Prompt: Holmes and Watson meet a moose
From Ennui Enigma:
A/N: Thank you for your lovely reviews on yesterday's response, everyone! Hope you all enjoy Day 2 just as much!
P.S. this story does switch perspectives from Watson to Doctor Dawson (Disney, Great Mouse Detective)
….
It was a wintery afternoon in early December 1896, when I heard my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, call out my name from the bottom of the stairs of our shared rooms at 221b Baker Street.
"Yes, Holmes?" I called from the sitting room. My leg was paining me due to the biting winds outside, so I was in no rush to see what my friend wanted.
"You had better come and look at this, old friend," was his reply.
I sighed. I did hope Holmes wasn't again attempting to replicate the scientific observations of Wilson Bentley, an American chap who studied ice crystal formations, and claimed that 'no two snowflakes were the same.'
Holmes had dismissed the notion at the time, but, when snow hit London that winter, I caught him attempting to catch snowflakes to place under his microscope… and he sat in the bloody doorway, attempting again and again to catch a snowflake for closer observation. He did this for over ran hour before I managed to signal for Lestrade (leaning out the living room window, frantically waving a handkerchief, for him to come and help me persuade Holmes to move.
He sulked for some time afterwards, though if you were to ask him about this incident, dear reader, he would vehemently deny it.
It was, dare I say it, adorable of my friend, to satisfy his scientific curiosity over something so seemingly simple as snowflakes, and, whilst I had hardly appreciated the bracing winds racing through our rooms, I treasured the memory of the great Sherlock Holmes, my dearest and best friend, huddled in the doorway, endeavouring to replicate the observations of that Bentley fellow.
"… Watson?" Holmes called, disturbing my reminiscences. "Please, come and look at this."
Sensing my flatmate would persist until I gave in, I rose and limped towards the stairs, where I gingerly shuffled down to join my friend… who was standing at the open door with an enormous creature that I had only ever read about in books. My eyes popped wide open, and I blinked, wondering if I had dozed off by the fire. It was approximately a head taller than even a horse, its hair was shaggy and dark, and it had deadly, lumbering antlers the length of our fireplace crowning its head.
What surprised me less was the moose licking Holmes' pale fingers. My friend always had an affinity for animals, which I had found surprising in my early interactions with Toby and other dogs (with the exceptions of the 'hound of the Baskervilles' and the hungry mastiff belonging to the employers of Miss Violet Hunter, a former client of ours.) Now, however, the sight warmed my heart.
"Why, however in the world did he get here, Holmes?" I asked him, feeling baffled. He shrugged, not bothering to withdraw his fingers from the curious moose.
"Well, I intend to find out, Watson. But first, we must feed our friend. After all, it is hardly gentlemanly to refuse hospitality, my dear fellow."
"I agree, Holmes, it is hardly sporting," I mused, wondering if my friend was going a bit more mad than usual.
"What would he eat, do you reckon?"
"They eat vegetation and vegetables…. As far as I know." I muttered. Holmes sighed with impatience.
"Well, we shall have to invade Mrs. Hudson's larder, I suppose." He said, quietly. "We can make do without vegetables and replace everything for Mrs. Hudson before she returns from her sister's."
"I hope so," I said.
So, we fed the shaggy fellow a lot of cabbage, carrots, potatoes… in short, every vegetable we could find. Holmes even paid an Irregular to run round the neighbours' for some vegetables, as we had not enough to feed the beast ourselves.
….
Meanwhile…
"Thank you, Mr. Slake," Said Basil wearily, showing his guest to the door of 221 1/2 Baker Street.
"Thank you, sir! I look forward to hearing from you by the end of the week!" Said Mr. Slake pompously, and strode out, umbrella in hand, making his way towards the moose waiting patiently outside the door of our human neighbours, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Watson.
Basil shook his head, closing the door.
"That was a rude fellow, Basil!" I said indignantly, once he was out of earshot.
"I couldn't agree more, old friend," he replied, wrinkling his nose. "Still, this case sounds most promising, don't you think, my dear Dawson?" he rubbed his hands together gleefully, like a schoolboy about to pinch some cheese when no one was looking.
"Only you would think so," I replied sarcastically, and he laughed. I, however, remained confuse dover one thing.
"Basil…"
"Dawson, I know what you are about to ask, and no, I do not know why our client chose to ride a moose all the way from America to here."
"Poor fellow," I remarked. "Fancy having to carry that brute around, whilst he complains about this and that!"
"It seems, though," remarked my friend, "that our shaggy guest has acquired some hospitality from the Great Detective himself, and Doctor Watson. Perhaps that would help the poor creature."
I nodded, glancing at the door our client had exited.