(no subject)
Title: Routine
Rating: pg-13
Wordcount: ~1600
Warnings: Gratuitous shirtlessness and wet men ;-) implied smexing. Possible (probable) historical inaccuracies.
Comments: I thought up this ficlet while swimming lengths this morning. When I got home I ran to the computer and banged this out in about an hour, while I should have been revising, so apologies for any mistakes, or if it sounds a bit rushed :-S I did proofread it!
Dedicated to @podicus who's Glee fics have cheered me up during a very stressful time ♥ and also to all the friends who I've managed to convert to slash, as well as those who've converted themselves without my knowlege ;-) ILU!! ^_^
Routine
As much as Holmes may claim to hate it, the lives of the two bachelors living at 221b Baker Street , are dictated and governed by routine.
That is, when they are not working on a case at least. When the game’s afoot, nothing encroaches on the needs of the case, be it the hands of the clock, food, nor even the pull of sleep. That said, for the majority of the time, the detective and the doctor are creatures of habit.
Watson would wake at 8am, breakfast on tea and toast left on the table by Mrs. Hudson, and spend the morning attending to patients. Holmes would rise somewhere between noon and 1 o’clock, and the two would lunch together on whatever stew or other dish cooked by their long-suffering housekeeper. Watson would then return to his patients, while Holmes tinkered away at whatever revolution in medical or forensic science he was working on at the time. Dinner was usually consumed at around 8 o’clock, and then the pair would while away the evening with brandy and pipes, conversation batted lazily between them amidst the rustling of newspapers, case notes and scientific journals, until Watson retired at around midnight. Holmes, who considered himself to be almost nocturnal, usually continued with whatever he was doing, or played his violin until the early hours ofd the morning, before turning in himself.
This daily schedule was punctuated by other routines. For instance, every ten days or so they took in a show or concert. At least once a week (and sometimes much more frequently depending on how long it had been since their last case,) Watson would come home to find Holmes laid out in some drug- or alchohol-induced stupor, and his evening was spent monitoring his condition while Holmes gradually regained conciousness.
And every Tuesday and Friday, without fail, Watson took himself to the local swimming baths, and spent an hour and a half swimming the length of the pool, back and forth, as Holmes watched from the side with his pipe and a broadsheet.
Watson had begun this habit what now felt like a lifetime ago, in that hazy period during his convalescance from the wounds he had sustained in Afghanistan. At the time, it had been the only regular thing left in his life. He found the rhythme soothing, the steady push and pull of muscles and the flow of water along his body as he moved through it.
It also benefitted his recovery: the lack of friction and the low resistance allowing him to stretch and work the damaged muscles in his leg and shoulder without straining them. Even now, the cool water relieved the weight from his leg and lessened the near-constant ache.
As he advanced in age and became less active in other ways, it also served to maintain his physique, a fact he admitted to having some pride in. He knew few people with an occupation as sedentary as his, at his age, who’s waists were as slim and shoulders as broad as his own.
This particular routine carried another with it: every week, Watson would attemp to persuade Holmes to join him in the water. He had no need of it physically, his trips to the punchbowl kept his thin frame wiry and solid with muscle, but Watson could not help feeling that the man, who’s time was taken up by boxing, conducting dangerous experiments and consuming a variety of intoxicating substances, could do with at least one hobby that was not self-destructive.
In a profession such as his, Watson also felt that swimming might also be a useful skill to possess, given that one never knew when one might find themselves falling into water on a chase. The Thames in particular, with its currents and tides, could be very dangerous for a non-swimmer.
But the detective seemed not to agree. Every week his answer was the same:
“I prefer to watch.”
Watson suspected that this unwillingness on Holmes’ part was largely to do with the fact that, aside from medicine, Holmes was unused to being upstaged in…well, anything, and he was unwilling to show this vunerability to anybody, let alone to the general public at the swimming baths.
However, it was during the Blackwood case that Watson was to be proved spectacularly wrong in this suspicion.
Holmes was occupied on the top floor of the houses of parliament, and Watson, Irene Adler, and an old skipper were watching intently from on deck of a launch they had engaged the services of. As on many other occasions, Watson once again found himself wishing that Holmes had divulged his plan before he went running off. How was he planning to get onto the waiting vessel? Perhaps they were meant to be docked on the bank? But no, he had been very explicit in his instructions to wait in the middle of the river.
Watson wondered if he was supposed to be jumping in to tow the detective to their getaway vehicle. He sincerely hoped that this was not the case, the Thames was cold and the water black and murky with silt. He carefully did not think about what else it was likely to contain. Regardless, he stripped to his shirtsleeves, on the offchance that his services would be needed.
It was with a sinking feeling in his gut that he watched the familiar face appear at a window, followed by a body, which crouched on the window ledge for a second. Seeing what was about to happen, he tore his shirt open, cursing as he watched the detective execute an elegant dive, headfirst into the murky waters. For such an intelligent man, he thought grimly, he had the survival instinct of a drunk moth. Discarding the shirt (he’d be damned if he was going to let Holmes ruin ANOTHER one) he leapt onto the side of the vessel, preparing to dive…before seeing Holmes, swimming with long, powerful strokes towards them.
He cut through the water with an efficiency which made the Doctor’s breath catch, both with surprise, and…and with that thing which he did not allow himself to think about. Holmes covered the considerable distance between them in under twenty seconds. Reaching the side of the boat, he trod water, wiping his face and flicking wet strand of hair out of his eyes, before grinning up at Watson, holding his hand out for a lift up.
Watson simply looked down at him, surprise warring with annoyance that he had been upstaged once again, and an amused feeling that he should probably have guessed that this would happen. When would he learn never to underestimate the man?
“You can swim.” He said, amusement finally winning out and curling into his tone. Holmes grinned up at him.
“Of course old boy. I would not have attempted to jump into the river if I could not,” he pointed out reasonably. He wasn’t even out of breath, damn him!
Huffing, Watson grasped the proffered hand, pulling the detective out of the water to stand, dripping onto the deck as the launch started to move downstream. When he looked down, he was disconcerted to find their hands still clasped. The feeling of Holmes’ wet shirt on his skin raised goosebumps on his skin, and he felt a shiver of arousal coil through him. Holmes, watching him carefully, started to grin softly. Watson looked at him, his eyes wide and questioning, afraid that he had finally let slip what he had hidden for so very long.
The silence stretched, and neither moved away.
“You never come swimming with me.” He found himself pointing out, breaking the quiet. He was embarrassed to hear the slightly breathless edge to his voice.
“Like I say,” the depth and cadence of Holmes’ voice brought a blush to his cheeks.
“I prefer to watch.” He had heard this phrase so many times before, but it was with this new emphasis that he finally understood.
He felt a huff of breath against his neck, and caught a wicked glint in his friends eye. Then his hand was released, and the heat of the body against him was gone. He blinked, dazed, before looking over his shoulder. Caught up in the moment, he had quite forgotten that they were not alone. The skipper was studiously looking at his instruments, and Irene Adler was watching him, grinning smugly. His cheeks burned.
“By the way, Watson?” He looked around to where Holmes was towelling himself dry, looking at him curiously. He cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“Watson, what happened to your shirt?”
* * *
Since this episode their routines have changed.
Watson tends to rise a little later, unwilling to leave the embrace of the warm body beside him. They often spend their evenings in a way that involves no brandy or tobacco whatsoever.
They still go to concerts and shows, but Watson is more aware these days of the hand on his leg, and the body pressed against his side, than he is of the music, and Holmes often lays his head against his shoulder as they discuss the show in the cab on the way home.
Watson is infinately gratified to observe that the number of times he arrives home to find Holmes passed out on the floor is vastly reduced (although it still happens, Holmes may love him dearly, but he remains the same tormented genius addict of a man that he always was).
Watson still swims twice a week, and Holmes still accompanies him. But afterwards, Holmes now follows him discreetly into the changing room, and when he emerges he often recieves funny looks, for the front of his shirt is damp, his hair an even greater mess than usual, and his usually pallid cheeks are flushed. Watson emerges ten minutes later, usually in much the same state (though his hair is slightly more tame), and together they head home, to continue their happy routines of domesticity and affection.
♥ ♥ ♥
A/N: Might come back and edit this later, but for now I don't have time :( comments would be even MORE appreciated than usual (if thats possible!!!!) because I have the biggest exams of my life in 2 weeks and I need the pick-me-up! Hope y'all enjoyed ^_^
A/N2: I have no idea if they had swimming baths in Victorian times. If they didn't, then this is in an au when someone who REALLY liked swimming introduced them far earlier than in our universe :)
Rating: pg-13
Wordcount: ~1600
Warnings: Gratuitous shirtlessness and wet men ;-) implied smexing. Possible (probable) historical inaccuracies.
Comments: I thought up this ficlet while swimming lengths this morning. When I got home I ran to the computer and banged this out in about an hour, while I should have been revising, so apologies for any mistakes, or if it sounds a bit rushed :-S I did proofread it!
Dedicated to @podicus who's Glee fics have cheered me up during a very stressful time ♥ and also to all the friends who I've managed to convert to slash, as well as those who've converted themselves without my knowlege ;-) ILU!! ^_^
Routine
As much as Holmes may claim to hate it, the lives of the two bachelors living at 221b Baker Street , are dictated and governed by routine.
That is, when they are not working on a case at least. When the game’s afoot, nothing encroaches on the needs of the case, be it the hands of the clock, food, nor even the pull of sleep. That said, for the majority of the time, the detective and the doctor are creatures of habit.
Watson would wake at 8am, breakfast on tea and toast left on the table by Mrs. Hudson, and spend the morning attending to patients. Holmes would rise somewhere between noon and 1 o’clock, and the two would lunch together on whatever stew or other dish cooked by their long-suffering housekeeper. Watson would then return to his patients, while Holmes tinkered away at whatever revolution in medical or forensic science he was working on at the time. Dinner was usually consumed at around 8 o’clock, and then the pair would while away the evening with brandy and pipes, conversation batted lazily between them amidst the rustling of newspapers, case notes and scientific journals, until Watson retired at around midnight. Holmes, who considered himself to be almost nocturnal, usually continued with whatever he was doing, or played his violin until the early hours ofd the morning, before turning in himself.
This daily schedule was punctuated by other routines. For instance, every ten days or so they took in a show or concert. At least once a week (and sometimes much more frequently depending on how long it had been since their last case,) Watson would come home to find Holmes laid out in some drug- or alchohol-induced stupor, and his evening was spent monitoring his condition while Holmes gradually regained conciousness.
And every Tuesday and Friday, without fail, Watson took himself to the local swimming baths, and spent an hour and a half swimming the length of the pool, back and forth, as Holmes watched from the side with his pipe and a broadsheet.
Watson had begun this habit what now felt like a lifetime ago, in that hazy period during his convalescance from the wounds he had sustained in Afghanistan. At the time, it had been the only regular thing left in his life. He found the rhythme soothing, the steady push and pull of muscles and the flow of water along his body as he moved through it.
It also benefitted his recovery: the lack of friction and the low resistance allowing him to stretch and work the damaged muscles in his leg and shoulder without straining them. Even now, the cool water relieved the weight from his leg and lessened the near-constant ache.
As he advanced in age and became less active in other ways, it also served to maintain his physique, a fact he admitted to having some pride in. He knew few people with an occupation as sedentary as his, at his age, who’s waists were as slim and shoulders as broad as his own.
This particular routine carried another with it: every week, Watson would attemp to persuade Holmes to join him in the water. He had no need of it physically, his trips to the punchbowl kept his thin frame wiry and solid with muscle, but Watson could not help feeling that the man, who’s time was taken up by boxing, conducting dangerous experiments and consuming a variety of intoxicating substances, could do with at least one hobby that was not self-destructive.
In a profession such as his, Watson also felt that swimming might also be a useful skill to possess, given that one never knew when one might find themselves falling into water on a chase. The Thames in particular, with its currents and tides, could be very dangerous for a non-swimmer.
But the detective seemed not to agree. Every week his answer was the same:
“I prefer to watch.”
Watson suspected that this unwillingness on Holmes’ part was largely to do with the fact that, aside from medicine, Holmes was unused to being upstaged in…well, anything, and he was unwilling to show this vunerability to anybody, let alone to the general public at the swimming baths.
However, it was during the Blackwood case that Watson was to be proved spectacularly wrong in this suspicion.
Holmes was occupied on the top floor of the houses of parliament, and Watson, Irene Adler, and an old skipper were watching intently from on deck of a launch they had engaged the services of. As on many other occasions, Watson once again found himself wishing that Holmes had divulged his plan before he went running off. How was he planning to get onto the waiting vessel? Perhaps they were meant to be docked on the bank? But no, he had been very explicit in his instructions to wait in the middle of the river.
Watson wondered if he was supposed to be jumping in to tow the detective to their getaway vehicle. He sincerely hoped that this was not the case, the Thames was cold and the water black and murky with silt. He carefully did not think about what else it was likely to contain. Regardless, he stripped to his shirtsleeves, on the offchance that his services would be needed.
It was with a sinking feeling in his gut that he watched the familiar face appear at a window, followed by a body, which crouched on the window ledge for a second. Seeing what was about to happen, he tore his shirt open, cursing as he watched the detective execute an elegant dive, headfirst into the murky waters. For such an intelligent man, he thought grimly, he had the survival instinct of a drunk moth. Discarding the shirt (he’d be damned if he was going to let Holmes ruin ANOTHER one) he leapt onto the side of the vessel, preparing to dive…before seeing Holmes, swimming with long, powerful strokes towards them.
He cut through the water with an efficiency which made the Doctor’s breath catch, both with surprise, and…and with that thing which he did not allow himself to think about. Holmes covered the considerable distance between them in under twenty seconds. Reaching the side of the boat, he trod water, wiping his face and flicking wet strand of hair out of his eyes, before grinning up at Watson, holding his hand out for a lift up.
Watson simply looked down at him, surprise warring with annoyance that he had been upstaged once again, and an amused feeling that he should probably have guessed that this would happen. When would he learn never to underestimate the man?
“You can swim.” He said, amusement finally winning out and curling into his tone. Holmes grinned up at him.
“Of course old boy. I would not have attempted to jump into the river if I could not,” he pointed out reasonably. He wasn’t even out of breath, damn him!
Huffing, Watson grasped the proffered hand, pulling the detective out of the water to stand, dripping onto the deck as the launch started to move downstream. When he looked down, he was disconcerted to find their hands still clasped. The feeling of Holmes’ wet shirt on his skin raised goosebumps on his skin, and he felt a shiver of arousal coil through him. Holmes, watching him carefully, started to grin softly. Watson looked at him, his eyes wide and questioning, afraid that he had finally let slip what he had hidden for so very long.
The silence stretched, and neither moved away.
“You never come swimming with me.” He found himself pointing out, breaking the quiet. He was embarrassed to hear the slightly breathless edge to his voice.
“Like I say,” the depth and cadence of Holmes’ voice brought a blush to his cheeks.
“I prefer to watch.” He had heard this phrase so many times before, but it was with this new emphasis that he finally understood.
He felt a huff of breath against his neck, and caught a wicked glint in his friends eye. Then his hand was released, and the heat of the body against him was gone. He blinked, dazed, before looking over his shoulder. Caught up in the moment, he had quite forgotten that they were not alone. The skipper was studiously looking at his instruments, and Irene Adler was watching him, grinning smugly. His cheeks burned.
“By the way, Watson?” He looked around to where Holmes was towelling himself dry, looking at him curiously. He cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“Watson, what happened to your shirt?”
* * *
Since this episode their routines have changed.
Watson tends to rise a little later, unwilling to leave the embrace of the warm body beside him. They often spend their evenings in a way that involves no brandy or tobacco whatsoever.
They still go to concerts and shows, but Watson is more aware these days of the hand on his leg, and the body pressed against his side, than he is of the music, and Holmes often lays his head against his shoulder as they discuss the show in the cab on the way home.
Watson is infinately gratified to observe that the number of times he arrives home to find Holmes passed out on the floor is vastly reduced (although it still happens, Holmes may love him dearly, but he remains the same tormented genius addict of a man that he always was).
Watson still swims twice a week, and Holmes still accompanies him. But afterwards, Holmes now follows him discreetly into the changing room, and when he emerges he often recieves funny looks, for the front of his shirt is damp, his hair an even greater mess than usual, and his usually pallid cheeks are flushed. Watson emerges ten minutes later, usually in much the same state (though his hair is slightly more tame), and together they head home, to continue their happy routines of domesticity and affection.
♥ ♥ ♥
A/N: Might come back and edit this later, but for now I don't have time :( comments would be even MORE appreciated than usual (if thats possible!!!!) because I have the biggest exams of my life in 2 weeks and I need the pick-me-up! Hope y'all enjoyed ^_^
A/N2: I have no idea if they had swimming baths in Victorian times. If they didn't, then this is in an au when someone who REALLY liked swimming introduced them far earlier than in our universe :)