Fic for Hippocrates460: Found Family, PG
Mar. 25th, 2020 10:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spacemutineer posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
acdholmesfestTitle: Found Family
Recipient:hippocrates460
Author: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Watson/Holmes, Mrs. Hudson
Warnings: no warnings
Labels: domestic fluff, food as a love language, family, romantic but not erotic
Summary: Sometimes family is a landlady that teaches you to cook and a consulting detective that only takes a few decades to figure out how to speak your love language.
Disclaimer: it's a good thing Doyle wasn't a dentist or he'd have to treat everyone for cavities for reading this.
It had become John Watson's habit to take Sunday dinner at the large table that dominated Mrs. Hudson's kitchen at the back of the ground floor of 221 Baker Street. The first time he had done so was a few months after he'd moved in to 221B. She had failed to deliver tea at her usual hour to the sitting room and so he had worked up the courage to descend the seventeen steps to investigate as to why she had failed to appear when expected. He'd stammered apologies before haltingly asking when tea might be served after she answered his knock, clearly surprised and curious to see him.
But instead of answering as he had expected, she instead opened the door to her apartment wider. "You'd best come in, Doctor. Mr. Holmes had said there was no need for tea today, but I see he's neglected to take you into account when deciding such things," she had said.
"Ah," he'd only been able to reply as he accepted her invitation in. She led the way to a bright and sunny kitchen, table scrubbed clean and set with a simple and small Sunday roast with vegetables, potatoes, and a pudding. She pulled an extra plate from the cupboard and waved him in the direction of a stool.
"Might as well eat here," she said, setting the plate down at the table. He dragged the stool across the floor and carefully perched on it. "I'm not carrying all this up there only to have to carry it all back down again. I gave my girl the afternoon off."
Watson waited until she'd served herself before carefully taking a slightly smaller portion for himself. He caught her appraising look and offered her a small smile. She didn't return it, but her silence didn't feel stilted or awkward. Watson couldn't help but fill the quiet with comments and observations here and there, probably far more than Mrs. Hudson would have preferred, but by the end of the meal she would offer him a small smile or a non-committal noise of inquiry or agreement whenever he said something. Still, he worried at his intrusion into her space and could not help but feel guilty, despite no evidence that she was at all bothered by it, that he had done so.
However, two weeks later Holmes had disappeared again for the afternoon about the time tea was to be served. Mrs. Hudson knocked on the sitting room door and entered at Watson's call. She did not carry a laden tray of food as Watson was expecting, but instead folded her hands carefully in front of her waist and invited him to eat downstairs if he wished.
To be honest, he was a bit startled at the invitation. Over the past dozen days or so, he'd convinced himself that he had been terribly rude to intrude on his landlady' private sanctum like that and had nearly plucked up the courage to apologize. In fact, he'd been nearly ready to rouse himself to go down to take supper in his club as the lack of food at a quarter past Mrs. Hudson's normal hour to serve tea had made him realize that Holmes had very likely told her not to bother.
Desperately not wanting to offend, he accepted and found himself once again enjoying a rather delicious roast and pudding at his landlady's large kitchen table. This time, Mrs. Hudson offered a small comment or two of her own and seemed more congenial in general if still distant and quiet overall. This time, he felt less like he was intruding.
That sunny summer Sunday afternoon was the second supper in what became a tradition for the two of them. At first, their conversation was practically non-existent before it grew polite but stilted. But Watson's naturally easygoing personality and Mrs. Hudson's no-nonsense but practical sensibility found a balance and by the following summer, Watson considered Mrs. Hudson amongst his friends. He suspected that in addition to be a fairly quiet and reserved woman, Mrs. Hudson kept to herself for propriety's sake as well. There was no Mr. Hudson at 221 and Watson had no inclination to ask - although he was quite sure Holmes had long since deduced the information and Mrs. Hudson had a ready answer whether it was true or not. An independent woman of means was a target for the less scrupulous, and even those who meant well but had no respect for someone valuing their independence and freedom. Watson certainly had grown to understand the challenges such women faced in the world even from those that they called friends - plenty had darkened the doorway of 221B and shared their tales of struggle and strife with Holmes while asking for his help.
Holmes was never invited to dinner, and to Watson's immense relief not once had indicated that he felt in any way left out by a lack of invitation. Watson wasn't sure what he'd do if he'd felt obligated to allow Holmes to insert himself into what was, in it's own way, one of the highlights of his week. It was a relief to share a chuckle over an anecdote with someone who knew his roommate so well and who would not judge either one of them for the reasons why Watson tolerated all manner of nonsense in his sitting room. Watson suspected now, in hindsight, that Mrs. Hudson understood his reasons long before he ever did.
After the first time he had taken Sunday tea with Mrs. Hudson while Holmes himself was home, he haltingly suggested he take a plate up to Holmes as an apology for, well, he wasn't sure, she scoffed at him.
"That man would die of starvation before he ate a plate of roast vegetables in gravy," she'd exclaimed.
Watson had opened his mouth to protest before it struck him sharp and quick, like a jezail bullet, that Mrs. Hudson was quite likely correct. He'd long since become familiar with the ways that his friend treated food as simply a requirement to ensure that the body that housed his immense brain stayed alive to, well, run it, but it wasn't until Mrs. Hudson pointed out that he noticed that Holmes was also quite particular about what food he allowed to pass his lips. No wonder his friend despaired at Watson's ability to observe.
"But he loves-" Watson was cut off by Mrs. Hudson's raised eyebrow.
"That man loathes a roast," she scoffed. "Lamb in mint sauce, veal cutlets, braised salmon, roast duck, curried chicken, and baked haddock. But a roast? No."
Watson was shocked to realize that Mrs. Hudson may very well be quite right and he very wrong about Holmes's habits, and he resolved to observe more closely. So observe he did, because along with his growing familiarity with his landlady, Watson had developed a deep affection for the man he shared rooms with. The two feelings couldn't be more different. Although he did not, nor had he ever had a sister, Watson supposed what he felt for Mrs. Hudson was akin to what a younger brother might feel for an indulgent older sister. Mrs. Hudson was warmth, happiness, and ease. Holmes, on the other hand was fire, passion, and excitement. Watson reveled in the feelings around both - hedonistic and indulgent.
He learned, about a year later, that Holmes would resort to eating a roast, but only when it was pressed upon him by a very desperate and concerned Watson, it was the only thing the small Yorkshire inn they were lodging at was serving that day, and Holmes had not eaten in three whole days while chasing down a horse thief. The next morning, when they were presented with the cold congealed leftovers of the previous night's dinner and Watson took in Holmes' look of disgust, Watson begged pickled egg and toast off the innkeeper. Even Watson had a difficult time eating that particular roast.
~
Nothing quite matched the feeling of accompanying Holmes on cases, and Watson's favorites were those that involved investigations that sent them scrambling through London's dark mews and lanes or across windswept moors or coastal cliffs. After Afghanistan, Watson never thought he'd crave adventure again, having had quite enough of it thanks to His Majesty's Royal Fusiliers. But Holmes had awakened something again in Watson that grinned with an eager mania as he chased after clues at Holmes's side. They thrived in the strange life he had built for themselves at 221B Baker Street.
To his surprise, Watson found a confidant and true friend in Mrs. Hudson as well. He'd attempted to explain Holmes to one of Watson's many friends at his officer's club, but had either been met by outright incredulity or skeptical disgust. He had become so sensitive to the feeling that he had to both explain and defend his friend that eventually he gave in and simply offered the same sanitized and highly edited version of his life that he provided to his agent, Doyle, when pressed to talk about his infamous companion. But he never needed to defend his exasperation to Mrs. Hudson, and they shared many chuckles over the actions of their house's third occupant.
When Holmes died, Watson was immensely grateful for the relationship he had forged with Mrs. Hudson. He was grief-stricken and barely functional for weeks after his return from Switzerland. He invented himself a literary wife so as to not be tempted to pour his pain out through the ink onto the page and lay bare a soul that felt half dead. He drank tea and choked on tears at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table and was comforted by her steady, quiet presence.
It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that she too would grieve the loss of Holmes, and when he emerged from his stupor and caught up with the world that had continued to exist around him, he tried his best to make it up to her. She smiled at him and told him she was well situated, thanks to the elder Holmes brother, and would not need to take on a new lodger for a good while yet. He learned to cook, and the two maids of all work that Mrs. Hudson employed to help keep the house most certainly found it amusing to see the sandy haired doctor with an apron, sleeves rolled up, wielding a knife expertly on vegetables, pastries, and meats.
She was a patient teacher and Watson despaired that he was not the type to fall in love with women otherwise he might have found himself half in love with her. He'd once, haltingly, asked her about companionship and she'd smiled at him as if he'd missed something obvious, shook her head, and changed the subject. He wouldn't call the three years that Holmes was dead happy ones, but Watson found happiness of a kind at 221 Baker Street.
Holmes returned from the dead and so too were resurrected the patterns of their life before. There were cases with Holmes and Sunday roasts with Mrs. Hudson and Watson was happy for many years. But time passed and eventually Mrs. Hudson's discussions about retiring became more concrete and less hypothetical until one day she told Watson, over an American style pie he had made, that she had finally decided not to sell 221, but rather would let her niece inherit the townhouse while she relocated to some place cleaner and quieter. Even Holmes spoke about life at a slower pace, catching Watson off guard as he discussed leaving his beloved London for a cottage on the South Downs. Watson ignored him until the point where he was very nearly caught off guard by the appearance of crates to pack away Holmes's extensive library. Not yet ready to leave London yet himself, Watson let a house in Kensington and maintained a small practice and a slightly larger charity round in the east end for a few years, spending his holidays with Holmes at the cottage. Without Mrs. Hudson's kitchen or anyone to appreciate his cooking, he found that he missed his Sunday roasts.
The kitchen in Holmes's cottage was always well stocked when he came for a visit. A woman came from the village three days a week to cook and clean for Holmes, but when he was on his own, all he ever seemed capable of preparing was toast and tea. It didn't take long before Watson found himself one evening gathering the ingredients together to make them both a simple dish of baked fish and garden vegetables. Although not much of a baker, he managed a simple shortbread biscuit and they ate far too many of them after dinner, drizzled with honey from Holmes's hives.
Watson had long since made his peace with the fact that he had fallen in love with a man incapable of loving him in return. Oh, he was quite aware that Holmes loved him, but they loved each other differently. Watson never felt as if anything were missing. He had Mrs. Hudson and he had Sherlock Holmes and that was enough for him. He did not share his bed with anyone, but the warmth of the kitchen table, the sitting room at 221B, and in the kitchen garden of a seaside cottage in the South Downs, he had found his family. He asked if Holmes might be willing to take on a lodger here in this cottage. Part time at first, but after a year or so, perhaps permanently. Holmes lit up in a way Watson was unsure if he'd ever seen before and agreed readily, nearly tripping over his words as he did so.
Then, one Sunday, he arrived on the afternoon train. Holmes did not meet him at the station, but Watson walked the easy two miles to the cottage and let himself in the back door. The sight of a large roast complete with vegetables and potatoes and simply drowning in rich fragrant gravy arrested him in the doorway.
"What is this?" Watson asked, staring in wonderment.
"Sunday dinner," Holmes replied, as if unsure as to how Watson had missed something so obvious.
"But you hate roasts," Watson said, eyebrows knitting in confusion as he looked at Holmes.
Holmes shrugged and looked unsure of himself. "You do not."
Watson dropped his bag and rested his shoulder against the doorway, floored by the gesture. He hadn't thought Holmes had noticed, or had noticed that he had noticed, or had even cared one whit about food except when Watson pressed it upon him.
"But, I don't understand."
Holmes wrung his hands in front of him. "You cook for me," he said, haltingly. Then he gestured to the table. "I thought I would do the same for you."
It didn't mean the same thing, surely it couldn't mean the same thing. He looked up at Holmes, terrified his heart would break right there, over a Sunday roast. Holmes smiled at him, one of his rare shy grins, and he shrugged, cheeks turning pink.
Watson took a step forward, then another one and another one and another one. Until he was toe to toe with Holmes.
"Did you really?" Watson asked in a whisper.
Holmes nodded. "To be pedantic, I arranged," he answered. "But to be poetic, yes."
Watson breathed out a laugh. "But-"
Holmes leaned forward and pressed his lips to Watson's. The kiss was tentative, dry, and far too brief, but sweet all the same. Watson returned the kiss with one of his own. Holmes kissed him again, and they spent an embarrassingly long time there in the kitchen beside a roast growing cold, trading gentle kisses.
Finally, Watson stepped away. "I will cook for you," he said, decisively.
"I love your cooking," Holmes replied.
"It won't be Sunday roasts if you don't want them. I know you do not care for them," Watson said, reaching for Holmes's hand. He caught it and pressed his fingers to his lips.
"You're right, but I know how much you love them. So on occasion..." Holmes trailed off with a shrug.
Watson searched Holmes's face. "You don't have to," he whispered.
Holmes smiled at him. "No, but I want to. Come home, Watson, it's time."
"Yes, Holmes."
It became their habit to take a full Sunday dinner, lovingly prepared by Watson with as much food directly from their garden as possible every week. Holmes would eat sparingly even during their happiest times, but on Sundays, they sat down together at the kitchen table, read the newspaper or their correspondence and took in a full meal. Watson limited his roasts to those provided by the pub in town.
Recipient:
hippocrates460Author: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Watson/Holmes, Mrs. Hudson
Warnings: no warnings
Labels: domestic fluff, food as a love language, family, romantic but not erotic
Summary: Sometimes family is a landlady that teaches you to cook and a consulting detective that only takes a few decades to figure out how to speak your love language.
Disclaimer: it's a good thing Doyle wasn't a dentist or he'd have to treat everyone for cavities for reading this.
It had become John Watson's habit to take Sunday dinner at the large table that dominated Mrs. Hudson's kitchen at the back of the ground floor of 221 Baker Street. The first time he had done so was a few months after he'd moved in to 221B. She had failed to deliver tea at her usual hour to the sitting room and so he had worked up the courage to descend the seventeen steps to investigate as to why she had failed to appear when expected. He'd stammered apologies before haltingly asking when tea might be served after she answered his knock, clearly surprised and curious to see him.
But instead of answering as he had expected, she instead opened the door to her apartment wider. "You'd best come in, Doctor. Mr. Holmes had said there was no need for tea today, but I see he's neglected to take you into account when deciding such things," she had said.
"Ah," he'd only been able to reply as he accepted her invitation in. She led the way to a bright and sunny kitchen, table scrubbed clean and set with a simple and small Sunday roast with vegetables, potatoes, and a pudding. She pulled an extra plate from the cupboard and waved him in the direction of a stool.
"Might as well eat here," she said, setting the plate down at the table. He dragged the stool across the floor and carefully perched on it. "I'm not carrying all this up there only to have to carry it all back down again. I gave my girl the afternoon off."
Watson waited until she'd served herself before carefully taking a slightly smaller portion for himself. He caught her appraising look and offered her a small smile. She didn't return it, but her silence didn't feel stilted or awkward. Watson couldn't help but fill the quiet with comments and observations here and there, probably far more than Mrs. Hudson would have preferred, but by the end of the meal she would offer him a small smile or a non-committal noise of inquiry or agreement whenever he said something. Still, he worried at his intrusion into her space and could not help but feel guilty, despite no evidence that she was at all bothered by it, that he had done so.
However, two weeks later Holmes had disappeared again for the afternoon about the time tea was to be served. Mrs. Hudson knocked on the sitting room door and entered at Watson's call. She did not carry a laden tray of food as Watson was expecting, but instead folded her hands carefully in front of her waist and invited him to eat downstairs if he wished.
To be honest, he was a bit startled at the invitation. Over the past dozen days or so, he'd convinced himself that he had been terribly rude to intrude on his landlady' private sanctum like that and had nearly plucked up the courage to apologize. In fact, he'd been nearly ready to rouse himself to go down to take supper in his club as the lack of food at a quarter past Mrs. Hudson's normal hour to serve tea had made him realize that Holmes had very likely told her not to bother.
Desperately not wanting to offend, he accepted and found himself once again enjoying a rather delicious roast and pudding at his landlady's large kitchen table. This time, Mrs. Hudson offered a small comment or two of her own and seemed more congenial in general if still distant and quiet overall. This time, he felt less like he was intruding.
That sunny summer Sunday afternoon was the second supper in what became a tradition for the two of them. At first, their conversation was practically non-existent before it grew polite but stilted. But Watson's naturally easygoing personality and Mrs. Hudson's no-nonsense but practical sensibility found a balance and by the following summer, Watson considered Mrs. Hudson amongst his friends. He suspected that in addition to be a fairly quiet and reserved woman, Mrs. Hudson kept to herself for propriety's sake as well. There was no Mr. Hudson at 221 and Watson had no inclination to ask - although he was quite sure Holmes had long since deduced the information and Mrs. Hudson had a ready answer whether it was true or not. An independent woman of means was a target for the less scrupulous, and even those who meant well but had no respect for someone valuing their independence and freedom. Watson certainly had grown to understand the challenges such women faced in the world even from those that they called friends - plenty had darkened the doorway of 221B and shared their tales of struggle and strife with Holmes while asking for his help.
Holmes was never invited to dinner, and to Watson's immense relief not once had indicated that he felt in any way left out by a lack of invitation. Watson wasn't sure what he'd do if he'd felt obligated to allow Holmes to insert himself into what was, in it's own way, one of the highlights of his week. It was a relief to share a chuckle over an anecdote with someone who knew his roommate so well and who would not judge either one of them for the reasons why Watson tolerated all manner of nonsense in his sitting room. Watson suspected now, in hindsight, that Mrs. Hudson understood his reasons long before he ever did.
After the first time he had taken Sunday tea with Mrs. Hudson while Holmes himself was home, he haltingly suggested he take a plate up to Holmes as an apology for, well, he wasn't sure, she scoffed at him.
"That man would die of starvation before he ate a plate of roast vegetables in gravy," she'd exclaimed.
Watson had opened his mouth to protest before it struck him sharp and quick, like a jezail bullet, that Mrs. Hudson was quite likely correct. He'd long since become familiar with the ways that his friend treated food as simply a requirement to ensure that the body that housed his immense brain stayed alive to, well, run it, but it wasn't until Mrs. Hudson pointed out that he noticed that Holmes was also quite particular about what food he allowed to pass his lips. No wonder his friend despaired at Watson's ability to observe.
"But he loves-" Watson was cut off by Mrs. Hudson's raised eyebrow.
"That man loathes a roast," she scoffed. "Lamb in mint sauce, veal cutlets, braised salmon, roast duck, curried chicken, and baked haddock. But a roast? No."
Watson was shocked to realize that Mrs. Hudson may very well be quite right and he very wrong about Holmes's habits, and he resolved to observe more closely. So observe he did, because along with his growing familiarity with his landlady, Watson had developed a deep affection for the man he shared rooms with. The two feelings couldn't be more different. Although he did not, nor had he ever had a sister, Watson supposed what he felt for Mrs. Hudson was akin to what a younger brother might feel for an indulgent older sister. Mrs. Hudson was warmth, happiness, and ease. Holmes, on the other hand was fire, passion, and excitement. Watson reveled in the feelings around both - hedonistic and indulgent.
He learned, about a year later, that Holmes would resort to eating a roast, but only when it was pressed upon him by a very desperate and concerned Watson, it was the only thing the small Yorkshire inn they were lodging at was serving that day, and Holmes had not eaten in three whole days while chasing down a horse thief. The next morning, when they were presented with the cold congealed leftovers of the previous night's dinner and Watson took in Holmes' look of disgust, Watson begged pickled egg and toast off the innkeeper. Even Watson had a difficult time eating that particular roast.
~
Nothing quite matched the feeling of accompanying Holmes on cases, and Watson's favorites were those that involved investigations that sent them scrambling through London's dark mews and lanes or across windswept moors or coastal cliffs. After Afghanistan, Watson never thought he'd crave adventure again, having had quite enough of it thanks to His Majesty's Royal Fusiliers. But Holmes had awakened something again in Watson that grinned with an eager mania as he chased after clues at Holmes's side. They thrived in the strange life he had built for themselves at 221B Baker Street.
To his surprise, Watson found a confidant and true friend in Mrs. Hudson as well. He'd attempted to explain Holmes to one of Watson's many friends at his officer's club, but had either been met by outright incredulity or skeptical disgust. He had become so sensitive to the feeling that he had to both explain and defend his friend that eventually he gave in and simply offered the same sanitized and highly edited version of his life that he provided to his agent, Doyle, when pressed to talk about his infamous companion. But he never needed to defend his exasperation to Mrs. Hudson, and they shared many chuckles over the actions of their house's third occupant.
When Holmes died, Watson was immensely grateful for the relationship he had forged with Mrs. Hudson. He was grief-stricken and barely functional for weeks after his return from Switzerland. He invented himself a literary wife so as to not be tempted to pour his pain out through the ink onto the page and lay bare a soul that felt half dead. He drank tea and choked on tears at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table and was comforted by her steady, quiet presence.
It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that she too would grieve the loss of Holmes, and when he emerged from his stupor and caught up with the world that had continued to exist around him, he tried his best to make it up to her. She smiled at him and told him she was well situated, thanks to the elder Holmes brother, and would not need to take on a new lodger for a good while yet. He learned to cook, and the two maids of all work that Mrs. Hudson employed to help keep the house most certainly found it amusing to see the sandy haired doctor with an apron, sleeves rolled up, wielding a knife expertly on vegetables, pastries, and meats.
She was a patient teacher and Watson despaired that he was not the type to fall in love with women otherwise he might have found himself half in love with her. He'd once, haltingly, asked her about companionship and she'd smiled at him as if he'd missed something obvious, shook her head, and changed the subject. He wouldn't call the three years that Holmes was dead happy ones, but Watson found happiness of a kind at 221 Baker Street.
Holmes returned from the dead and so too were resurrected the patterns of their life before. There were cases with Holmes and Sunday roasts with Mrs. Hudson and Watson was happy for many years. But time passed and eventually Mrs. Hudson's discussions about retiring became more concrete and less hypothetical until one day she told Watson, over an American style pie he had made, that she had finally decided not to sell 221, but rather would let her niece inherit the townhouse while she relocated to some place cleaner and quieter. Even Holmes spoke about life at a slower pace, catching Watson off guard as he discussed leaving his beloved London for a cottage on the South Downs. Watson ignored him until the point where he was very nearly caught off guard by the appearance of crates to pack away Holmes's extensive library. Not yet ready to leave London yet himself, Watson let a house in Kensington and maintained a small practice and a slightly larger charity round in the east end for a few years, spending his holidays with Holmes at the cottage. Without Mrs. Hudson's kitchen or anyone to appreciate his cooking, he found that he missed his Sunday roasts.
The kitchen in Holmes's cottage was always well stocked when he came for a visit. A woman came from the village three days a week to cook and clean for Holmes, but when he was on his own, all he ever seemed capable of preparing was toast and tea. It didn't take long before Watson found himself one evening gathering the ingredients together to make them both a simple dish of baked fish and garden vegetables. Although not much of a baker, he managed a simple shortbread biscuit and they ate far too many of them after dinner, drizzled with honey from Holmes's hives.
Watson had long since made his peace with the fact that he had fallen in love with a man incapable of loving him in return. Oh, he was quite aware that Holmes loved him, but they loved each other differently. Watson never felt as if anything were missing. He had Mrs. Hudson and he had Sherlock Holmes and that was enough for him. He did not share his bed with anyone, but the warmth of the kitchen table, the sitting room at 221B, and in the kitchen garden of a seaside cottage in the South Downs, he had found his family. He asked if Holmes might be willing to take on a lodger here in this cottage. Part time at first, but after a year or so, perhaps permanently. Holmes lit up in a way Watson was unsure if he'd ever seen before and agreed readily, nearly tripping over his words as he did so.
Then, one Sunday, he arrived on the afternoon train. Holmes did not meet him at the station, but Watson walked the easy two miles to the cottage and let himself in the back door. The sight of a large roast complete with vegetables and potatoes and simply drowning in rich fragrant gravy arrested him in the doorway.
"What is this?" Watson asked, staring in wonderment.
"Sunday dinner," Holmes replied, as if unsure as to how Watson had missed something so obvious.
"But you hate roasts," Watson said, eyebrows knitting in confusion as he looked at Holmes.
Holmes shrugged and looked unsure of himself. "You do not."
Watson dropped his bag and rested his shoulder against the doorway, floored by the gesture. He hadn't thought Holmes had noticed, or had noticed that he had noticed, or had even cared one whit about food except when Watson pressed it upon him.
"But, I don't understand."
Holmes wrung his hands in front of him. "You cook for me," he said, haltingly. Then he gestured to the table. "I thought I would do the same for you."
It didn't mean the same thing, surely it couldn't mean the same thing. He looked up at Holmes, terrified his heart would break right there, over a Sunday roast. Holmes smiled at him, one of his rare shy grins, and he shrugged, cheeks turning pink.
Watson took a step forward, then another one and another one and another one. Until he was toe to toe with Holmes.
"Did you really?" Watson asked in a whisper.
Holmes nodded. "To be pedantic, I arranged," he answered. "But to be poetic, yes."
Watson breathed out a laugh. "But-"
Holmes leaned forward and pressed his lips to Watson's. The kiss was tentative, dry, and far too brief, but sweet all the same. Watson returned the kiss with one of his own. Holmes kissed him again, and they spent an embarrassingly long time there in the kitchen beside a roast growing cold, trading gentle kisses.
Finally, Watson stepped away. "I will cook for you," he said, decisively.
"I love your cooking," Holmes replied.
"It won't be Sunday roasts if you don't want them. I know you do not care for them," Watson said, reaching for Holmes's hand. He caught it and pressed his fingers to his lips.
"You're right, but I know how much you love them. So on occasion..." Holmes trailed off with a shrug.
Watson searched Holmes's face. "You don't have to," he whispered.
Holmes smiled at him. "No, but I want to. Come home, Watson, it's time."
"Yes, Holmes."
It became their habit to take a full Sunday dinner, lovingly prepared by Watson with as much food directly from their garden as possible every week. Holmes would eat sparingly even during their happiest times, but on Sundays, they sat down together at the kitchen table, read the newspaper or their correspondence and took in a full meal. Watson limited his roasts to those provided by the pub in town.
no subject
Date: 2020-03-25 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-03-25 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-03-27 02:20 pm (UTC)What a line!!! What a perfect summary of a love story, of affection and care, and a love language that is very much mine also. Holmes is so shiny in Watson's POV like this, just him, beloved for all that he is. It's not hard to imagine what Holmes may have been thinking all this time. And Mrs Hudson, excellent mlm wlw solidarity vibes here for sure.
Thank you for this lovely tale of carving out a space just large enough for your whole world to fit into. Thank you for making it for me, and for making it with such obvious love for Watson, Holmes, and Mrs Hudson.
no subject
Date: 2020-03-29 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-03-29 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-03-31 06:56 pm (UTC)I really enjoy how Holmes is willing to accommodate Watson's preferences and then Watson makes it so Holmes doesn't need to.