monkeybard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
monkeybard) wrote2019-07-12 04:38 pm
monkeybard) wrote2019-07-12 04:38 pm
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JWP 2019 #12: Y Bwthyn yn y Dyffryn (BBC Sherlock)
Y Bwthyn yn y Dyffryn
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 1004
Universe: BBC-Sherlock
Genre: Magical Realism
Summary: They’ve reached their destination, but where’s Winnie?
Date: 12 July 2019
JWP #12: The Women of Conan Doyle. In today’s work, make sure a woman is pivotal. Perhaps it is Mrs Hudson, long-suffering landlady; or maybe it is Violet Hunter from the Copper Beeches; or Anne Harrison, stalwart fiancée to Percy Phelps – or is there an original lady who swings onto the scene?
A/N: Title translation: The Cottage in the Valley
A/N2: Sequel to Call of Creirwy and Where's Winnie?
“Wait!” To John’s surprise, Creirwy actually stopped and waited. “I need to text Sherlock. Otherwise he’ll wonder what’s up when I don’t come home.” The dog cocked her corgi head and gave him a look he immediately associated with doubt. “Assuming he notices I haven’t come home.” She almost nodded at that.
John typed up a quick note.
SH—
Going off the grid for a bit. Helping a friend. May take a while. Home as soon as I can.
—JW
He briefly considered signing it with a heart emoji, and immediately thought better of it. Expressing that level of sentimentality would put Sherlock instantly on alert that something was wrong. Best to remain circumspect in his communications.
He sent the message and immediately put his phone in airplane mode. Should Sherlock be on his mobile at that moment, he was quick-fingered enough to shoot off a reply in under four seconds. John couldn’t afford the time explanations would take.
Shoving his phone into an interior pocket of his coat for safe keeping, he turned at last to Creirwy. “Okay. Which way do we go?”
Creirwy led him to a door in the wall opposite where they’d entered from behind the curtain to Winnie’s shop.
“Was this here all the time?”
He didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t offer one.
There was a dog door within the door, and this time Creirwy didn’t wait. She dashed through it, trusting John would follow.
Of course, he did, but by lifting the latch and opening the door the human way. He stepped through it and stopped dead in his tracks. Before him stretched a swath of green, rolling land as far as his eyes could see, broken occasionally by low scrub or a tumble of rock. He took a deep breath and smelled salt air. Listening, he could just make out the sound of the sea against cliffs not far off, and the cry of gulls.
“Is this…Wales?”
The query garnered him another look, this time one that was so like Sherlock’s “you’re an idiot” expression that he almost laughed.
“Right. Stupid question. You’ve got the scent, right? You know which way we need to go?”
She barked a single affirmative.
“Lead the way, but remember I’m on two legs, not four. Okay?”
Another affirmative bark and she was off. John was glad he’d chosen a comfy pair of trainers that morning when dressing as he took off at a jog behind the corgi.
“Is it…far? Should I be…watching out for…threats?” he asked between breaths.
Again she didn’t bother to answer. Deciding discretion was called for—as much as it could be managed running across open land with virtually no cover—he kept his senses on alert.
Questions filled his mind as they rushed on, the primary one being how on Earth he was going to be able to help. Winnie was a goddess and so was her furry, four-footed daughter. What could he possibly accomplish that they couldn’t?
Creirwy wasn’t much more than a ginger-and-vanilla spot ahead of him, but he realised as he kept on that she was growing larger. She had stopped and was sniffing the air and ground alike at the base of a suspiciously uniform, elliptical grassy mound.
He drew up beside her, hoping they would there stop long enough to let him catch his breath. “Let me guess. Doorway to fairyland?”
Creirwy shot him a look and a low growl.
He put up his hands, placating. “Sorry. No offense intended.”
But rather than opening a magical door in the side of the hillock, as he more than half expected, Creirwy lay flat on her belly and began the awkward process of commando-crawling up the slope. John’s eyebrows drew up and together, but he offered neither question nor objection as he joined her in her flattened climb.
When they reached the crest, he understood better, if not perfectly. In the valley beyond, smack in the centre where its occupant could in theory see attack coming from 360 degrees, was a stone cottage with a slate roof.
“I take it she’s in there?”
Crerirwy snuffled and John thought it sounded like a negative.
“So, why are we here if she’s not?”
That got him Sherlock’s idiot look in canine form again.
“Right. Yes or no,” he reminded himself. “I don’t suppose you want to turn human-shaped to make this easier?”
She stared at him.
“Right,” he said again. “Why would you want to do that?” He backed down the hill enough to be completely hidden from view of the cottage. The dog did likewise. Both sat on their bums, thinking. “Winnie’s not in there. Is her cauldron that was stolen in there?”
Yes.
“Is the person who took it in there?”
Yes.
“Is Winnie around here somewhere else?”
Yes.
That was a relief. He was looking forward to having someone to answer him in more complex sentences—although he had to admit, Beauty was pretty good at communicating even without proper language.
At that moment, a bird’s cry reached their ears and John and Creirwy both perked up to listen.
“That’s not a gull,” mused John.
Out of the clear blue sky, a hawk swept towards them, nearly grazing his scalp is it passed precariously close to his head. He barely ducked in time, throwing up a defensive arm.
To his astonishment, Creirwy dashed around in frantic circles that were mimicked by the bird overhead.
“What the hell?”
The pair ceased their weird dance and the hawk swooped towards him again. This time he was ready, arm already raised to protect his face and head from the raptor's fierce talons. But instead of buzzing him as it had before or latching painfully onto his forearm, the bird breezed past and landed not a meter away…on decidedly human feet.
John looked up from where he half-lay in the grass to see a familiar ginger-haired figure gazing down on him with relief evident in her blue eyes.
“Thank goodness she found you!” declared Winnie.
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 1004
Universe: BBC-Sherlock
Genre: Magical Realism
Summary: They’ve reached their destination, but where’s Winnie?
Date: 12 July 2019
JWP #12: The Women of Conan Doyle. In today’s work, make sure a woman is pivotal. Perhaps it is Mrs Hudson, long-suffering landlady; or maybe it is Violet Hunter from the Copper Beeches; or Anne Harrison, stalwart fiancée to Percy Phelps – or is there an original lady who swings onto the scene?
A/N: Title translation: The Cottage in the Valley
A/N2: Sequel to Call of Creirwy and Where's Winnie?
“Wait!” To John’s surprise, Creirwy actually stopped and waited. “I need to text Sherlock. Otherwise he’ll wonder what’s up when I don’t come home.” The dog cocked her corgi head and gave him a look he immediately associated with doubt. “Assuming he notices I haven’t come home.” She almost nodded at that.
John typed up a quick note.
SH—
Going off the grid for a bit. Helping a friend. May take a while. Home as soon as I can.
—JW
He briefly considered signing it with a heart emoji, and immediately thought better of it. Expressing that level of sentimentality would put Sherlock instantly on alert that something was wrong. Best to remain circumspect in his communications.
He sent the message and immediately put his phone in airplane mode. Should Sherlock be on his mobile at that moment, he was quick-fingered enough to shoot off a reply in under four seconds. John couldn’t afford the time explanations would take.
Shoving his phone into an interior pocket of his coat for safe keeping, he turned at last to Creirwy. “Okay. Which way do we go?”
Creirwy led him to a door in the wall opposite where they’d entered from behind the curtain to Winnie’s shop.
“Was this here all the time?”
He didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t offer one.
There was a dog door within the door, and this time Creirwy didn’t wait. She dashed through it, trusting John would follow.
Of course, he did, but by lifting the latch and opening the door the human way. He stepped through it and stopped dead in his tracks. Before him stretched a swath of green, rolling land as far as his eyes could see, broken occasionally by low scrub or a tumble of rock. He took a deep breath and smelled salt air. Listening, he could just make out the sound of the sea against cliffs not far off, and the cry of gulls.
“Is this…Wales?”
The query garnered him another look, this time one that was so like Sherlock’s “you’re an idiot” expression that he almost laughed.
“Right. Stupid question. You’ve got the scent, right? You know which way we need to go?”
She barked a single affirmative.
“Lead the way, but remember I’m on two legs, not four. Okay?”
Another affirmative bark and she was off. John was glad he’d chosen a comfy pair of trainers that morning when dressing as he took off at a jog behind the corgi.
“Is it…far? Should I be…watching out for…threats?” he asked between breaths.
Again she didn’t bother to answer. Deciding discretion was called for—as much as it could be managed running across open land with virtually no cover—he kept his senses on alert.
Questions filled his mind as they rushed on, the primary one being how on Earth he was going to be able to help. Winnie was a goddess and so was her furry, four-footed daughter. What could he possibly accomplish that they couldn’t?
Creirwy wasn’t much more than a ginger-and-vanilla spot ahead of him, but he realised as he kept on that she was growing larger. She had stopped and was sniffing the air and ground alike at the base of a suspiciously uniform, elliptical grassy mound.
He drew up beside her, hoping they would there stop long enough to let him catch his breath. “Let me guess. Doorway to fairyland?”
Creirwy shot him a look and a low growl.
He put up his hands, placating. “Sorry. No offense intended.”
But rather than opening a magical door in the side of the hillock, as he more than half expected, Creirwy lay flat on her belly and began the awkward process of commando-crawling up the slope. John’s eyebrows drew up and together, but he offered neither question nor objection as he joined her in her flattened climb.
When they reached the crest, he understood better, if not perfectly. In the valley beyond, smack in the centre where its occupant could in theory see attack coming from 360 degrees, was a stone cottage with a slate roof.
“I take it she’s in there?”
Crerirwy snuffled and John thought it sounded like a negative.
“So, why are we here if she’s not?”
That got him Sherlock’s idiot look in canine form again.
“Right. Yes or no,” he reminded himself. “I don’t suppose you want to turn human-shaped to make this easier?”
She stared at him.
“Right,” he said again. “Why would you want to do that?” He backed down the hill enough to be completely hidden from view of the cottage. The dog did likewise. Both sat on their bums, thinking. “Winnie’s not in there. Is her cauldron that was stolen in there?”
Yes.
“Is the person who took it in there?”
Yes.
“Is Winnie around here somewhere else?”
Yes.
That was a relief. He was looking forward to having someone to answer him in more complex sentences—although he had to admit, Beauty was pretty good at communicating even without proper language.
At that moment, a bird’s cry reached their ears and John and Creirwy both perked up to listen.
“That’s not a gull,” mused John.
Out of the clear blue sky, a hawk swept towards them, nearly grazing his scalp is it passed precariously close to his head. He barely ducked in time, throwing up a defensive arm.
To his astonishment, Creirwy dashed around in frantic circles that were mimicked by the bird overhead.
“What the hell?”
The pair ceased their weird dance and the hawk swooped towards him again. This time he was ready, arm already raised to protect his face and head from the raptor's fierce talons. But instead of buzzing him as it had before or latching painfully onto his forearm, the bird breezed past and landed not a meter away…on decidedly human feet.
John looked up from where he half-lay in the grass to see a familiar ginger-haired figure gazing down on him with relief evident in her blue eyes.
“Thank goodness she found you!” declared Winnie.