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I'm not sure this counts as cheating, but I nipped ahead and watched "Fearful Symmetry" on YouTube instead of waiting for Sunday. I will probably go ahead and watch "The Indelible Stain" the same way. And I might do fic; who knows. I have the ghost of an idea.
Meanwhile, another coda, which is probably long enough at 740 words to qualify for fic status, though it's somewhat dependent on the others. The "You know what I mean" series, perhaps.
Lewis swore he'd closed his eyes only for a few seconds, but then the heavy thump of a pint glass on the table nudged them open, and he realized that Hathaway had had time for a trip to the bar while he dozed.
"Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to--" and then he looked around. "Oi," he went on, "where's mine, then?"
"I thought you'd better not, sir."
Lewis bit back a harsh reply; he'd been caught sleeping at the table, after all, like someone's granddad. "Maybe you'd better not either," he allowed himself. "You started well before me. Can't carry you home; I'm too old."
"I'm a boy wonder; you said so yourself." Hathaway took a hearty gulp and put the glass down, looking satisfied.
"Just don't go thinking you can fly or any of that lark."
"On what wings dare he aspire?" Hathaway murmured. "No, sir," he added, and drank some more. "I'm not likely to think that."
Lewis yawned, earning a smirk from his sergeant. They sat in silence for a moment, and then Hathaway started muttering again. "Giraffe, giraffe," he said. "Doesn't scan."
"What's that?"
"Ever get a tune stuck in your head? It's like that. Have to exorcise it--ah! Monkey."
Lewis raised an eyebrow, but declined to comment. After another moment of humming, Hathaway smiled and recited:
"Monkey, monkey, dare'st thou gab
In the cages of the lab?
What doc, technician, Ph.D.
Would fear thy dreadful repartee?
"Ha," he finished, and swallowed another gulp of ale.
"If you say so," Lewis answered, raising his empty glass.
"Not very Oxfordian, the degree, but D.Phil. didn't rhyme," Hathaway qualified gleefully. He'd been in an odd mood since they'd wrapped up the case, alternately bouncy and slumped; Lewis was just glad to see bouncy winning out.
"I can do more," Hathaway went on. "Couplets are easy. Lewis, Lewis..."
"None of that now."
"Can't stop me. Oh, I know:
"When noble Morse laid down his trust,
The mission passed to Rob the Just.
His legacy is clear to see:
Morse made you as you've made me."
Lewis sighed. He was unexpectedly touched, and he also knew he'd better get Hathaway home as soon as possible. "Yeah, lad," he said. "Though I recited Morse one hundred percent less poetry. Drink up, now; let's go."
Hathaway had near half a pint left, which he put down his throat dutifully. They'd both been taught thrift as children, Lewis was pretty sure. His sergeant rose to his feet and loomed more or less straight toward the door, guided by Lewis with a hand on his back.
"Good thing your flat's close. Neither of us is in a state to drive. Whoopsy!" Lewis added as Hathaway did an impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa; it was the sort of thing you said to children when they were learning to walk. "Let's get you home and to bed," he said, pulling Hathaway into the street.
"I thought you'd never ask," Hathaway said, low and throaty, leaning over into Lewis's ear.
"You know what I mean," Lewis said, trying to shake the warm buzzing out of his brain.
"No," said Hathaway, straightening up to his full height and only swaying slightly, like a tree in a breeze. "You always say that, and I don't. I don't know what you mean. Tell me what you mean. Sir."
Lewis hesitated, trying to fix Hathaway's intent and keep him calm. "I've told you before: call me Robbie when we're off duty. You near enough did, in the poem."
"Robbie," Hathaway echoed, sonorous and serious as though he were saying something very important. "Robbie, Robbie... burning bright..."
"James, James, lit up like a Christmas tree," Lewis muttered. "Home, James. Come on now."
"You're going to take me to bed," Hathaway said as though confirming something glorious. Lewis imagined he'd once repeated his creed of belief in the same tone.
"I'm going to put you to bed, lad. You're too loopy for anything else."
Lewis clapped his mouth shut, three seconds too late. Hathaway didn't seem to notice, but Hathaway noticed everything: knots; toy giraffes; Lewis talking like a monkey, saying the same damn thing over and over, unable to connect the symbol and the real. Just wanting to be fed, to be treated to Hathaway's devotion, even in the form of doggerel verse.
"What rhymes with Hathaway?" he said, not really expecting an answer.
"Giraffe," said James.
Meanwhile, another coda, which is probably long enough at 740 words to qualify for fic status, though it's somewhat dependent on the others. The "You know what I mean" series, perhaps.
Lewis swore he'd closed his eyes only for a few seconds, but then the heavy thump of a pint glass on the table nudged them open, and he realized that Hathaway had had time for a trip to the bar while he dozed.
"Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to--" and then he looked around. "Oi," he went on, "where's mine, then?"
"I thought you'd better not, sir."
Lewis bit back a harsh reply; he'd been caught sleeping at the table, after all, like someone's granddad. "Maybe you'd better not either," he allowed himself. "You started well before me. Can't carry you home; I'm too old."
"I'm a boy wonder; you said so yourself." Hathaway took a hearty gulp and put the glass down, looking satisfied.
"Just don't go thinking you can fly or any of that lark."
"On what wings dare he aspire?" Hathaway murmured. "No, sir," he added, and drank some more. "I'm not likely to think that."
Lewis yawned, earning a smirk from his sergeant. They sat in silence for a moment, and then Hathaway started muttering again. "Giraffe, giraffe," he said. "Doesn't scan."
"What's that?"
"Ever get a tune stuck in your head? It's like that. Have to exorcise it--ah! Monkey."
Lewis raised an eyebrow, but declined to comment. After another moment of humming, Hathaway smiled and recited:
"Monkey, monkey, dare'st thou gab
In the cages of the lab?
What doc, technician, Ph.D.
Would fear thy dreadful repartee?
"Ha," he finished, and swallowed another gulp of ale.
"If you say so," Lewis answered, raising his empty glass.
"Not very Oxfordian, the degree, but D.Phil. didn't rhyme," Hathaway qualified gleefully. He'd been in an odd mood since they'd wrapped up the case, alternately bouncy and slumped; Lewis was just glad to see bouncy winning out.
"I can do more," Hathaway went on. "Couplets are easy. Lewis, Lewis..."
"None of that now."
"Can't stop me. Oh, I know:
"When noble Morse laid down his trust,
The mission passed to Rob the Just.
His legacy is clear to see:
Morse made you as you've made me."
Lewis sighed. He was unexpectedly touched, and he also knew he'd better get Hathaway home as soon as possible. "Yeah, lad," he said. "Though I recited Morse one hundred percent less poetry. Drink up, now; let's go."
Hathaway had near half a pint left, which he put down his throat dutifully. They'd both been taught thrift as children, Lewis was pretty sure. His sergeant rose to his feet and loomed more or less straight toward the door, guided by Lewis with a hand on his back.
"Good thing your flat's close. Neither of us is in a state to drive. Whoopsy!" Lewis added as Hathaway did an impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa; it was the sort of thing you said to children when they were learning to walk. "Let's get you home and to bed," he said, pulling Hathaway into the street.
"I thought you'd never ask," Hathaway said, low and throaty, leaning over into Lewis's ear.
"You know what I mean," Lewis said, trying to shake the warm buzzing out of his brain.
"No," said Hathaway, straightening up to his full height and only swaying slightly, like a tree in a breeze. "You always say that, and I don't. I don't know what you mean. Tell me what you mean. Sir."
Lewis hesitated, trying to fix Hathaway's intent and keep him calm. "I've told you before: call me Robbie when we're off duty. You near enough did, in the poem."
"Robbie," Hathaway echoed, sonorous and serious as though he were saying something very important. "Robbie, Robbie... burning bright..."
"James, James, lit up like a Christmas tree," Lewis muttered. "Home, James. Come on now."
"You're going to take me to bed," Hathaway said as though confirming something glorious. Lewis imagined he'd once repeated his creed of belief in the same tone.
"I'm going to put you to bed, lad. You're too loopy for anything else."
Lewis clapped his mouth shut, three seconds too late. Hathaway didn't seem to notice, but Hathaway noticed everything: knots; toy giraffes; Lewis talking like a monkey, saying the same damn thing over and over, unable to connect the symbol and the real. Just wanting to be fed, to be treated to Hathaway's devotion, even in the form of doggerel verse.
"What rhymes with Hathaway?" he said, not really expecting an answer.
"Giraffe," said James.
