Okay, so, I cracked up about "Oh yeah, women! I forgot! I notice women! See how I notice women?". And then I thought, "there's a drabble in there somewhere." Only it turns out I was wrong, 'cause it was actually a ficlet. A hastily-written and very silly ficlet. For which I intend to blame you :)
“Watson, I would of course never presume to question your writing…”
“Really, Holmes, I understand that the precise nature of our partnership requires us to cultivate the art of telling falsehoods, but I would appreciate it if you would choose another victim upon whom to practice. Or, at the very least, you might spare me such egregious lies as that.”
“There, you see! If only you saved that razor wit for your stories instead of using it up excoriating me, I should have nothing whatever to complain of where your writing is concerned.”
“And yet, clearly you do have something to complain about in my new manuscript. I know very well that no power on earth will stop you voicing your dissent, so, by all means, have at it. I invite your comments. I implore your criticism. Do your worst, my dear Holmes—I beseech you.”
“Oh, bravo, Watson, bravo. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But really, old chap, it’s for the best if I mention this particular quibble before you send it off to that Doyle blackguard who is so eager to claim the credit that ought to be yours.”
“Like you, I do my work for its own sake. In any case, I’m sure you plan to come to your point eventually.”
“Quite. The long and the short of it is, Watson, that you spend three paragraphs of your latest tale enumerating the personal characteristics of Mr. Windibank of the “wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes,” and yet your description of Miss Sutherland does not stretch beyond “preposterous hat and vacuous face.””
“Oh, my dear Holmes, how awfully thoughtless of me. I assure you, my love, next to your eyes his are as dull as dishwater. Positively leaden, truly.”
“Thank you, Watson, but that was not what I was getting at. Don’t you think it would bode better for our chances of avoiding incarceration if you perhaps focused a bit more on describing the lady in the case?”
“Oh. Erm...yes. Except, well, I’m afraid I don’t remember a cursed thing about her.”
“Straw hat, slate-coloured, with a broad brim and an ostrich plume of brick-red hue; black jacket, with beading and trimmed at the edges with little ornaments of jet; dress very dark brown, two seasons out of fashion, with purple plush trim at the neck and the wrist, the latter preserving the mark of her typewriter; gloves that might once have been called dove-coloured, but which had faded to plain grey with many washings and with a worn patch on the right forefinger; black boots, one with a decorated toe-cap and one without, though each possessing twelve buttons; small circular gold earrings; mousy brown hair, round face, pink cheeks, the first hints of a double chin, and the marks from a pair of pince-nez on either side of a rather spotty nose.”
“Show-off.”
“Only for you, Watson. In the published version it ought, no doubt, to be your dialogue rather than mine—it’s your reputation we’re trying to uphold, after all. And then my character can offer one of those backhanded complements you so enjoy writing for me: ‘You have hit upon the method, though you missed everything of significance,’ or something along those lines. In fact, I give you free reign to tamper with my words all you like. Put anything in my mouth that suits you.”
“That was the least subtle bit of innuendo I’ve ever heard.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“You needn’t look so smug about it.”
“And you needn’t look so eager.”
“Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson?”
“That editing can wait for tomorrow, don’t you think?”
no subject
“Watson, I would of course never presume to question your writing…”
“Really, Holmes, I understand that the precise nature of our partnership requires us to cultivate the art of telling falsehoods, but I would appreciate it if you would choose another victim upon whom to practice. Or, at the very least, you might spare me such egregious lies as that.”
“There, you see! If only you saved that razor wit for your stories instead of using it up excoriating me, I should have nothing whatever to complain of where your writing is concerned.”
“And yet, clearly you do have something to complain about in my new manuscript. I know very well that no power on earth will stop you voicing your dissent, so, by all means, have at it. I invite your comments. I implore your criticism. Do your worst, my dear Holmes—I beseech you.”
“Oh, bravo, Watson, bravo. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But really, old chap, it’s for the best if I mention this particular quibble before you send it off to that Doyle blackguard who is so eager to claim the credit that ought to be yours.”
“Like you, I do my work for its own sake. In any case, I’m sure you plan to come to your point eventually.”
“Quite. The long and the short of it is, Watson, that you spend three paragraphs of your latest tale enumerating the personal characteristics of Mr. Windibank of the “wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes,” and yet your description of Miss Sutherland does not stretch beyond “preposterous hat and vacuous face.””
“Oh, my dear Holmes, how awfully thoughtless of me. I assure you, my love, next to your eyes his are as dull as dishwater. Positively leaden, truly.”
“Thank you, Watson, but that was not what I was getting at. Don’t you think it would bode better for our chances of avoiding incarceration if you perhaps focused a bit more on describing the lady in the case?”
“Oh. Erm...yes. Except, well, I’m afraid I don’t remember a cursed thing about her.”
“Straw hat, slate-coloured, with a broad brim and an ostrich plume of brick-red hue; black jacket, with beading and trimmed at the edges with little ornaments of jet; dress very dark brown, two seasons out of fashion, with purple plush trim at the neck and the wrist, the latter preserving the mark of her typewriter; gloves that might once have been called dove-coloured, but which had faded to plain grey with many washings and with a worn patch on the right forefinger; black boots, one with a decorated toe-cap and one without, though each possessing twelve buttons; small circular gold earrings; mousy brown hair, round face, pink cheeks, the first hints of a double chin, and the marks from a pair of pince-nez on either side of a rather spotty nose.”
“Show-off.”
“Only for you, Watson. In the published version it ought, no doubt, to be your dialogue rather than mine—it’s your reputation we’re trying to uphold, after all. And then my character can offer one of those backhanded complements you so enjoy writing for me: ‘You have hit upon the method, though you missed everything of significance,’ or something along those lines. In fact, I give you free reign to tamper with my words all you like. Put anything in my mouth that suits you.”
“That was the least subtle bit of innuendo I’ve ever heard.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“You needn’t look so smug about it.”
“And you needn’t look so eager.”
“Holmes?”
“Yes, Watson?”
“That editing can wait for tomorrow, don’t you think?”
“Oh, indubitably, my dear Watson. Indubitably.”