Writing Exercise: DI Pond
Apr. 5th, 2012 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kasihyaSomething I wrote this morning. I had this really weird sensation this morning where I just felt dried up, like all of my creativity had just vanished overnight and I couldn't even muster up the energy to be depressed about it because I felt like a normal person. That weirded me out a bit, so I started writing the first thing that came into my head. I don't really care that it's not finished, and in all likelihood it never will be, because there's nothing to it. I just liked the idea of the Doctor taking Amy to meet Sherlock Holmes. I feel like it's something she would have read as a kid, and then made Rory be her Watson while they went around finding nefarious crimes to solve around town.
This takes place between Cold Blood and Vincent and the Doctor in Amy’s timeline, and between seasons 1 and 2 in Sherlock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day began in the way that days usually began at 221B Baker Street: that is, with banging around, the daily news papering every available flat surface, and a decent cup of coffee ruined because S had filled the milk carton with hydrogen peroxide and stuck it back in the fridge. It was almost comical, as he leaped over the kitchen chair and tripped himself in his heroic efforts to wrench the mug out of my hand before I accidentally killed myself.
‘Why would you do that and not label it?’ I asked.
‘You never put milk in your coffee,’ he responded, as he went about righting the furniture and pretending that he hadn’t just put on a rather touching, if entirely avoidable, display of affection.
‘I was experimenting,’ I informed him. I washed out the cup very thoroughly before refilling it, after which we set about to our respective activities: namely, surfing the internet and studying petri dishes. All as usual.
About midmorning, the doorbell rang. S tilted his head; I put down my laptop to wait for his analysis of the person at the door. ‘Impatient, but not urgent. They’ll ring again in a few seconds if you don’t open the door fast enough.’
‘Client?’
‘It’s not the police.’
Which probably says something deeply disturbing about my life, that anyone coming to our door without notice is either a victim of a crime, a criminal, or a member of the police force. But there you have it: business as usual. I didn’t bother correcting his assumption that I would be the one to answer the door, even though he was already standing.
True to his word, the doorbell rang again just as I opened the door. The ringer jumped back a step. She was a young woman, early twenties, with red hair and an ugly jumper that she managed to make fashionable. ‘Hello!’ she said, waving. ‘Are you … Dr. John Watson?’ Her voice went funny as she said it, like she could barely contain her laughter.
‘Yes. Yes, I live here. Are you looking for SH?’
Her eyes danced. ‘I most certainly am. Is he here? Or are you going to say that he’s not here, even if he is? Because I can come back when he is ready to be here, that is absolutely no problem.’
‘Um.’ I had to think about it. ‘You’re not a, um, client then?’
‘Nope.’ She held up a police badge, which proclaimed her to be Detective Inspector Amelia Pond. I tried to remember if Lestrade or Gregson had ever mentioned a Pond on their force — I’d never seen her before, and I would have remembered — but nothing came up. ‘I’m here to talk to Mr. Holmes about his most recent case, the, uh …’
‘The League of the Red Hand.’ My automatic reaction was to run through everything that that case had involved, and pick out which illegal things Scotland Yard was most likely to have found out. Then I feign ignorance. ‘Yeah, come in. S, it’s Scotland Yard,’ I shouted up the stairs.
I had to usher Inspector Pond up to our flat; she seemed intent on examining the entire first floor, including the wallpaper and the railing. My mind went to S’s many pilfered ID cards, and I found myself wishing that I’d checked hers more closely. When we reached the top of the stairs, I found S already seated in his chair, hands folded. His eyes snapped open as we approached. Inspector Pond clapped her hands over her mouth to restrain what sounded suspiciously like a shriek of delight.
‘This is DI Pond,’ I introduced our guest.
‘No she isn’t,’ said S.
‘Yes I am. See?’ Pond held out her badge again. A bit funny, like it was a shield. S leaped up and snatched it out of her hand. He flipped it over and back again, frowning.
‘Interesting. John, this is a blank piece of paper, what are you doing? Are you trying to introduce me to your latest girlfriend by disguising her obvious detachment from reality and tendency towards histrionics as a form of roleplay in which you two engage to simulate our own interpersonal dynamics in which case, by the way, you should stop, as I’ve been widely told that our relationship is not normal nor something to be desired.’ S tossed the badge back to Inspector Pond. I looked back and forth between them.
‘What?’ I asked him.
Pond watched S with an expression of wide-eyed shock, which turned into one of unholy glee. She bounced on her heels and clutched her badge. ‘Oh my god, it’s really you. You’re here — now — oh, I have questions. I have so many questions.’
‘Sorry, but — what?’ I asked again, this time directed at her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I finished catching up on Community in time to watch tonight's episode. I feel odd and apprehensive now, because I've been watching it obsessively for the past few weeks to avoid reality, and now that I've run out of episodes, I'd have to make a concerted effort to get into another show in order to reproduce the same effect, and I just don't think that's a good idea.
So now I have to be a real person again. *sigh*
Also Sherlock is my new thing. I like things. If I write enough about it, then I will stop being so ridiculously overinvested in it because I'll have my own set of canon events that I can replace when yet another show fails to give me a relationship I can actually understand and relate to.
This takes place between Cold Blood and Vincent and the Doctor in Amy’s timeline, and between seasons 1 and 2 in Sherlock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day began in the way that days usually began at 221B Baker Street: that is, with banging around, the daily news papering every available flat surface, and a decent cup of coffee ruined because S had filled the milk carton with hydrogen peroxide and stuck it back in the fridge. It was almost comical, as he leaped over the kitchen chair and tripped himself in his heroic efforts to wrench the mug out of my hand before I accidentally killed myself.
‘Why would you do that and not label it?’ I asked.
‘You never put milk in your coffee,’ he responded, as he went about righting the furniture and pretending that he hadn’t just put on a rather touching, if entirely avoidable, display of affection.
‘I was experimenting,’ I informed him. I washed out the cup very thoroughly before refilling it, after which we set about to our respective activities: namely, surfing the internet and studying petri dishes. All as usual.
About midmorning, the doorbell rang. S tilted his head; I put down my laptop to wait for his analysis of the person at the door. ‘Impatient, but not urgent. They’ll ring again in a few seconds if you don’t open the door fast enough.’
‘Client?’
‘It’s not the police.’
Which probably says something deeply disturbing about my life, that anyone coming to our door without notice is either a victim of a crime, a criminal, or a member of the police force. But there you have it: business as usual. I didn’t bother correcting his assumption that I would be the one to answer the door, even though he was already standing.
True to his word, the doorbell rang again just as I opened the door. The ringer jumped back a step. She was a young woman, early twenties, with red hair and an ugly jumper that she managed to make fashionable. ‘Hello!’ she said, waving. ‘Are you … Dr. John Watson?’ Her voice went funny as she said it, like she could barely contain her laughter.
‘Yes. Yes, I live here. Are you looking for SH?’
Her eyes danced. ‘I most certainly am. Is he here? Or are you going to say that he’s not here, even if he is? Because I can come back when he is ready to be here, that is absolutely no problem.’
‘Um.’ I had to think about it. ‘You’re not a, um, client then?’
‘Nope.’ She held up a police badge, which proclaimed her to be Detective Inspector Amelia Pond. I tried to remember if Lestrade or Gregson had ever mentioned a Pond on their force — I’d never seen her before, and I would have remembered — but nothing came up. ‘I’m here to talk to Mr. Holmes about his most recent case, the, uh …’
‘The League of the Red Hand.’ My automatic reaction was to run through everything that that case had involved, and pick out which illegal things Scotland Yard was most likely to have found out. Then I feign ignorance. ‘Yeah, come in. S, it’s Scotland Yard,’ I shouted up the stairs.
I had to usher Inspector Pond up to our flat; she seemed intent on examining the entire first floor, including the wallpaper and the railing. My mind went to S’s many pilfered ID cards, and I found myself wishing that I’d checked hers more closely. When we reached the top of the stairs, I found S already seated in his chair, hands folded. His eyes snapped open as we approached. Inspector Pond clapped her hands over her mouth to restrain what sounded suspiciously like a shriek of delight.
‘This is DI Pond,’ I introduced our guest.
‘No she isn’t,’ said S.
‘Yes I am. See?’ Pond held out her badge again. A bit funny, like it was a shield. S leaped up and snatched it out of her hand. He flipped it over and back again, frowning.
‘Interesting. John, this is a blank piece of paper, what are you doing? Are you trying to introduce me to your latest girlfriend by disguising her obvious detachment from reality and tendency towards histrionics as a form of roleplay in which you two engage to simulate our own interpersonal dynamics in which case, by the way, you should stop, as I’ve been widely told that our relationship is not normal nor something to be desired.’ S tossed the badge back to Inspector Pond. I looked back and forth between them.
‘What?’ I asked him.
Pond watched S with an expression of wide-eyed shock, which turned into one of unholy glee. She bounced on her heels and clutched her badge. ‘Oh my god, it’s really you. You’re here — now — oh, I have questions. I have so many questions.’
‘Sorry, but — what?’ I asked again, this time directed at her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I finished catching up on Community in time to watch tonight's episode. I feel odd and apprehensive now, because I've been watching it obsessively for the past few weeks to avoid reality, and now that I've run out of episodes, I'd have to make a concerted effort to get into another show in order to reproduce the same effect, and I just don't think that's a good idea.
So now I have to be a real person again. *sigh*
Also Sherlock is my new thing. I like things. If I write enough about it, then I will stop being so ridiculously overinvested in it because I'll have my own set of canon events that I can replace when yet another show fails to give me a relationship I can actually understand and relate to.
