Ficlet (gen, Sherlock Holmes): The Black Dog
Story title: The Black Dog
Author: Amedia
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (book-verse)
Characters: Holmes, Watson, the Hound
Ship: None. It's gen. No, really.
Summary: The Hound has been defeated on the moors, but it rages again in Holmes's dreams.
Word Count: 606
Author's note: Inspired by one of
theemdash’s responses to my request for ficlet prompts, which came in the form of Wizard Rock lyrics: “When the moon’s come and I’m certain that I’ve died/As the black dog you’ll be lying by my side.” Theemdash kindly gave me a great deal of latitude--and I took it!
To all outside observers, Holmes had taken the uncanny events surrounding our investigation into the death of Sir Charles Baskerville completely in stride. I alone knew that his disciplined mind betrayed him at night, putting forward, over and over again, the image of that devilish hound. I alone knew that the keen imagination that allowed him to extrapolate possible answers to a puzzle and come up with solutions of which none other had dreamed, engaged its brilliance toward the manufacture of nightmares.
Night after night, I lay in my bed hearing cries from the next room, as Holmes sought to warn the victims, real and imagined, of the terrible hound. “Sir Charles! Sir Henry!” He even tried the save the dastardly murderer, for whom he imagined an even crueller-albeit, in my mind, more fitting-death than the one he had suffered.
For my part, I tried to balance my concern for my friend’s misery with my sensitivity to his self-regard. I asked at breakfast, after the first night, whether he had slept well, and received a curt affirmative that left no opening for further inquiry. But knowing that he slept with the black dog by his side troubled me. His face grew paler and more accented by shadows every morning.
The fourth night, I was resolved to take action. I would expel that creature from his bed. I waited until I heard the first cries, “The hound! The hound!” Then I left my room to go to his, to awaken him from the nightmare. As I reached for the handle of the door, I heard him cry out to warn that night’s victim, in a voice that spoke less of fear than of heartrending anguish. “Watson!”
I bolted into the room and set my candle on the nightstand. A shaft of moonlight through the curtains illuminated the sleeper, still in the grip of the fiend who was trying to destroy everyone Holmes was sworn to protect. Even as I stood beside him, he called out again, “No! Watson!”
I sat on the edge of the bed and took one of his cold hands in mine. “I’m here, Holmes. It’s all right. You were having a bad dream.”
Holmes opened his eyes slowly. I felt his hand begin to grip mine, and he reached up with the other hand to place it on my arm. “Are you real?” he asked huskily.
I put my free hand over his hand on my arm. “I’m real, Holmes,” I said quietly. “We’re in Baker Street.”
Holmes lifted his head and looked around. I could see his eyes clearing as he adjusted to the unexpected awakening that had thrown him, gasping and floundering, onto the shores of reality.
“I’m sorry I awakened you, Watson,” he said, with a faint semblance of normality, belied by the tight grip he still had on my hand. “I’ve had such terrible dreams, these past few nights,” he admitted.
“I know,” I said, with a reassuring squeeze of the hand. “But not tonight. I won’t permit it. I intend to stay by your side and ward the nightmares off.”
It was a measure of Holmes’s exhaustion that he did not protest. To my surprise, he flung back the covers and moved over to make room. “Then the least I can do is allow you to be comfortable,” he said.
I fell asleep sooner than I intended, and woke a few hours later to find that Homes, perhaps in an unconscious effort to assure himself of my presence, had flung an arm over me. No black dog could sleep beside him when I took its place.
This entry was originally posted at https://amedia.dreamwidth.org/418912.html.
Author: Amedia
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (book-verse)
Characters: Holmes, Watson, the Hound
Ship: None. It's gen. No, really.
Summary: The Hound has been defeated on the moors, but it rages again in Holmes's dreams.
Word Count: 606
Author's note: Inspired by one of
theemdash’s responses to my request for ficlet prompts, which came in the form of Wizard Rock lyrics: “When the moon’s come and I’m certain that I’ve died/As the black dog you’ll be lying by my side.” Theemdash kindly gave me a great deal of latitude--and I took it!
To all outside observers, Holmes had taken the uncanny events surrounding our investigation into the death of Sir Charles Baskerville completely in stride. I alone knew that his disciplined mind betrayed him at night, putting forward, over and over again, the image of that devilish hound. I alone knew that the keen imagination that allowed him to extrapolate possible answers to a puzzle and come up with solutions of which none other had dreamed, engaged its brilliance toward the manufacture of nightmares.
Night after night, I lay in my bed hearing cries from the next room, as Holmes sought to warn the victims, real and imagined, of the terrible hound. “Sir Charles! Sir Henry!” He even tried the save the dastardly murderer, for whom he imagined an even crueller-albeit, in my mind, more fitting-death than the one he had suffered.
For my part, I tried to balance my concern for my friend’s misery with my sensitivity to his self-regard. I asked at breakfast, after the first night, whether he had slept well, and received a curt affirmative that left no opening for further inquiry. But knowing that he slept with the black dog by his side troubled me. His face grew paler and more accented by shadows every morning.
The fourth night, I was resolved to take action. I would expel that creature from his bed. I waited until I heard the first cries, “The hound! The hound!” Then I left my room to go to his, to awaken him from the nightmare. As I reached for the handle of the door, I heard him cry out to warn that night’s victim, in a voice that spoke less of fear than of heartrending anguish. “Watson!”
I bolted into the room and set my candle on the nightstand. A shaft of moonlight through the curtains illuminated the sleeper, still in the grip of the fiend who was trying to destroy everyone Holmes was sworn to protect. Even as I stood beside him, he called out again, “No! Watson!”
I sat on the edge of the bed and took one of his cold hands in mine. “I’m here, Holmes. It’s all right. You were having a bad dream.”
Holmes opened his eyes slowly. I felt his hand begin to grip mine, and he reached up with the other hand to place it on my arm. “Are you real?” he asked huskily.
I put my free hand over his hand on my arm. “I’m real, Holmes,” I said quietly. “We’re in Baker Street.”
Holmes lifted his head and looked around. I could see his eyes clearing as he adjusted to the unexpected awakening that had thrown him, gasping and floundering, onto the shores of reality.
“I’m sorry I awakened you, Watson,” he said, with a faint semblance of normality, belied by the tight grip he still had on my hand. “I’ve had such terrible dreams, these past few nights,” he admitted.
“I know,” I said, with a reassuring squeeze of the hand. “But not tonight. I won’t permit it. I intend to stay by your side and ward the nightmares off.”
It was a measure of Holmes’s exhaustion that he did not protest. To my surprise, he flung back the covers and moved over to make room. “Then the least I can do is allow you to be comfortable,” he said.
I fell asleep sooner than I intended, and woke a few hours later to find that Homes, perhaps in an unconscious effort to assure himself of my presence, had flung an arm over me. No black dog could sleep beside him when I took its place.
This entry was originally posted at https://amedia.dreamwidth.org/418912.html.