He must have looked quite hopeless as he gibbered about his hallucination in much detail, he could feel the morphine beginning to release it's grip upon his body and slowly he returned to a state of nervous tension. He still must have been partly in it's grip because he was sure for a moment that he saw Watson kick what looked like a large deflated toad stool discreetly out of the way behind his chair and Mrs Hudson hiding a many armed dusting contraption behind the door.
Watson patted his arm soothingly, Holmes observed that he was wearing exactly the same cuff links as the toad stool. "Well, there's no toad stool here. Holmes, this really should teach you not to use morphine."
Holmes had the overwhelming urge to cry, nothing made sense and all he now wanted to do was lie down in a dark room. Not wanting to appear too shaken, he shook his head and looked up at his friend. "Really Watson, you must stop fussing over me." With that, he rose to his feet and swept out of the room and closed his bedroom door behind him.
"Do you think it worked?" Mrs Hudson asked once Holmes was safely in the other room.
"I have no idea." He groaned. "All that bouncing was starting to make me feel sea sick." He added, rubbing his stomach.
"I'll fetch you a nice cup of tea."
Also after random chat with redconverse last night, I may write that 'heatwave at Baker Street' drabble.