Posted by BC on 3/6/2008, 4:12 pm, in reply to "Chapter two part two"
24.207.121.197
Chapter 3: In Which There Is A Great Amount Of Cleaning
Theodore awoke the next day not wanting to open his eyes. He had had the most wonderful dream.
He knew his birthday and the argument over his book had been real and yet the next part…
Well, he could only wish it was! He wanted to go back to sleep, to lie there in bed in the hope that he would dream it all over again.
He never wanted to leave his newfound fictional bliss.
Groaning he turned over onto his face as a horse and carriage bumping and bouncing passed under his window.
And almost fell out of bed as the repercussions of what he had just seen began to sink in.
He couldn’t remember ever having seen a horse, let alone one pulling a carriage, where he came from,
Although there had been that particularly large squirrel…
A parade! That was it! Maybe they had started a new holiday or something or moved Canada day to August twenty-third!
Of course after sticking his head out the window, taking stock of his surroundings and pinching himself several times. Theodore was forced to acknowledge the fact that he was either insane or he had actually succeeded in a feat of time travel unintentionally and beyond all scientific explanation.
It was almost more comforting to believe the insanity theory.
Turning from the window, he looked around his small but very cozy room. There was a chest of drawers, a nightstand upon which stood a basin of water, there was a red and brown hooked rug and, of course, the bed in which he had been sleeping which had white linen sheets and matching feather stuffed pillows.
He could not have been more delighted had he awoken in the palace of the queen herself. ‘Queen Victoria’ he thought with a grin.
‘Rat tat tat’ a very precise knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. It could only be Holmes, who else on the entire planet, past, present or future would knock like that? As though he had been standing there for the past hour, planning specifically where and when to put his knuckles to the wood.
Theodore rushed to open it and upon swinging the door open he did indeed behold the tall, imposing figure of Sherlock Holmes standing strait and poised in the oaken frame of the door way.
“Ah, I see you are awake Mr. Trent, I do hope the arm is feeling better”
“Uh… ya, thanks Mr. Holmes”
“Glad to hear it. It is rather late in the morning; however we thought it best to let you sleep.”
By ‘we’ Theodore assumed he must mean himself and Watson.
“I am afraid that upon her return this morning Mrs. Hudson has discovered the er…‘Damage’ to the roof and is presently somewhat aggravated.”
“The good doctor and I have explained the situation to her to the best of our ability and she, although somewhat skeptical, has agreed not to evict us. So if you don’t mind getting dressed perhaps you would care to join Dr. Watson and myself in a bit of a late breakfast.”
“Uh…thank you, yes, and again…sorry about the roof sir, I didn’t mean to fall through it…” Theodore explained worriedly to the detective standing in front of him.
“I am sure that was the case.” Holmes assured him, and then to Theodore’s surprise, began to laugh in that particular dry chuckle for which he was so famous “I do not know of many young men your age who go about crashing through the tops of buildings of their own accord.”
Smiling self consciously as he closed the door upon Holmes’ retreating back Theodore attempted to clean himself up as best he could, it was a little tricky with only his left hand but he managed pretty well, his glasses were shattered beyond repair and he would have to do without them, he only needed them for reading anyway. It was only when he stepped into the living room that he saw the clock, ‘9:00’ it proclaimed matter-of-factly in small ‘dings’.
Okay…so if that was their idea of ‘late’ he didn’t even want to think about ‘early’
“Ah Mr. Trent!” smiled Watson as Theodore took the chair offered him, someone had swept away all the broken china and righted the table, which, besides being a bit dusty was none the worse for wear.
“You slept well I hope?”
“Yes sir.”
“How’s the arm?” he enquired kindly
“Very well sir, thank you”
They had porridge for breakfast, it had been very kind of the two to wait for him, He knew why they had done it; they didn’t want him to feel awkward or uncomfortable. Whereas had it been Watson who had slept this ‘late’ Holmes would probably have eaten and been out and about by the time he had come out of his room.
Once everyone had eaten their fill they all set to work cleaning and stacking the larger pieces of fallen roofing. Theodore had to agree with Holmes’ opinion that the room was a great deal brighter with the additional skylight, the rays of the morning sun flooded into the murky sitting room, swirling the dust about in a lighthearted spin.
The damage was severe, thankfully, it had not rained during the night, for even with the canvas tarp Holmes had had the characteristic good sense to cover the hole with, any amount of rain short of a slight drizzle would have soaked through it and drenched everything.
Theodore was more then happy to help, there was just one thing bugging him: why hadn’t the fall killed him? Surely the impact should have ended his life instantly. It really should have. But somehow he had survived, somehow falling at hundreds if not thousands of miles an hour through the sky he had managed to survive the impact without breaking a single bone in his body, his arm, he knew, had been broken upon his falling out of his beloved tree.
It took about four hours to clean up the brunt of the cave-in and by that time both Theodore (particularly is right arm) and Watson were exhausted. Only Holmes, who seemed blessed with countless stores of nervous or creative energy, was capable of finding the strength to string two words together with out groaning by the time they broke for lunch.
They ate ravenously, and afterward enjoyed some exerts from Antonio Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ Courtesy of Holmes and his Violin. Theodore had never really listened to classical music, in fact he rarely listed to music at all. He preferred to read. But never the less he found himself being drawn into it, the melody crying and laughing, rumbling in chorus with some unseen lighting and then singing sweetly with the birds as the storm abated.
Holmes was truly a gifted musician, his playing had real feeling in it, and of such intensity that it was a wonder the Stradivarius could take the strain. He could not help but think that Holmes’ music benefited from his keeping all his emotions caged in most of the time. Only though his music could they be expressed, and then in such a way as to make the room shake with the joys and sadnesses of a lifetime. Theodore was finding it difficult not to cry.
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