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acdholmesfestTitle: Here's a hand (to lay on your open palm)
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rojo3131
Author:desecrets
Rating: G
Characters: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: brief mentions of war and death
Summary: Things fall into place.
Disclaimer: The gents are in the public domain.
There is no real reason why the following should be set down. It will never see publication, nor indeed be read by anyone but myself. But it seems I cannot stop being Sherlock Holmes’ biographer, even within the confines of my own mind, and I recently realised that I had been composing this narrative piece by piece in my thoughts for some time now. Seeing that I had it all ready, it felt curiously dishonest not to write it down. And there are certain things I have my own reasons for wanting to remember.
Some months ago now, on a rather miserable evening in the autumn of 1895, I was sitting in my chair in front of the dying fire, reading a book and waiting for Holmes to return. The clock on the mantel told me that it was past one in the morning.
We had argued, Holmes and I, earlier on in the week, about his stubborn refusal to allow me to accompany him on his case. He had been avoiding me ever since.
Well, no. That is not quite true. If I am honest, it had seemed to me as if he were avoiding me for quite some time, but it had only ever been a vague suspicion on my part, and with no evidence I knew I should look exceedingly foolish if I tried to voice it. But for the past few days it had become obvious to the point of hilarity.
He had made a point, every day, of rising before me, so that I only ever saw him for half a minute while I was having breakfast, if at all, and he never returned until after I had gone to bed. When we did speak, he was curt and evasive in his manner, and though I knew all too well that I was allowing him to manipulate me through his imperiousness and his excellent knowledge of my own good manners, I could not bring myself to insist upon the point.
In the end I had decided to try to speak to him reasonably when he returned home in the evening, and to apologise for my insistence, but it was beginning to look as if he would be out all night. I’d been nodding over my novel for the last half hour. I was just about to give it up and turn in for the night when I heard the sound of the front door.
About time, I thought, and then sat up a little straighter when I heard Holmes’ steps on the stair. They were quite a bit slower than usual, and he seemed to pause a moment on the landing before he opened the door to our rooms and slipped inside. Then he saw me sitting wide awake in my chair, and he immediately straightened, attempting to assume his usual energetic posture. The effect was ruined by his pale face and the fact that he was swaying on his feet, evidently beyond exhausted.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed, putting aside my book. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine, Watson,” he said breezily, crossing the room and pausing for a moment by the fire to warm his hands. “What are you doing up?”
There was nothing in his manner to indicate that anything was amiss, but close to I could see that his hands were shaking and the knuckles looked red and raw.
“I wanted to speak with you,” I replied hesitantly, “about our disagreement the other day. I meant to apologise. And I really am very sorry for pressing you so, but really, Holmes –” I could not keep quiet any longer – “you must allow me to accompany you, if only for the sake of your own health. This case is clearly wearing you ragged, you look dead on your feet.”
Before I had even finished, it was clear that words had sent him into an unexpected fury. His eyes flashed as he straightened and strode across the room in the direction of his bedroom, but not before delivering one precisely enunciated Parthian shot.
“If I wanted a wet nurse, Watson,” he said coldly, “I would have advertised for one. Surely a man is entitled to decide when he does and does not desire another man’s company.”
Stung, I was opening my mouth to retort when I was distracted by the sight of Holmes abruptly stopping halfway to his door, swaying for a moment, and then falling. I watched for an interminable moment as he grasped for the backrest of the window seat, missed it, and hit the floor, seemingly in a dead faint.
For a second I sat frozen in my chair. Then I sprang to my feet and rushed to his side, feeling for a pulse at his wrist and throat, while panicked thoughts fluttered through head like so many bats. I had assumed he was merely worn out, but could he have ingested poison? Or had he sustained some wound in last few days that I didn’t know about?
Pushing aside the lapels of his jacket, I clumsily unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, but found only pale skin stretched over prominent ribs, and the odd fading bruise. His hands were cold. There were no serious injuries, and nothing seemed to indicate poisoning. I sat back on my heels. Most likely these were simply the symptoms of overexertion, and I was being foolish.
Staring at his thin body like this while he lay unconscious beneath me, I felt inexplicably embarrassed, and quickly rebuttoned his shirt, before going to the sideboard and pouring him a brandy. As I was standing there I heard a faint rustle behind me, and turned to see Holmes just coming to.
I helped him sit up, ignoring the strong twinge in my shoulder, and held the brandy to his lips. He attempted to refuse it at first, but I would not let him.
“Just drink the bloody brandy, Holmes,” I said quietly, relieved that at least my voice was steady even if my mind was still rattled.
“I am fine, Watson, really,” he protested, one hand flapping weakly. “It was just a momentary lapse. You needn’t hover so.”
“Don’t be daft,” I said flatly. He glared at me but there was little force in it, and that more than anything convinced me to stay put.
Putting an arm around him and pulling Holmes’ arm around my own shoulders, I helped him to get to his feet. I could feel his entire body stiffen, but I told myself it hardly mattered – his health was more important than our bickering. Still, I could not help a slight sinking feeling as I glanced at his forbidding profile.
He sat, petulantly, in the armchair I helped him into, and I stood before him with my arms crossed.
“Now,” I said, “you will tell me what that was about, and why you have been pushing yourself to such ridiculous lengths. Because you have, and don’t deny it. Have you even eaten?”
“You are not my nursemaid, Watson,” he said tiredly.
“No,” I agreed, “I’m your doctor.” He grimaced. I added, “And your friend.”
“Nevertheless you’re making far too much of this. Even if I have been a trifle negligent with my meals lately –”
“You just fainted.”
“You know I hardly need food when I’m working.”
“Evidently you do!”
Holmes’ hand came down on the armrest of his chair.
“Watson,” he snapped, “is this really the time?”
I looked him over. He was vexed, yes, but he did not look so much as if he might keel over at any moment, and I decided grimly that he could stay awake a little while longer.
Crossing the room I brought him the plate of sandwiches which Mrs Hudson had made for me a couple of hours earlier, hearing that I intended to wait up. I’d become engrossed in my novel and forgotten all about it. Putting the plate into his hands, I said somewhat curtly,
“Here. Eat something.”
They would no doubt be a little stale now but I was not going to wake the poor woman at one in the morning because Holmes was a picky eater. I was angry with him, I realised as I watched him bite into a sandwich, a long-suffering expression on his face. The emotion caught me somewhat by surprise. Telling Holmes sternly not to move, I went into my own room briefly and fetched my doctor’s bag.
I’d noticed that one of Holmes’ hands – the right – was looking considerably worse than the other, and they would both need cleaning. When he had finished his sandwich I knelt on the floor in front of his chair and took both his hands, gently but firmly swabbing the torn knuckles with antiseptic. Every now and then I could see Holmes’ legs tensing minutely in front of my face, but his hands never moved. They remained between mine, pliant and still slightly cool, as familiar to me in their bony paleness as my own squarer ones. As I wrapped his mangled right hand in gauze I could feel my anger abating slowly, leaving behind only confusion.
“Will you really not tell me about your case?” I asked as I got to my feet, peering at Holmes.
There was some slight colour in his cheeks now, probably from the brandy and sandwiches, though he might just possibly have caught a fever. Whatever his blasted case was, I hoped he had concluded it tonight, and could allow himself to rest.
“I am sorry, Watson,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’m not in any danger. That much I’ll swear to you.”
I nodded resignedly.
“Very well then.”
“May I go now, Doctor?” Holmes asked, just a touch sardonically, and I nodded again.
As he rose, I automatically stepped in to steady him with a hand at his elbow. He attempted to pull free, and somehow we ended up locked for a moment in an awkwardly tangled stance, neither immediately giving way – and just as I had formed the resolution to move and was about to take a step backwards, in the split-second between the thought and the action, Holmes leant in with compulsive quickness and pressed his mouth to mine.
I stumbled back, for a second not entirely convinced that it had truly happened and I was not allowing my admittedly bewildered senses to get the better of me. One look at Holmes told me all I needed to know. The little colour which I had managed to bring back into his narrow face by my grudging care had all gone, leaving him paper white and tense. He very carefully stepped away from me and towards his bedroom door, whilst divesting himself of his jacket with short and graceless movements.
“Holmes,” I said softly. I felt emptied out and helpless and bone tired.
“I must apologise again, Watson,” he said lightly, facing away from me, the set of his shoulders rigid to the point of looking painful. “It appears I’m considerably more worn out than I thought. If you would be so kind as to leave me now, I will get some much needed rest, and tomorrow we can discuss the matter more fully. No doubt you’ll want to terminate our current living arrangements.”
I was too stunned to reply.
“I’m afraid my work requires me to remain in Baker Street,” Holmes went on, “but I assure you I’ll do everything I can to find you satisfactory lodgings elsewhere.”
The cool formality of his words made something within me snap.
“For goodness’ sake, Holmes!” I cried.
He winced but turned to face me. The expression on his face was blankly hopeless.
“I’m not leaving unless you ask me to,” I said more quietly. A recollection of having said almost the same on a mountain in Switzerland flitted through my mind. It seemed fitting.
“Now, please. Sit down and listen.”
Stunned, and guided by my hand on his arm, he sat down again in my armchair. I took his own seat some little distance away, and – after a moment’s trepidation – took his hand. My thumb traced circles across his bandaged knuckles.
“You’re being rather silly, you know. To think that I would leave you over a trifle like that.”
“A trifle.” Holmes was looking at me as though I’d declared my intention to marry the Queen. “I… I kissed you, on the lips. I half expected you to punch me. You’re a widower!”
I nodded. “And an old campaigner.”
“Yes, so you keep reminding us all.” My friend seemed unable to keep quiet. Holmes’ long-suffering mutter made me smile in spite of the situation.
“Yes, well, it teaches you things,” I said. Glancing up, I found Holmes looking vaguely amused. I tried to look admonishing, but what I was feeling was more akin to a giddy sort of hope.
“No, not that,” I chastised. “Well. Not that one didn’t hear... But what I mean is, when your friends are dying, there are some things that seem less important.”
Holmes’ smile faded away into gentle sympathy.
“There were lads in the regiment – my patients. I heard a few confessions.” My eyes were on Holmes’ hand. “And what with Wilde… If I ever thought it was morally or biologically aberrant, I’ve long since come to realise that that was prejudice.”
For a moment, silence reigned. Then I heard Holmes’ voice.
“Good old Watson.”
When I raised my eyes, Holmes was studiously averting his own gaze, but his eyes looked bright. I sighed a little, fondly.
“How long have we been friends, Holmes?”
“Eleven years, not counting the three I spent escaping Moriarty’s men,” he replied at once. The fact that he did not need to think about it even for a moment created a small ache in my chest.
“And in those eleven years, did it ever occur to you – even once – that there might be things about me which you had not been able to deduce?”
I had intended the question to be rhetorical, but Holmes surprised me by saying, “yes,” with near-comical solemnity. “In fact,” he admitted, “you are something of a puzzle to me. It’s part of the reason why I – that is to say, it’s a trait I greatly appreciate.”
“In that case,” I said quietly, getting up and leaning over Holmes’ chair to curl a hand around the back of his neck, my words sounding strangled by the nervous hammering of my heart, “would you be terribly opposed if I were to ask you to do that again?”
I thought at first he had not understood me. He simply sat, gazing at me, lips slightly parted. Then he surged up, tilting his head back as I leant down to meet him, and my fingers slipped into his dark hair. I know I closed my eyes, for I recall the sudden sensation of Holmes’ strong hands twisting into the fabric of my shirt at my shoulders and keeping me in place. We broke apart only to breathe.
I was almost surprised when I found myself on Holmes’ lap, but he simply twined his arms around my waist as we sat, foreheads touching, attempting to quiet our dizzy hearts and minds. Listening to the soft sound of Holmes’ breath, I realised something. I pulled back slightly to look him in the eye.
“Holmes?” I murmured.
“Hmm?”
“Is this the reason you’ve hardly spoken two words to me for the past week?”
Holmes actually looked embarrassed. At length he said,
“I had some notion that it might… alleviate the tension, if I were to avoid your company for a while. Not my most brilliant moment, I will admit.”
The pink tint to his cheeks made me laugh softly. Leaning in, I kissed him again, feeling his thin mouth curve under mine as my hands gently carded through his hair.
“And tomorrow?” I insisted, but playfully now. “You will allow me to help you?”
Sherlock Holmes smiled up at me.
“Always.”
Recipient:
rojo3131Author:
desecretsRating: G
Characters: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: brief mentions of war and death
Summary: Things fall into place.
Disclaimer: The gents are in the public domain.
There is no real reason why the following should be set down. It will never see publication, nor indeed be read by anyone but myself. But it seems I cannot stop being Sherlock Holmes’ biographer, even within the confines of my own mind, and I recently realised that I had been composing this narrative piece by piece in my thoughts for some time now. Seeing that I had it all ready, it felt curiously dishonest not to write it down. And there are certain things I have my own reasons for wanting to remember.
Some months ago now, on a rather miserable evening in the autumn of 1895, I was sitting in my chair in front of the dying fire, reading a book and waiting for Holmes to return. The clock on the mantel told me that it was past one in the morning.
We had argued, Holmes and I, earlier on in the week, about his stubborn refusal to allow me to accompany him on his case. He had been avoiding me ever since.
Well, no. That is not quite true. If I am honest, it had seemed to me as if he were avoiding me for quite some time, but it had only ever been a vague suspicion on my part, and with no evidence I knew I should look exceedingly foolish if I tried to voice it. But for the past few days it had become obvious to the point of hilarity.
He had made a point, every day, of rising before me, so that I only ever saw him for half a minute while I was having breakfast, if at all, and he never returned until after I had gone to bed. When we did speak, he was curt and evasive in his manner, and though I knew all too well that I was allowing him to manipulate me through his imperiousness and his excellent knowledge of my own good manners, I could not bring myself to insist upon the point.
In the end I had decided to try to speak to him reasonably when he returned home in the evening, and to apologise for my insistence, but it was beginning to look as if he would be out all night. I’d been nodding over my novel for the last half hour. I was just about to give it up and turn in for the night when I heard the sound of the front door.
About time, I thought, and then sat up a little straighter when I heard Holmes’ steps on the stair. They were quite a bit slower than usual, and he seemed to pause a moment on the landing before he opened the door to our rooms and slipped inside. Then he saw me sitting wide awake in my chair, and he immediately straightened, attempting to assume his usual energetic posture. The effect was ruined by his pale face and the fact that he was swaying on his feet, evidently beyond exhausted.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed, putting aside my book. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine, Watson,” he said breezily, crossing the room and pausing for a moment by the fire to warm his hands. “What are you doing up?”
There was nothing in his manner to indicate that anything was amiss, but close to I could see that his hands were shaking and the knuckles looked red and raw.
“I wanted to speak with you,” I replied hesitantly, “about our disagreement the other day. I meant to apologise. And I really am very sorry for pressing you so, but really, Holmes –” I could not keep quiet any longer – “you must allow me to accompany you, if only for the sake of your own health. This case is clearly wearing you ragged, you look dead on your feet.”
Before I had even finished, it was clear that words had sent him into an unexpected fury. His eyes flashed as he straightened and strode across the room in the direction of his bedroom, but not before delivering one precisely enunciated Parthian shot.
“If I wanted a wet nurse, Watson,” he said coldly, “I would have advertised for one. Surely a man is entitled to decide when he does and does not desire another man’s company.”
Stung, I was opening my mouth to retort when I was distracted by the sight of Holmes abruptly stopping halfway to his door, swaying for a moment, and then falling. I watched for an interminable moment as he grasped for the backrest of the window seat, missed it, and hit the floor, seemingly in a dead faint.
For a second I sat frozen in my chair. Then I sprang to my feet and rushed to his side, feeling for a pulse at his wrist and throat, while panicked thoughts fluttered through head like so many bats. I had assumed he was merely worn out, but could he have ingested poison? Or had he sustained some wound in last few days that I didn’t know about?
Pushing aside the lapels of his jacket, I clumsily unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, but found only pale skin stretched over prominent ribs, and the odd fading bruise. His hands were cold. There were no serious injuries, and nothing seemed to indicate poisoning. I sat back on my heels. Most likely these were simply the symptoms of overexertion, and I was being foolish.
Staring at his thin body like this while he lay unconscious beneath me, I felt inexplicably embarrassed, and quickly rebuttoned his shirt, before going to the sideboard and pouring him a brandy. As I was standing there I heard a faint rustle behind me, and turned to see Holmes just coming to.
I helped him sit up, ignoring the strong twinge in my shoulder, and held the brandy to his lips. He attempted to refuse it at first, but I would not let him.
“Just drink the bloody brandy, Holmes,” I said quietly, relieved that at least my voice was steady even if my mind was still rattled.
“I am fine, Watson, really,” he protested, one hand flapping weakly. “It was just a momentary lapse. You needn’t hover so.”
“Don’t be daft,” I said flatly. He glared at me but there was little force in it, and that more than anything convinced me to stay put.
Putting an arm around him and pulling Holmes’ arm around my own shoulders, I helped him to get to his feet. I could feel his entire body stiffen, but I told myself it hardly mattered – his health was more important than our bickering. Still, I could not help a slight sinking feeling as I glanced at his forbidding profile.
He sat, petulantly, in the armchair I helped him into, and I stood before him with my arms crossed.
“Now,” I said, “you will tell me what that was about, and why you have been pushing yourself to such ridiculous lengths. Because you have, and don’t deny it. Have you even eaten?”
“You are not my nursemaid, Watson,” he said tiredly.
“No,” I agreed, “I’m your doctor.” He grimaced. I added, “And your friend.”
“Nevertheless you’re making far too much of this. Even if I have been a trifle negligent with my meals lately –”
“You just fainted.”
“You know I hardly need food when I’m working.”
“Evidently you do!”
Holmes’ hand came down on the armrest of his chair.
“Watson,” he snapped, “is this really the time?”
I looked him over. He was vexed, yes, but he did not look so much as if he might keel over at any moment, and I decided grimly that he could stay awake a little while longer.
Crossing the room I brought him the plate of sandwiches which Mrs Hudson had made for me a couple of hours earlier, hearing that I intended to wait up. I’d become engrossed in my novel and forgotten all about it. Putting the plate into his hands, I said somewhat curtly,
“Here. Eat something.”
They would no doubt be a little stale now but I was not going to wake the poor woman at one in the morning because Holmes was a picky eater. I was angry with him, I realised as I watched him bite into a sandwich, a long-suffering expression on his face. The emotion caught me somewhat by surprise. Telling Holmes sternly not to move, I went into my own room briefly and fetched my doctor’s bag.
I’d noticed that one of Holmes’ hands – the right – was looking considerably worse than the other, and they would both need cleaning. When he had finished his sandwich I knelt on the floor in front of his chair and took both his hands, gently but firmly swabbing the torn knuckles with antiseptic. Every now and then I could see Holmes’ legs tensing minutely in front of my face, but his hands never moved. They remained between mine, pliant and still slightly cool, as familiar to me in their bony paleness as my own squarer ones. As I wrapped his mangled right hand in gauze I could feel my anger abating slowly, leaving behind only confusion.
“Will you really not tell me about your case?” I asked as I got to my feet, peering at Holmes.
There was some slight colour in his cheeks now, probably from the brandy and sandwiches, though he might just possibly have caught a fever. Whatever his blasted case was, I hoped he had concluded it tonight, and could allow himself to rest.
“I am sorry, Watson,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’m not in any danger. That much I’ll swear to you.”
I nodded resignedly.
“Very well then.”
“May I go now, Doctor?” Holmes asked, just a touch sardonically, and I nodded again.
As he rose, I automatically stepped in to steady him with a hand at his elbow. He attempted to pull free, and somehow we ended up locked for a moment in an awkwardly tangled stance, neither immediately giving way – and just as I had formed the resolution to move and was about to take a step backwards, in the split-second between the thought and the action, Holmes leant in with compulsive quickness and pressed his mouth to mine.
I stumbled back, for a second not entirely convinced that it had truly happened and I was not allowing my admittedly bewildered senses to get the better of me. One look at Holmes told me all I needed to know. The little colour which I had managed to bring back into his narrow face by my grudging care had all gone, leaving him paper white and tense. He very carefully stepped away from me and towards his bedroom door, whilst divesting himself of his jacket with short and graceless movements.
“Holmes,” I said softly. I felt emptied out and helpless and bone tired.
“I must apologise again, Watson,” he said lightly, facing away from me, the set of his shoulders rigid to the point of looking painful. “It appears I’m considerably more worn out than I thought. If you would be so kind as to leave me now, I will get some much needed rest, and tomorrow we can discuss the matter more fully. No doubt you’ll want to terminate our current living arrangements.”
I was too stunned to reply.
“I’m afraid my work requires me to remain in Baker Street,” Holmes went on, “but I assure you I’ll do everything I can to find you satisfactory lodgings elsewhere.”
The cool formality of his words made something within me snap.
“For goodness’ sake, Holmes!” I cried.
He winced but turned to face me. The expression on his face was blankly hopeless.
“I’m not leaving unless you ask me to,” I said more quietly. A recollection of having said almost the same on a mountain in Switzerland flitted through my mind. It seemed fitting.
“Now, please. Sit down and listen.”
Stunned, and guided by my hand on his arm, he sat down again in my armchair. I took his own seat some little distance away, and – after a moment’s trepidation – took his hand. My thumb traced circles across his bandaged knuckles.
“You’re being rather silly, you know. To think that I would leave you over a trifle like that.”
“A trifle.” Holmes was looking at me as though I’d declared my intention to marry the Queen. “I… I kissed you, on the lips. I half expected you to punch me. You’re a widower!”
I nodded. “And an old campaigner.”
“Yes, so you keep reminding us all.” My friend seemed unable to keep quiet. Holmes’ long-suffering mutter made me smile in spite of the situation.
“Yes, well, it teaches you things,” I said. Glancing up, I found Holmes looking vaguely amused. I tried to look admonishing, but what I was feeling was more akin to a giddy sort of hope.
“No, not that,” I chastised. “Well. Not that one didn’t hear... But what I mean is, when your friends are dying, there are some things that seem less important.”
Holmes’ smile faded away into gentle sympathy.
“There were lads in the regiment – my patients. I heard a few confessions.” My eyes were on Holmes’ hand. “And what with Wilde… If I ever thought it was morally or biologically aberrant, I’ve long since come to realise that that was prejudice.”
For a moment, silence reigned. Then I heard Holmes’ voice.
“Good old Watson.”
When I raised my eyes, Holmes was studiously averting his own gaze, but his eyes looked bright. I sighed a little, fondly.
“How long have we been friends, Holmes?”
“Eleven years, not counting the three I spent escaping Moriarty’s men,” he replied at once. The fact that he did not need to think about it even for a moment created a small ache in my chest.
“And in those eleven years, did it ever occur to you – even once – that there might be things about me which you had not been able to deduce?”
I had intended the question to be rhetorical, but Holmes surprised me by saying, “yes,” with near-comical solemnity. “In fact,” he admitted, “you are something of a puzzle to me. It’s part of the reason why I – that is to say, it’s a trait I greatly appreciate.”
“In that case,” I said quietly, getting up and leaning over Holmes’ chair to curl a hand around the back of his neck, my words sounding strangled by the nervous hammering of my heart, “would you be terribly opposed if I were to ask you to do that again?”
I thought at first he had not understood me. He simply sat, gazing at me, lips slightly parted. Then he surged up, tilting his head back as I leant down to meet him, and my fingers slipped into his dark hair. I know I closed my eyes, for I recall the sudden sensation of Holmes’ strong hands twisting into the fabric of my shirt at my shoulders and keeping me in place. We broke apart only to breathe.
I was almost surprised when I found myself on Holmes’ lap, but he simply twined his arms around my waist as we sat, foreheads touching, attempting to quiet our dizzy hearts and minds. Listening to the soft sound of Holmes’ breath, I realised something. I pulled back slightly to look him in the eye.
“Holmes?” I murmured.
“Hmm?”
“Is this the reason you’ve hardly spoken two words to me for the past week?”
Holmes actually looked embarrassed. At length he said,
“I had some notion that it might… alleviate the tension, if I were to avoid your company for a while. Not my most brilliant moment, I will admit.”
The pink tint to his cheeks made me laugh softly. Leaning in, I kissed him again, feeling his thin mouth curve under mine as my hands gently carded through his hair.
“And tomorrow?” I insisted, but playfully now. “You will allow me to help you?”
Sherlock Holmes smiled up at me.
“Always.”
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