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sherlockbbc2011-01-29 10:10 am
unovis) wrote in sherlockbbc2011-01-29 10:10 am
Entry tags:
Fic: The Lobster
Title: The Lobster
Author: Unovis
Rating: G
Word count: 713
An addendum to Five Things Sherlock Ate That Agreed with Him
Note: I wanted to add a paragraph to the first section, about the lobster, and ended up with this. A little illumination.
***
You might ask how a seven year old child out to dinner with his brother and impatient, scornful relatives managed to be served a lobster of his very own. A lobster with whom he had just established a sort of rapport.
It wasn’t pleasant. That side of the family rarely was.
The facts were these:
“The fact was,” said Sherlock, snapping a breadstick, “my uncle Merk was at odds with my father. Sharply, that month; over politics, I thought.”
“What kind of name is Merk?” asked John. He rather liked lobster. He was sorry to add this to Sherlock’s banned-for-life in-front-of-me list.
“Short for Mercutio. Shut up.”
Mercutio and Sherrinford Holmes did not get along. Some childhood rivalry that they never outgrew, Sherlock’s mother assumed. Take it as a caution, she told Sherlock, tucking him into bed, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Family is precious.”
Family was contentious, inconvenient, and obnoxious, in young Sherlock’s opinion. Except for his mother. And Aunt Charlotte. And his sometimes fascinating cousin El. But he died.
“My cousin died and the family was forced together for the weekend. There was no funeral, only a memorial service. You know the kind of thing for children; white everywhere.” He flapped a hand negligently.
“How young?” asked John. Sherlock was still frowning at the menu, not looking at his face.
“Ten. We didn’t attend.”
By we, he meant Mycroft and himself. His father gave them the choice; Sherlock was curious about seeing a corpse, a dead body of someone he knew. He’d seen dead (very dead) animals in the road or garden, but never a real, dead person. And a dead El would doubtless be an extremely interesting example of the sort. El was smart and funny and talked wonderfully well. Possibly he could touch him. Before he could ask, Mycroft told him there would be no body there, so Sherlock shrugged no.
“We went to dinner at the hotel restaurant and there were lobsters in a tank in the entry. I thought it was an aquarium at first.”
They’re food, said Mycroft, as Aunt May pushed him away. “Leave it, Sherlock. People eat them.” Sherlock looked at the angry, bored lobster, waiting in the tank. With his rock and his artificial sea-grass and his broken antenna. Behind him, his father and uncle came in, arguing. Mother was in the room, with a sick headache. “I want him,” said Sherlock, tapping on the glass. The lobster’s antenna brushed the other side. If anyone could get the lobster out of this boring cage, this imminent danger, it was his father. He’d read that lobsters were intelligent. He’d call him El.
“Uncle Merk thought we were spoilt children. My father believed in free will. I told him I wanted to try eating a lobster, and he indulged me. He wouldn’t have, if Merk hadn’t disapproved. And Father hated eating out, and nothing was more likely to ruin dinner and mortify Merk and May than the spectacle of a child with a giant red boiled marine bug on his plate.”
Lobster’s too rich for children, said his uncle. “He’ll have nightmares. He’ll be sick.” The lobster scrabbled back, curling its tail. “Won’t,” said Sherlock. They had money. Nobody could be allergic to something underwater. “The boy knows his mind,” said his father, and gestured for a waiter, and Sherlock allowed himself to be shooed to the table.
“So, you didn’t like it? It made you sick? You pitched a fit?” John finished his wine. Their waiter had gone missing.
It was the style of that restaurant to serve lobster sitting up on the plate, antennae curling wide, its split tail splayed behind. Oh, thought Sherlock. So, that’s death. He looked from El’s still, furious, face to Merk, who was scowling, to May, who was tightly disapproving, to Mycroft, who was distressed, to his father, who was paying close attention. “Show me how,” he said, and his father smiled and began a lesson.
“It was disappointing,” Sherlock said abruptly. He shrugged. “Not worth the fuss. I’ll have the risotto.”
“For someone who’s lived such an interesting life, you tell the worst anecdotes,” said John. There was a lie there, somewhere. He looked across the table at his friend and tried to imagine that expression on a little face.
Author: Unovis
Rating: G
Word count: 713
An addendum to Five Things Sherlock Ate That Agreed with Him
Note: I wanted to add a paragraph to the first section, about the lobster, and ended up with this. A little illumination.
***
You might ask how a seven year old child out to dinner with his brother and impatient, scornful relatives managed to be served a lobster of his very own. A lobster with whom he had just established a sort of rapport.
It wasn’t pleasant. That side of the family rarely was.
The facts were these:
“The fact was,” said Sherlock, snapping a breadstick, “my uncle Merk was at odds with my father. Sharply, that month; over politics, I thought.”
“What kind of name is Merk?” asked John. He rather liked lobster. He was sorry to add this to Sherlock’s banned-for-life in-front-of-me list.
“Short for Mercutio. Shut up.”
Mercutio and Sherrinford Holmes did not get along. Some childhood rivalry that they never outgrew, Sherlock’s mother assumed. Take it as a caution, she told Sherlock, tucking him into bed, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Family is precious.”
Family was contentious, inconvenient, and obnoxious, in young Sherlock’s opinion. Except for his mother. And Aunt Charlotte. And his sometimes fascinating cousin El. But he died.
“My cousin died and the family was forced together for the weekend. There was no funeral, only a memorial service. You know the kind of thing for children; white everywhere.” He flapped a hand negligently.
“How young?” asked John. Sherlock was still frowning at the menu, not looking at his face.
“Ten. We didn’t attend.”
By we, he meant Mycroft and himself. His father gave them the choice; Sherlock was curious about seeing a corpse, a dead body of someone he knew. He’d seen dead (very dead) animals in the road or garden, but never a real, dead person. And a dead El would doubtless be an extremely interesting example of the sort. El was smart and funny and talked wonderfully well. Possibly he could touch him. Before he could ask, Mycroft told him there would be no body there, so Sherlock shrugged no.
“We went to dinner at the hotel restaurant and there were lobsters in a tank in the entry. I thought it was an aquarium at first.”
They’re food, said Mycroft, as Aunt May pushed him away. “Leave it, Sherlock. People eat them.” Sherlock looked at the angry, bored lobster, waiting in the tank. With his rock and his artificial sea-grass and his broken antenna. Behind him, his father and uncle came in, arguing. Mother was in the room, with a sick headache. “I want him,” said Sherlock, tapping on the glass. The lobster’s antenna brushed the other side. If anyone could get the lobster out of this boring cage, this imminent danger, it was his father. He’d read that lobsters were intelligent. He’d call him El.
“Uncle Merk thought we were spoilt children. My father believed in free will. I told him I wanted to try eating a lobster, and he indulged me. He wouldn’t have, if Merk hadn’t disapproved. And Father hated eating out, and nothing was more likely to ruin dinner and mortify Merk and May than the spectacle of a child with a giant red boiled marine bug on his plate.”
Lobster’s too rich for children, said his uncle. “He’ll have nightmares. He’ll be sick.” The lobster scrabbled back, curling its tail. “Won’t,” said Sherlock. They had money. Nobody could be allergic to something underwater. “The boy knows his mind,” said his father, and gestured for a waiter, and Sherlock allowed himself to be shooed to the table.
“So, you didn’t like it? It made you sick? You pitched a fit?” John finished his wine. Their waiter had gone missing.
It was the style of that restaurant to serve lobster sitting up on the plate, antennae curling wide, its split tail splayed behind. Oh, thought Sherlock. So, that’s death. He looked from El’s still, furious, face to Merk, who was scowling, to May, who was tightly disapproving, to Mycroft, who was distressed, to his father, who was paying close attention. “Show me how,” he said, and his father smiled and began a lesson.
“It was disappointing,” Sherlock said abruptly. He shrugged. “Not worth the fuss. I’ll have the risotto.”
“For someone who’s lived such an interesting life, you tell the worst anecdotes,” said John. There was a lie there, somewhere. He looked across the table at his friend and tried to imagine that expression on a little face.
no subject
~