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Snowday Drabbles

Chapter Text

Mrs. Hudson heard Holmes rise and draw the curtains against the sight of falling snow. He would brood until the doctor rose and rang for breakfast. Yes, there was the clash of masculine voices. The doctor was awake. It was familiar music but before the opening statement could build to a raging storm scene, she had the tray up with the proridge on it piping hot. Then she could relax in her parlor. Being no fool, she had sent Billy around to the green grocer at the first hint of inclement wheather. Holmes, housebound and unfed? Perish the thought!

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"Is it ever going to stop?"
"In its own good time."
"I remember back in..."
"I know...sleeping with the cows…working to keep warm...couldn't turn on the...oh. Well, read a book. Do a jigsaw puzzle. Just stop pacing!"
"It didn't seem so...stop looking at me like that!"
"Like what?"
"Like I was emergency rations!"
"I wasn't considering particular recipes."
"You admit it!"
"You're being selfish, Mac. If I have to kill you, because you're driving me crazy, wouldn't you want me to eat your carcase? Waste not want not. Come here and give me a taste."

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"Look, it's snowing!"
"It does not snow in Southern California."
"What's this white stuff falling out of the sky then?"
"Severe climate change -- a sign of the Apocalypse – 'Revelations 2.6.'"
"You know that?"
"Yes, I know that."
"You know all the signs of the Apocalypse? How does one dress? Tell me, how am I supposed to dress for the Apocalypse​? Oh...guess I don't need a tie."
"No, you don't."
"Or a vest...or a shirt...or...those...or...oh, my dear God...Cho! You're right, the Apocalypse..."
"Is a come as you are thing, Jane."
"That was a revelation."

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Bookends with matching profiles, they had leaned on their hands for centuries, watching the Seine flow. This morning, one of them sported a snowy chef's toque, while one leaned forward out of line -- the better to find the point where life touched life. There! Below, the man stepping off the gangplank of the barge whirled around. His black coat flared and metal flashed as he scanned the paths and walkways, looking everywhere in fact but up.

Methos leaned back satisfied. "You're right," he said, hanging an arm around his old friend, "I should introduce myself. But this is more fun."

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"Where is it, Watson?"
"Where is what?"
"You know damn well 'what.'"
"Not to contradict, old chum, but I do not read minds."
"Blast you! I will go mad!"
"Send a telegram when you get there. In the meantime – get up off the floor – here's The Gazette. There's been another prostitute murdered in Whitechapel."
"The police will muff it, as usual. Do I have to beg?"
"That might be interesting."
"I know you hid it!"
"It's a disgusting habit, but I did not hide your pipe. Now, crawl over here – I have something else you can put in your mouth."

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"What are you doing?"
"Watching the snow."
"Brrr...you're cold!"
"Wrap my coat around you. Better?"
"What was February when you were alive ― madrigals, mead and roaring fires?"
"No, you fool, this was the hardest time of year ― the coldest and the deepest, nor any hint of spring."
"It's so white and calm and peaceful. What do you see?"
"I see technicolor Catherine wheels. Blue and green and bits of flaming red. I can follow a single flake if I want to until it spins out of sight...put your head on my shoulder. Let me hold you for a while."

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“Just because Danny isn’t wearing one this morning? That’s crazy.”
“Bet?”
“What stakes?”
“Next time you be the bait.”
“Okay, I get the picture, but you are so wrong.”
“Oh, cousin, ye of little faith, watch this. Steve?”
“Yeah?" McGarrett ambled over.
“Look at this.” Kono pointed at the last frame. “Look closely.”
McGarrett leaned across the table, putting his hip pocket with the flat lump that could easily have been a billfold within easy reach of two quick fingers.
“See anything different from yesterday?”
“No, nothing.”
“My mistake.”
McGarrett turned away with a tail of gray silk fluttering behind him.