Holmes fic: Singular 7/7
I'm sorry, there's actually plot in this ending. ;) I attempted to bring it around to a point where the next movie's events would logically follow (though there are a few issues with this...).
Title: Singular 7/7
Rating: R
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mary [Holmes/Watson/Mary]
Wordcount: 1,533 [17,405 for the whole fic]
Story Summary: Holmes and Watson recuperate from separate ordeals while kidnapped and their relationship takes on a new aspect. Holmes/Watson/Mary
A/N: The kidnap/torture portion of this story [the first chapter] was actually a dream I had a while back. The rest just kind of meandered after that, though I think I had a threesome prompt from the kinkmeme in mind (haven't been able to find it to link to, though).
Fills my hc_bingo square, "broken bones".
Part one
Part two
Part three
Part four
Part five
Part six
Holmes stayed with them for a total of eight weeks. By the end of that period, he could get about reasonably well with the assistance of his cane and could manage the stairs up to their second floor with relative ease. (They were all quite pleased when he became able to handle stairs, as the bed in the master bedroom was considerably larger than the one in the guest room. The effort of scaling the stairs was thus amply rewarded.) He was also able to pick up, handle, and manipulate most objects, though playing the violin would require additional practice and sometimes his hands ached after doing fine or repetitive work.
He began taking cases on a limited basis two weeks before returning to Baker Street; what this meant was he could consider and solve as many cases as he liked, so long as they did not require him to exert himself or leave the premises--Watson was quite firm on that point. Holmes was able to offer several helpful suggestions to Lestrade in this manner, as well as clear up a bit of the backlog of mail that had accumulated during his absence (though Mary composed the responses, since writing was one of the finer tasks that made his hands ache).
There were a handful of letters that he spent a while perusing before he set them aside, along with a stack of seemingly unrelated newspaper clippings that he had accumulated during his stay. Mary never asked why he did this--though she did object to him cannibalizing the paper before anyone else had read it--for she presumed he had his reasons. He did, and he was careful to make sure this bundle of papers was safely stowed with his belongings for the return to his usual lodging.
Watson and Mary insisted upon accompanying him when he decided to resume his residence under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hudson. She met them at the door, having been warned by Watson via telegram of their imminent arrival. For a moment she and Holmes regarded one another silently. "Welcome back," she said finally, appearing to steel her nerves as she allowed them in.
"I do hope you haven't disturbed my things, nanny," he said in reply, heading briskly for the stairs.
Watson gave her an apologetic glance, but she was almost smiling. "I only moved nearly everything," she retorted, crossing her arms and staring up at him defiantly as he reached the landing and disappeared from view.
Watson and Mary followed him, but did not interrupt when they found him standing just inside the door and staring at the once-familiar room. "It has been so long," he murmured, then stuck his cane in the umbrella rack and dropped the satchel he'd carried into his armchair as he crossed over to the windows.
Watson carried the carpetbag of Holmes' clothes to Holmes' bedroom and Mary looked with interest around the sitting room; she had only been there a handful of times and things were slightly different every time. She wandered into the adjoining room and studied the bits of paper pinned to the wall, some of them connected by bits of string. She was so absorbed in reading the text and trying to understand the connections that she didn't realize Holmes was beside her until he spoke. "Excuse me, dear."
Mary hastily moved aside and watched as he pinned up some of the pieces he'd collected during his recovery and shifted some of the other bits around to accommodate them. Then he stood back and surveyed his work, occasionally stepping forward to pin up another length of string.
"So all of this will end up connected somehow?" she asked.
"That is the expectation," he said with a brief flicker of a smile. "But as you can see, my work is not yet complete."
"Was the kidnapper part of all this?"
He moved to his right and pointed to a place where several strings converged. "Here. I believe he was only two or three steps from my true quarry."
Her eyes trailed further to the right, to a photograph that was not connected to anything. "He doesn't look like a threat."
"That is the genius of the thing. No would would ever suspect this innocuous mathematics professor is the spider at the center of the web behind much of the crime of London and a good deal on the Continent."
"Why is there no string leading to him, if he is at the center of it all?"
"Because I cannot yet prove there is a connection. It will come, with more work."
"And you will call upon John if that work is dangerous."
It was not a question. He nodded once, briefly. "If I must."
"See that you do."
The agreement they had negotiated was that Holmes would summon Watson if an excursion had the potential for bodily harm, and any injury that occurred when he had not called Watson would result in Holmes remaining in their care until Watson deemed him fit to resume his work. Knowing that Watson would keep him inactive far longer than Holmes would want should be sufficient motivation to encourage compliance. At least that was the plan.
He was also required to appear at least once each week at their house for a meal in addition to being welcome to stop in whenever he wished. This part was more likely to be disregarded over time, but Mary wanted to make sure that Holmes knew he was part of their home even though he had returned to his own flat.
"We're staying for dinner," Watson announced as he joined them in the room. Then he sighed. "Only you would use a perfectly good room to stick bits of paper all over the walls."
"What it needs are some maps," Holmes said and disappeared into the sitting room. The sound of sliding books and toppling papers followed, and he returned with an armful of rolled up maps. He enlisted Watson's help to hang a large one of Europe over the fireplace, then eagerly began rearranging some of his papers around it and tacking strings to the appropriate cities.
Mary was able to persuade him to take a break when she noticed him clenching his hands in pain, and dinner was brought up shortly thereafter. It was a pleasant meal--though Holmes would staunchly argue it was due to the company and not the food--and the table small enough that there was some foot-nudging and leg-brushing, both accidental and intentional.
There was also one instance of leg-kicking when Watson thought Holmes was staring at him just a little too long and not for the right reasons. "Stop watching me!" he cried as he lashed out, but was considerate enough to attack the left shin rather than the right.
"I was making sure you were not experiencing a recurrence of . . . your former trouble," Holmes said cheekily.
That earned him a put-upon sigh and another half-hearted swipe at his leg. "That hasn't been an issue for weeks and you know it."
"The change in atmosphere might have had an effect," Holmes argued.
"I note that you have not eaten as much as you can," Mary broke in, looking pointedly at Holmes. "Stop bothering John or we'll tie you down and feed you ourselves-"
"Please," Holmes said with a smirk, sitting back in his chair.
"-while Mrs. Hudson watches."
Holmes' smirk disappeared. "Manipulative wench," he muttered into a mouthful of beef.
"If that's what I am, what does that make you?" she asked sweetly.
He smiled insincerely back at her but didn't say a word. He knew better.
Once the meal was over, Watson and Mary seemed reluctant to leave, but had no real reason to stay. Holmes was feeling tetchy and curled himself in his armchair, letting them decide what to do with themselves. After a brief conversation in low tones, Mary knelt in front of his chair. "We're going to leave now. We will visit again tomorrow. All right?"
He nodded tersely and she stood up enough to kiss him gently. "Behave yourself," she said mildly. Watson came over and clasped Holmes' hand briefly in farewell, then they took their leave.
Holmes watched them board the cab from the window and tried to ignore the strange sensation in his chest. He wandered back to his papers and strings and maps and organized and rearranged and reconnected things until his fingers refused to pick up the small pins any longer. He had no idea what time it was but reasoned it was likely time to sleep.
It was strange how a few weeks with a strict schedule actually made him feel tired at night, to say nothing of the havoc it wreaked on his appetite and mealtimes. Which is to say he had become rather accustomed to sitting down to three meals a day--and that didn't count teatime--and it felt quite odd. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't know what to make of it.
This opportunity to astonish Mrs. Hudson made him feel a little better about crawling into a cold, empty bed. But only a little.
Finis
Title: Singular 7/7
Rating: R
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mary [Holmes/Watson/Mary]
Wordcount: 1,533 [17,405 for the whole fic]
Story Summary: Holmes and Watson recuperate from separate ordeals while kidnapped and their relationship takes on a new aspect. Holmes/Watson/Mary
A/N: The kidnap/torture portion of this story [the first chapter] was actually a dream I had a while back. The rest just kind of meandered after that, though I think I had a threesome prompt from the kinkmeme in mind (haven't been able to find it to link to, though).
Fills my hc_bingo square, "broken bones".
Part one
Part two
Part three
Part four
Part five
Part six
Holmes stayed with them for a total of eight weeks. By the end of that period, he could get about reasonably well with the assistance of his cane and could manage the stairs up to their second floor with relative ease. (They were all quite pleased when he became able to handle stairs, as the bed in the master bedroom was considerably larger than the one in the guest room. The effort of scaling the stairs was thus amply rewarded.) He was also able to pick up, handle, and manipulate most objects, though playing the violin would require additional practice and sometimes his hands ached after doing fine or repetitive work.
He began taking cases on a limited basis two weeks before returning to Baker Street; what this meant was he could consider and solve as many cases as he liked, so long as they did not require him to exert himself or leave the premises--Watson was quite firm on that point. Holmes was able to offer several helpful suggestions to Lestrade in this manner, as well as clear up a bit of the backlog of mail that had accumulated during his absence (though Mary composed the responses, since writing was one of the finer tasks that made his hands ache).
There were a handful of letters that he spent a while perusing before he set them aside, along with a stack of seemingly unrelated newspaper clippings that he had accumulated during his stay. Mary never asked why he did this--though she did object to him cannibalizing the paper before anyone else had read it--for she presumed he had his reasons. He did, and he was careful to make sure this bundle of papers was safely stowed with his belongings for the return to his usual lodging.
Watson and Mary insisted upon accompanying him when he decided to resume his residence under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hudson. She met them at the door, having been warned by Watson via telegram of their imminent arrival. For a moment she and Holmes regarded one another silently. "Welcome back," she said finally, appearing to steel her nerves as she allowed them in.
"I do hope you haven't disturbed my things, nanny," he said in reply, heading briskly for the stairs.
Watson gave her an apologetic glance, but she was almost smiling. "I only moved nearly everything," she retorted, crossing her arms and staring up at him defiantly as he reached the landing and disappeared from view.
Watson and Mary followed him, but did not interrupt when they found him standing just inside the door and staring at the once-familiar room. "It has been so long," he murmured, then stuck his cane in the umbrella rack and dropped the satchel he'd carried into his armchair as he crossed over to the windows.
Watson carried the carpetbag of Holmes' clothes to Holmes' bedroom and Mary looked with interest around the sitting room; she had only been there a handful of times and things were slightly different every time. She wandered into the adjoining room and studied the bits of paper pinned to the wall, some of them connected by bits of string. She was so absorbed in reading the text and trying to understand the connections that she didn't realize Holmes was beside her until he spoke. "Excuse me, dear."
Mary hastily moved aside and watched as he pinned up some of the pieces he'd collected during his recovery and shifted some of the other bits around to accommodate them. Then he stood back and surveyed his work, occasionally stepping forward to pin up another length of string.
"So all of this will end up connected somehow?" she asked.
"That is the expectation," he said with a brief flicker of a smile. "But as you can see, my work is not yet complete."
"Was the kidnapper part of all this?"
He moved to his right and pointed to a place where several strings converged. "Here. I believe he was only two or three steps from my true quarry."
Her eyes trailed further to the right, to a photograph that was not connected to anything. "He doesn't look like a threat."
"That is the genius of the thing. No would would ever suspect this innocuous mathematics professor is the spider at the center of the web behind much of the crime of London and a good deal on the Continent."
"Why is there no string leading to him, if he is at the center of it all?"
"Because I cannot yet prove there is a connection. It will come, with more work."
"And you will call upon John if that work is dangerous."
It was not a question. He nodded once, briefly. "If I must."
"See that you do."
The agreement they had negotiated was that Holmes would summon Watson if an excursion had the potential for bodily harm, and any injury that occurred when he had not called Watson would result in Holmes remaining in their care until Watson deemed him fit to resume his work. Knowing that Watson would keep him inactive far longer than Holmes would want should be sufficient motivation to encourage compliance. At least that was the plan.
He was also required to appear at least once each week at their house for a meal in addition to being welcome to stop in whenever he wished. This part was more likely to be disregarded over time, but Mary wanted to make sure that Holmes knew he was part of their home even though he had returned to his own flat.
"We're staying for dinner," Watson announced as he joined them in the room. Then he sighed. "Only you would use a perfectly good room to stick bits of paper all over the walls."
"What it needs are some maps," Holmes said and disappeared into the sitting room. The sound of sliding books and toppling papers followed, and he returned with an armful of rolled up maps. He enlisted Watson's help to hang a large one of Europe over the fireplace, then eagerly began rearranging some of his papers around it and tacking strings to the appropriate cities.
Mary was able to persuade him to take a break when she noticed him clenching his hands in pain, and dinner was brought up shortly thereafter. It was a pleasant meal--though Holmes would staunchly argue it was due to the company and not the food--and the table small enough that there was some foot-nudging and leg-brushing, both accidental and intentional.
There was also one instance of leg-kicking when Watson thought Holmes was staring at him just a little too long and not for the right reasons. "Stop watching me!" he cried as he lashed out, but was considerate enough to attack the left shin rather than the right.
"I was making sure you were not experiencing a recurrence of . . . your former trouble," Holmes said cheekily.
That earned him a put-upon sigh and another half-hearted swipe at his leg. "That hasn't been an issue for weeks and you know it."
"The change in atmosphere might have had an effect," Holmes argued.
"I note that you have not eaten as much as you can," Mary broke in, looking pointedly at Holmes. "Stop bothering John or we'll tie you down and feed you ourselves-"
"Please," Holmes said with a smirk, sitting back in his chair.
"-while Mrs. Hudson watches."
Holmes' smirk disappeared. "Manipulative wench," he muttered into a mouthful of beef.
"If that's what I am, what does that make you?" she asked sweetly.
He smiled insincerely back at her but didn't say a word. He knew better.
Once the meal was over, Watson and Mary seemed reluctant to leave, but had no real reason to stay. Holmes was feeling tetchy and curled himself in his armchair, letting them decide what to do with themselves. After a brief conversation in low tones, Mary knelt in front of his chair. "We're going to leave now. We will visit again tomorrow. All right?"
He nodded tersely and she stood up enough to kiss him gently. "Behave yourself," she said mildly. Watson came over and clasped Holmes' hand briefly in farewell, then they took their leave.
Holmes watched them board the cab from the window and tried to ignore the strange sensation in his chest. He wandered back to his papers and strings and maps and organized and rearranged and reconnected things until his fingers refused to pick up the small pins any longer. He had no idea what time it was but reasoned it was likely time to sleep.
It was strange how a few weeks with a strict schedule actually made him feel tired at night, to say nothing of the havoc it wreaked on his appetite and mealtimes. Which is to say he had become rather accustomed to sitting down to three meals a day--and that didn't count teatime--and it felt quite odd. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't know what to make of it.
This opportunity to astonish Mrs. Hudson made him feel a little better about crawling into a cold, empty bed. But only a little.
Finis