So I was sitting at lunch today and one very young member of my unofficial storytelling club looks at me through big hazel eyes and says innocently, "Wouldn't it be funny if Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes were trying to eat supper and the bad guys kept busting in?" I was greatly inspired by that adorable little rascal of an eight-year-old, and so the credit of this short story must go to the both of us. :)
Oh, and I'm not sure if there is or ever was an actual restaurant called Simpson's (I've never been to London in the 19th century, unfortunately) so I am completely basing the décor, layout, and expense of the place from my own imaginings. Partly because it'll be much more fun for me to be able to create the scene according to the story, and partly because I'm too lazy for research.
Send me a review and I'll send you your very own Sherlock Holmes…Ha! Don't we all wish??? But please review anyway! :)
Dinner at Simpson's
Part I
In the little while that I had known Sherlock Holmes, I had already concluded that, apart from the times when he lazed about in a fit of black depression, there was not a day that went by that he did not indulge in some form of excitement – excitement that was, more often than not, usually life-threatening.
Even with that knowledge, I had hoped and prayed that our evening together would be uninterrupted.
Obviously, this was not to be.
Oh, the operetta went about fine – though when it neared the ending and the actors portraying Sir Demetrius and Lady Alexandria played out the beautifully done reunion scene, my friend's dramatic, bored sighs were telling me (as they were obviously meant to) that he would be very pleased when the curtain fell for the final time. From the way he shot from his chair when it did, I knew he was quite anxious to extract himself from the crowd of tearful ladies dabbing at their eyes with their handkerchiefs and the soft-eyed men with their arms around their wives.
Though I did twit him mercilessly the entire walk to Simpson's, I must say that I did pity him; such emotional displays were not at all a part of my friend's life, and he never failed to behave awkwardly when in the presence of anyone having such an outburst, even actors on a stage.
"All right, now, Watson," said he impatiently as he held open the door of our favourite restaurant, "please try to remember that we are in a formal dining place. I beg of you to behave accordingly."
I did cease my pestering jests, though I did continue to grin, a fact that did not escape my friend's keen eye, I am certain.
Once we were settled at our table near to the fireplace and positioned in a private corner, the one we had occupied on our first visit and continued to every time thereafter, the waiter – a very fashionable and well-educated German called Achim – took our orders.
Upon his bowing and disappearing through the kitchen door, I turned to Holmes to ask him something (I do not recall exactly what), only to find that expression on his face that I knew all too well as the one he only adorned when in the midst of calculating some puzzle – the unfocused silvery orbs, the slightly wrinkled brow, the set jaw, the nervous tapping of his long, graceful fingers were all evidence of it.
"Holmes," I sighed, "what are you doing?"
"Hush, Watson."
"Not until you answer my question."
"Since you insist, I am thinking."
"So I see." My voice portrayed my sarcasm quite nicely.
"Well if you saw, why did you ask, Watson?" No return sarcasm, just absent curiosity – his thoughts were much too deep for a true argument.
I leaned back, crossed my arms over my chest, and said satisfyingly sternly, "Stop it, Holmes."
"What?" His silvery eyes flashed to mine as my words registered. "Why?"
"Because every time you think, the result is always the same."
"Oh, really? And what might that be?"
"This." I motioned toward the still painfully present dark purple bruising on my left cheek in the shape of a set of knuckles – the one that had so needlessly and ridiculously been inflicted.
He laughed aloud, as I presumed he would, and said in mock defense, "Well it was your own fault, Watson! You should, after all, know better by now than to sneak up on me in such a way as you did."
"I did not sneak up on you," I told him for the umpteenth time, though I knew it was useless to argue. "If you had not been so deeply unaware in your own little dream-world, you would have heard my calling your name. It was when you did not answer that I tapped you on the arm."
"I was thinking!"
"I rest my case, Holmes."
Again, he laughed aloud, dismissing my complaints with a wave of his bony hand.
Although I pretended otherwise for the sake of fun, I truly was pleased to see him in such high spirits. Since our last case, one of the earlier we'd taken on together, had ended a week previous, I had fully expected him to lapse into one of his black moods. But as of yet, he did not seem to be at all bored; on the contrary, he had actually very gaily suggested tonight's little outing, thoroughly surprising me with two purchased tickets and an invitation to dinner at Simpson's.
A few minutes later, Achim brought out our meals.
"Enjoy your meals, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson," said he in his heavy German accent.
I smiled; he really was one of the best waiters on the island, I knew. This was why both Holmes and I always insisted that he be the one to serve us, whenever we went. He knew us both quite well now, and always had a smile special for us.
As I watched Achim make his way back through the maze of tables to the kitchen, I noticed Holmes was once again thinking. This time I followed his gaze to a white-haired, bearded man with a large frame sitting against the wall on the opposite end of the room. His flesh was quite pale in contrast with his black coat and bowler, and he smoked incessantly on a thick cigar. He was alone, and watched the laughing strangers at a table nearest to him through beady, glimmering eyes.
I cleared my throat, loudly.
"Do not fret, Watson," said he, chuckling as he turned back to our meals. "I am certain my curious thoughts shall not bring about any unhappy outcome this time."
If I'd only known how so very wrong he was, I would surely have insisted we left right at that moment for Baker Street without a second glance at that death trap of a restaurant.
TBC…How is it so far, my fellow Sherockians? :)
