Tea Service
Title: Tea Service
Author: the_arc5
Rating: G
Warnings: A weird blend of ACD canon and '09 movieverse. I take liberties with Miss Morstan. (Not those kinds of liberties, you cheeky monkeys.) Americanized spelling.
Summary: There is no greater proof of love than a perfectly prepared cup of tea.
Author's Notes: Fill for the Holmesian kink meme and cure for my insomnia. Prompt: Watson knows how to fix Holmes' tea, and does it without thinking. Holmes' tea preferences change with his mood.
Mrs. Hudson is a very, very efficient woman. She raised three boys, after all, and now she has two more to look after, bless them. Poor Dr. Watson is a dear, putting up with Mr. Holmes and all of his blasted eccentricities, pardon the phrase. Why, the man doesn't even have the decency to feed himself regularly, always up and down with some new "case" or another. Seems to her that battling the evils of mankind ought to come second to keeping body and soul together, even if the wretch does shoot bullet-holes into her wallpaper and hasn't the slightest idea what a paperweight is for. But the good doctor is a fountain of patience, he is. The man ought to be sainted for all he does for Mr. Holmes. And without so much as a thank-you, mind! It was just the other day that she took up the tea things, and there Mr. Holmes was, lying on the settle, looking barely fit to be out of the grave. Dr. Watson took a cup neat as you please, made a dab hand with the milk, and wrapped Mr. Holmes' hands around it.
"Drink up, there's a good fellow," he said, in that gentle way of his. If she weren't nearly old enough to be the man's mother, she'd be fluttering her eyelashes, and no mistake. No matter. Strange as he is, it does her heart good to know that somebody is looking out for Mr. Holmes. Call her old fashioned, if you like, but there's never a better assurance of a good companion than knowing how one takes one's tea.
She resolves to make the good doctor some fresh scones. He deserves them, bless him, even if she knows he'll give more than half to Mr. Holmes.
***
Tea at Scotland Yard is a miserable thing. Lestrade knows this. He sips his miserable tea from a miserable mug in miserable weather with a miserable expression on his face. Today, the whole damned world is miserable, right down to the tea. And having one Sherlock Holmes in his office, smelling of wet wool and too much cleverness, complaining about the miserable tea is just what he needs to add a topping of misery on his miserable existence.
"Oh, for god's sake," Watson mutters, and drops two lumps of sugar into a mug, stirs it briskly, and hands it to Holmes mid-tirade. He stops, sniffs at it, takes a sip, and winces.
"You did try," he grants, and continues explaining to Lestrade how, exactly, he'd bungled the murder investigation. Lestrade sighs. The trouble is, he knows Holmes is right, insufferable as the man is. And he can't help but be a little jealous that Holmes the Raving Lunatic has a friend like Watson, who not only endures his madness...good god, the man ought to be sainted...but knows him so well as to attempt to make Scotland Yard tea palatable. It's unfair, honestly.
Perhaps he'll ask Gregson to join him for a pint when this miserable interview ends. Gregson's no Watson, but he at least knows Lestrade's taste in beer.
***
Mycroft may not have the sense of energy of his younger brother, but he does have eyes, and he knows how to use them, blast it. He can see, for example, that this particular case has kept Sherlock up for at least thirty-six consecutive hours. He can see that Sherlock has disguised himself as a stable hand again. He can see that Sherlock is rather frustrated with the present case, though he hides it beneath a bluster of professionalism that fools most. No matter. Mycroft has known Sherlock his entire life, and they have few secrets left between them.
What does puzzle Mycroft slightly (and he is not a man to be puzzled) is why in heaven's name his brother refuses to acknowledge the good doctor's obvious devotion. While Mycroft would be amiss in labeling the man an invert without more empirical data, his love for Sherlock would be apparent to a blind man, and Mycroft cannot conceive of Dr. John Watson ever abandoning his brother for something so trifling as a spot of sexual deviance. Sherlock has been an unrepentant Mary-Anne from the age of fifteen, of course. Regardless of that particular aspect, though, Mycroft truly does think Sherlock ought to be a bit more appreciative of his "Boswell." Truly, Sherlock drags the poor man from pillar to post, spouting deductions all the while, and thanks to the dubious gift of long association, Mycroft knows that Sherlock has moods that are not to be taken lightly. The man deserves canonization for his longsuffering. Exempli gratia: as Sherlock sits, pouring over the cipher Mycroft has provided, Dr. Watson rises to fetch a cup from the tea-service. He pours the tea, forsaking the cream and sugar, just as Sherlock prefers. The cup is placed in easy reach, but out of the way of the papers and writing implements. Not a word passes between them, but when Sherlock finishes the cipher, the cup is empty. Such devotion to a fellow man's personal habits, comforts, and needs does more than speak to a man's character: it speaks to his heart.
When Sherlock leaves, Mycroft pours his own tea. If Sherlock refuses to take action soon, Mycroft may have to lure the good doctor into interesting criminal pursuits himself.
***
Mary tucks her lip between her teeth. The wedding is less than a month away. She shouldn't have to see this.
But see it she does, and it cannot be undone. After their first disastrous dinner, she, John, and Mr. Holmes have managed two other outings without incident. Mr. Holmes has the capacity to be quite a scintillating dinner companion when it suits him; the advent or promise of a concert improves his conversational prowess immensely. She has grown rather fond of him, in fact.
Yet it is not Mr. Holmes that her eyes are fixed on. He is expounding upon the subject of some composer or another, his expressive hands flourishing through the air...and John...oh, John. John is deftly pouring a cup of tea. Not his, she knows, because he adds too much milk and not enough sugar to the cup. As she fears, he laughs, his attention focused on Mr. Holmes' passionate discourse and gently, casually, slides the saucer across the table.
Henry used to do that for her. The same rapt attention. The same devoted gaze. The same unconscious habit, adopted for her sake.
She endeavors to tell herself she is overreacting. They have been flatmates for years now, surely... She knows that she is lying to herself. Holmes does not reciprocate the gesture, or thank her dear John for it. It is routine. It is an act of love, given and received as steadily as clockwork. Her John is an angel, a saint, but he does not love her like this. He does not adore her so whole-heartedly he can do it as unthinkingly as breathing. That place as object of his unswerving affection is taken.
She dips her head to study her own cup and wonders how she will ever break it off with him.
***
Holmes is an eccentric, a rogue, a genius, and something of a trial, but he is not without feeling. Sometimes I might think so of him, but in truth, I know better. He takes in my appearance, no doubt deducing the most minor trivialities of my day from the knees of my trousers. He is silent for a long moment, then moves to the table to pour a cup of tea, pressing the fragile china into my hand.
"I would give you brandy, but I daresay you've had enough, mother hen," he says wryly.
"I don't think I've had enough, old cock," I reply. The tea is warm, and just to my liking. Holmes reaches for his Stradivarius and tunes it, leaning rakishly against the settle.
"Never mind, Watson," he says kindly, and begins to play, slow and sweet. I allow some of my sadness to dissipate. Sherlock Holmes may be possessed of the devil himself at times, but when he plays, he is a saint. He plays a low, thoughtful note and begins one of my favorite airs, his eyes closed. He knows without asking exactly what I need.
Author: the_arc5
Rating: G
Warnings: A weird blend of ACD canon and '09 movieverse. I take liberties with Miss Morstan. (Not those kinds of liberties, you cheeky monkeys.) Americanized spelling.
Summary: There is no greater proof of love than a perfectly prepared cup of tea.
Author's Notes: Fill for the Holmesian kink meme and cure for my insomnia. Prompt: Watson knows how to fix Holmes' tea, and does it without thinking. Holmes' tea preferences change with his mood.
Mrs. Hudson is a very, very efficient woman. She raised three boys, after all, and now she has two more to look after, bless them. Poor Dr. Watson is a dear, putting up with Mr. Holmes and all of his blasted eccentricities, pardon the phrase. Why, the man doesn't even have the decency to feed himself regularly, always up and down with some new "case" or another. Seems to her that battling the evils of mankind ought to come second to keeping body and soul together, even if the wretch does shoot bullet-holes into her wallpaper and hasn't the slightest idea what a paperweight is for. But the good doctor is a fountain of patience, he is. The man ought to be sainted for all he does for Mr. Holmes. And without so much as a thank-you, mind! It was just the other day that she took up the tea things, and there Mr. Holmes was, lying on the settle, looking barely fit to be out of the grave. Dr. Watson took a cup neat as you please, made a dab hand with the milk, and wrapped Mr. Holmes' hands around it.
"Drink up, there's a good fellow," he said, in that gentle way of his. If she weren't nearly old enough to be the man's mother, she'd be fluttering her eyelashes, and no mistake. No matter. Strange as he is, it does her heart good to know that somebody is looking out for Mr. Holmes. Call her old fashioned, if you like, but there's never a better assurance of a good companion than knowing how one takes one's tea.
She resolves to make the good doctor some fresh scones. He deserves them, bless him, even if she knows he'll give more than half to Mr. Holmes.
***
Tea at Scotland Yard is a miserable thing. Lestrade knows this. He sips his miserable tea from a miserable mug in miserable weather with a miserable expression on his face. Today, the whole damned world is miserable, right down to the tea. And having one Sherlock Holmes in his office, smelling of wet wool and too much cleverness, complaining about the miserable tea is just what he needs to add a topping of misery on his miserable existence.
"Oh, for god's sake," Watson mutters, and drops two lumps of sugar into a mug, stirs it briskly, and hands it to Holmes mid-tirade. He stops, sniffs at it, takes a sip, and winces.
"You did try," he grants, and continues explaining to Lestrade how, exactly, he'd bungled the murder investigation. Lestrade sighs. The trouble is, he knows Holmes is right, insufferable as the man is. And he can't help but be a little jealous that Holmes the Raving Lunatic has a friend like Watson, who not only endures his madness...good god, the man ought to be sainted...but knows him so well as to attempt to make Scotland Yard tea palatable. It's unfair, honestly.
Perhaps he'll ask Gregson to join him for a pint when this miserable interview ends. Gregson's no Watson, but he at least knows Lestrade's taste in beer.
***
Mycroft may not have the sense of energy of his younger brother, but he does have eyes, and he knows how to use them, blast it. He can see, for example, that this particular case has kept Sherlock up for at least thirty-six consecutive hours. He can see that Sherlock has disguised himself as a stable hand again. He can see that Sherlock is rather frustrated with the present case, though he hides it beneath a bluster of professionalism that fools most. No matter. Mycroft has known Sherlock his entire life, and they have few secrets left between them.
What does puzzle Mycroft slightly (and he is not a man to be puzzled) is why in heaven's name his brother refuses to acknowledge the good doctor's obvious devotion. While Mycroft would be amiss in labeling the man an invert without more empirical data, his love for Sherlock would be apparent to a blind man, and Mycroft cannot conceive of Dr. John Watson ever abandoning his brother for something so trifling as a spot of sexual deviance. Sherlock has been an unrepentant Mary-Anne from the age of fifteen, of course. Regardless of that particular aspect, though, Mycroft truly does think Sherlock ought to be a bit more appreciative of his "Boswell." Truly, Sherlock drags the poor man from pillar to post, spouting deductions all the while, and thanks to the dubious gift of long association, Mycroft knows that Sherlock has moods that are not to be taken lightly. The man deserves canonization for his longsuffering. Exempli gratia: as Sherlock sits, pouring over the cipher Mycroft has provided, Dr. Watson rises to fetch a cup from the tea-service. He pours the tea, forsaking the cream and sugar, just as Sherlock prefers. The cup is placed in easy reach, but out of the way of the papers and writing implements. Not a word passes between them, but when Sherlock finishes the cipher, the cup is empty. Such devotion to a fellow man's personal habits, comforts, and needs does more than speak to a man's character: it speaks to his heart.
When Sherlock leaves, Mycroft pours his own tea. If Sherlock refuses to take action soon, Mycroft may have to lure the good doctor into interesting criminal pursuits himself.
***
Mary tucks her lip between her teeth. The wedding is less than a month away. She shouldn't have to see this.
But see it she does, and it cannot be undone. After their first disastrous dinner, she, John, and Mr. Holmes have managed two other outings without incident. Mr. Holmes has the capacity to be quite a scintillating dinner companion when it suits him; the advent or promise of a concert improves his conversational prowess immensely. She has grown rather fond of him, in fact.
Yet it is not Mr. Holmes that her eyes are fixed on. He is expounding upon the subject of some composer or another, his expressive hands flourishing through the air...and John...oh, John. John is deftly pouring a cup of tea. Not his, she knows, because he adds too much milk and not enough sugar to the cup. As she fears, he laughs, his attention focused on Mr. Holmes' passionate discourse and gently, casually, slides the saucer across the table.
Henry used to do that for her. The same rapt attention. The same devoted gaze. The same unconscious habit, adopted for her sake.
She endeavors to tell herself she is overreacting. They have been flatmates for years now, surely... She knows that she is lying to herself. Holmes does not reciprocate the gesture, or thank her dear John for it. It is routine. It is an act of love, given and received as steadily as clockwork. Her John is an angel, a saint, but he does not love her like this. He does not adore her so whole-heartedly he can do it as unthinkingly as breathing. That place as object of his unswerving affection is taken.
She dips her head to study her own cup and wonders how she will ever break it off with him.
***
Holmes is an eccentric, a rogue, a genius, and something of a trial, but he is not without feeling. Sometimes I might think so of him, but in truth, I know better. He takes in my appearance, no doubt deducing the most minor trivialities of my day from the knees of my trousers. He is silent for a long moment, then moves to the table to pour a cup of tea, pressing the fragile china into my hand.
"I would give you brandy, but I daresay you've had enough, mother hen," he says wryly.
"I don't think I've had enough, old cock," I reply. The tea is warm, and just to my liking. Holmes reaches for his Stradivarius and tunes it, leaning rakishly against the settle.
"Never mind, Watson," he says kindly, and begins to play, slow and sweet. I allow some of my sadness to dissipate. Sherlock Holmes may be possessed of the devil himself at times, but when he plays, he is a saint. He plays a low, thoughtful note and begins one of my favorite airs, his eyes closed. He knows without asking exactly what I need.