Short stories (Rivers of London, mostly Nightingale)

[FanficFan]

Ayyy, here we go, first sneezefic! I'm keeping this thread to Rivers of London (which is a wonderful book series by Ben Aaronovitch, with an amazing audiobook. Can highly recommend! Especially you like crime stories and magic in a modern-day setting)

 

 

Title: Foxes

 

Fandom: Rivers of London

Character: Thomas Nightingale

Subject: Allergies

POV: Peter Grant

 

 

DCI Thomas Nightingale, who I called my governor and some people (who aren’t me) would call my Master, was many things: Wizard, policeman, rugby fanatic, polyglot and possibly functionally immortal.

 

What I definitely didn’t expect was that he was an amazing fox-detector. 

 

We’d been called in to an unspecified falcon disturbance on Cromer Street, just outside King’s cross. The building in question was a narrow, abandoned-looking red-brick affair, one of those places that routinely fall victim to the age-old trick property companies use: Let it rot until it’s too far gone to renovate, tear it down and then build a shiny new, soulless block of luxury apartments in its place. 

 

We’d just cautiously entered through the front door, leading into a narrow corridor when up ahead, we heard an unmistakable scrabbling. Nightingale swung his staff around and held it in front of him, poised to meet any trouble head-on. He pressed his hand to his lips and motioned me to follow him up. 

 

We sidled up the narrow staircase, which creaked with every step and stopped when we reached the upstairs landing. I held my breath as I tried to listen, and there it was again: A scrabbling, like something with claws scampering down the dark corridor in front of us. 

 

A shiver ran down my spine. 

 

I glanced at Nightingale who squinted in the gloom, a strange faraway look on his face. Then, suddenly, he took a sharp breath, clamped his free hand on his face and stifled a shuddering sneeze. 

 

“Bless you,” I whispered automatically. 

 

“Sssh!” Nightingale hissed, still pinching his nose shut, “I’m trying to… heh… listen-H’Gnk!”

 

A high-pitched giggle came from the shadows. 

 

I almost shit my pants. 

 

“I think I know who our little culprit is,” Nightingale whispered and to my surprise, straightened up and yelled, at the… whatever it was, “Come on out, agent! I know you’re back there!”

 

Nothing happened. Nightingale sniffed wetly and rummaged around the inside of his suit for a handkerchief. “We had an agreement,” he said sternly, “You report to Abigail who is my apprentice and therefore you, too, report to me!” 

 

The authority in the statement was slightly undermined by Nightingale blowing his nose afterwards, but it had still been enough to get the ‘little culprit’ out from its hiding place. I recognized it as one of the big, talking foxes who my cousin Abigail had befriended a couple of summers ago. No doubt spying for their as yet undisclosed boss, if there even was a boss. We weren't quite sure in that respect.  

 

Next to me, I could hear Nightingale breathe through his mouth very deliberately, his breath hitching every now and then. “Indigo, I presume?” he asked the fox, who now seemed familiar as she sat before us, with her head cocked to the side. 

 

“Yes, Inspector,” she said. 

 

“And what ah-heh… are you…” Nightingale gave his nose a frustrated scrub. “What are you doing h-here? Heh’shhh! Hhhheh… H’mpfff!” He’d just about managed to get the words out before he buried his face in his handkerchief and the sneezes took over. 

 

I looked at Indigo. She shrugged, which is impressive to do for a fox. 

 

“He does that sometimes,” she said and then turned her attention to Nightingale who had his eyes squeezed shut, his handkerchief still clamped to his face, and was desperately trying to reign in his sneezing fit. “Do you need medical assistance?”

 

Nightingale opened his mouth to speak, but that only opened the floodgates. “Heh’Gkk! H’Gkk!! N-No, I simply…s-si- Heeeh’shh!!” 

 

I was starting to feel sorry for him. “Why don’t we go outside where there’ll be less fox hair floating around?” 

 

“Roger that!” said Indigo, jumped up and trotted down the stairs. 

 

Nightingale glared after her and I had to suppress a smirk at how ruffled he looked. “I- heh… knew it was a b-blasted fox as soon as my eyes started it… itching. Heh… Heh-shhoo!” 

 

“We should title you master fox-detector. All you have to do is literally follow your nose,” I said. I just couldn’t help it, there were seldom times you could make fun of Nightingale and I have piss-poor impulse control. 

 

“That'll be an extra Latin essay for you,” Nightingale said coldly and, sniffing and spluttering, made for the exit.

 

[FanficFan]

Second installment! The fun thing with RoL is always the changes in POV, depending on who the story is about. It's usually Peter, but there's novellas and short stories where the POV switches to other characters and I figured I'd have a go with Nightingale. Although I find Peter much easier to write for (cause he uses more modern vocab), it was fun! Hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing!

 

 

Title: Preparation is Key

 

Fandom: Rivers of London

Character: Thomas Nightingale

Subject: Hayfever

POV: Thomas Nightingale

 

 

Thinking back, this whole ordeal could have been avoided with some foresight and the following of a simple rule: If one relies on medication, one should always have more of it on hand than one thinks one ought to. 

 

Really it all began with what Peter and I now refer to as “The Fox Incident”, which involved the two of us investigating a disturbance at an abandoned house. To cut a long story short, the ‘disturbance’ ended up being a group of talking foxes who we were quite familiar with and who used said house as something akin to a safe-house. Though we only met one of them, a rather small vixen going by the name of Indigo, it turned out that ten others were hiding in various corners of the house. A whole skulk of foxes in a poorly ventilated old house… It certainly explained why it left me in a bad state. 

 

So bad in fact, that I was forced to resort to medication. And herein lay my mistake: I took the very last dose of my last bottle, thinking that I had ample time to get hold of a new one, come spring. 

 

However, what ended up happening was that, through an unspecified hiccup in production, the medication was not available when spring inevitably rolled around. So when it hit me with its worst, I was quite defenseless. 

 

“Didn't you take your meds?” Peter asked me the third morning I turned up for breakfast after a sleepless night and a mood to go with it. I’d done my best to look presentable, but there is only so much one can do to counteract, with the red-eyed, puffed-up look one gets after a few days of bad hayfever. 

 

“I'd love to,” I said while pouring myself a cup of tea, “but I can’t get a hold of them. Abdul suggested a different brand in the meantime.”

 

Peter pulled a pained face. “That sucks.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

“Crossing my fingers for them to work, then.” He lifted his coffee cup, as if in a toast. 

 

I sighed. “Don’t bother. I’ve been taking them for three days and apart from making me tired and dizzy, they’ve done nothing,” I explained. 

 

I sniffed and rubbed my nose. It was already starting to act up again, despite our efforts to keep my symptoms at bay by keeping all the windows closed. However, the Folly was an old building and as such, the windows weren’t well insulated and had the unfortunate habit of letting air in either way. 

 

Another thing that wouldn’t be a problem if only I had my medication. 

 

Such as it was, it meant I didn’t find any relief unless I placed myself in strategic spots throughout the building that were neither affected by the draft nor connected to the outdoors by a window. Or, if I got really desperate, I found refuge in my car. In fact, I’d spent the previous afternoon there, sprawled awkwardly on the back bench with a book. It had been the best I’d felt all week. 

 

“I’m debating if I should retire to the jaguar again,” I said, as the itch kept building. I had to resort to blowing my nose to stave off the inevitable. “God, this is irritating.”

 

“Hold on,” Peter said and checked his watch, frowning. “Weren’t you supposed to meet up with Seawoll at Belgravia like… an hour ago?” 

 

“We skyped,” I said simply. 

 

This got me a surprised look from Peter. Before he could say anything, I decided to cut him off: “I really don’t know why you think I’m stuck in the dark ages, Peter, I do make an effort to learn how to use modern technology.”

 

“You didn’t even know how to use an airwave when we met.”

 

“Nobody explained to me w-why… w-heh… heh’shhh!” 

 

“Bless you.”

 

“Heh’shhoo! Tha… heh’Gnk! Thank you.” I blew my nose again, which did nothing to help the itch this time. “As I was saying… heh’Gnkk!...  n-nobody explained why… heh… why it… hhhehh… HEH’SHHEWW!” 

 

“Nobody explained to you why having an airwave was important, so you didn’t think it was useful to learn how to use it?” Peter volunteered. 

 

I currently had my face buried in my handkerchief, but managed to mumble out an affirmative before I was utterly overwhelmed and sneezed about a dozen times in quick succession. 

 

“Jesus Christ, slow down there, boss.”

 

“Hheh… I wish I… wish I could,” I answered, “But I… Heh’Gnk! HEH’shhh!... I ca… c-Gnk!... I…heh… can’t… Heh’TCHEW!”

 

“Well, shit,” Peter said, deadpan. He obviously felt he had to speak to make the situation a little less embarrassing for both of us while I kept sneezing. “You know, maybe you should call up Dr. Walid again to put you on different meds. Can’t be worse than it is now, right?”

 

“Y-you have… heh… heh’Gnkk!... have no idea,” I managed. 

 

“But like… there has to be a solution other than barricading yourself in the jag and hoping for the pollen count to drop, right?”

 

If I’d been able to speak properly at that moment, I would have let Peter know that there really wasn’t another short-term solution. But as it was, I found it hard to think, nevermind to speak. 

 

“You could stay at a hotel,” Peter suddenly offered, “Make sure it’s air-conditioned. Tell them to forgo the welcome-bouquet on the bedside table, if that’s a problem. Boy in the bubble style.”

 

I didn’t know what Peter meant with ‘boy in the bubble’, but his suggestion intrigued me. “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, miraculously without a hitch. 

 

“That way you’ll be able to catch up on your paperwork without sneezing all over it,” he said rather too cheerfully.

 

I groaned. “Please… hehh… heeeh-HEH’SHHH!!... Please don’t remind me.”

 

[FanficFan]

I'm on a roll! Having so much fun with these!

 

Title: A brand new worry

 

Fandom: Rivers of London

Character: Thomas Nightingale

Subject: Sinus infection

POV: 3rd person

 

 

"Heh-Sssschieww!!..."

 

"Bless you, Thomas!"

 

"Sorry." 

 

Dr. Abdul Haqq Walid smiled kindly at his patient and friend and re-positioned his chair from where he'd just smartly moved out of the way of the trajectory of the sneeze. 

 

"Don't be," he said, as he packed the swab he'd just taken into a sterile tube for later testing. "Your sinuses are tender enough as it is without me poking around in there. Speaking of," he picked up his notes, "You're showing significant inflammation of the mucosal tissue in your sinuses and coupled with your symptoms of pain and tenderness of the face, I'm quite certain we're dealing with a sinus infection here."

 

"Let me guess," Thomas said stuffily from behind his handkerchief, where he'd been trying to blow his nose without causing the aforementioned pain to flare up, "Allergy related."

 

"I'm afraid so."

 

Thomas sighed, which made him cough a couple of times. "I thought something was amiss when my medication didn't seem to improve anything."

 

"That's one way to put it," said Abdul, "Personally, I think this is the better scenario."

 

Thomas rubbed his nose, which was gearing up for another sneeze. He sniffed wetly and then pulled a face, as pain shot through his face. "Ow," he said, miserably. "I'm not inclined to agree, to be honest… Heh-SHHIEW!!... ugh…"

 

"Well, imagine it wasn't a sinus infection, that would mean your antihistamines, which have served you well-"

 

"As long as they are available."

 

"Right. Production shortages aside, have served you well in the past… erm. Where was I going with this?"

 

"You were… were probably… heh… Heh'SHHEW!... P-probably going to say that… t-that I'd be in trouble if... if… HEH'SSSHH!!"

 

"Oh yes, if it wasn't a sinus infection it'd imply that your medication wasn't working anymore and with the track record you have… well. It'd be unfortunate."

 

"Do you mean how antihistamines don't tend to work for me?" Thomas asked and made a pained face, remembering the ordeals of the past month's search for an alternative medication. He'd tried four different ones and they'd all been a disaster, until finally his usual brand made its long-awaited return to the market. 

 

Abdul pursed his lips. "Let's say I've seldom seen a case wherein a patient sees no effect with one half of the allergy medications on the market and is… allergic to the other half. I pray for you that your current option never gets discontinued."

 

"Thank you for that brand new worry, Ab… Abdul, Heeeeh-HEH'GNK!... ow… God, that hurt…"

 

"Serves you well for stifling."

 

"Hehh-sshew!!"

 

"That's better. Bless you!"

 

"Thangk you."