Holmes is at that level of contentment that makes him nervous. The scene is so perfect, so idyllic, that it's like the countryside -- deceptively still on its surface, which makes it prime for corruption. Try as he might, he can't find the corruption lurking in their sitting room, however. Watson's head in his lap is a pleasantly warm weight, and the quiet between them is comfortable too. It's easy to wrap himself up in it and stare off into the distance, rolling over things in his mind
( ... )
Watson gave a small start -- but only a small one. He was at least somewhat used to this sort of thing, even if he wasn't prepared for it just now. He lowered his book, looking up at Holmes with raised eyebrows.
"Not mortally," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "Fortunately, the young lady is more than equipped to help nurse him back to health. Must you start the conversation halfway through like that? It's unsettling."
There was no real ire in his tone; it would have difficult to be seriously annoyed as cosy as he was now, and he enjoyed the feeling of Holmes's fingers in his hair, an added bonus.
"Why start at the beginning when there's no need to?" he counters, as casually as before, and he ruffles Watson's hair so that he can set it to rights again. "It saves time, my dear Watson. Surely you can surmise how I reached that conclusion."
Once Watson's hair is fixed, he casts about for something else to do with his hands, and settles on a light scalp massage, gently rubbing his fingers in small circles against Watson's scalp. Sometimes it's daunting to realize that Watson is his -- that he can massage Watson's scalp if he wants to, can draw Watson into his lap, can spend hours in silence or hours in not-so-silent activity. How much he loves Watson is occasionally daunting too, but he leans into it and embraces it because what else is there to do.
Watson closed his eyes, his irritation at being deduced and dissected in such a manner fading under the soothing feeling of fingers in his hair. It was such a small and intimate gesture, affectionate and loving, tender in a way he once would have thought an unlikely act for Holmes. Through all his doubts about the wisdom of this, of the morality of this, there were moments like this where he was overwhelmed with being loved.
"I suppose," he sighed, "you have managed to work it out by watching me." There was something humbling about that. Watson laid the book down on his chest. "Most people, you realise, don't aim to save time in conversation."
"I am not most people," he says, like it's obvious, because it is. There's another time waster, but he doesn't really mind it; he's distracting himself with this scalp massage, enjoying having Watson at his fingertips. He slides his hand down the side of Watson's neck to his shoulder, settling his hand there and brushing his thumb against his throat.
"And I'm not particularly interested in how they conduct their conversations when mine are perfectly satisfying as they are."
"I give thanks every day," Watson said dryly, "that you are not most people."
He leaned his head back, feeling strangely vulnerable about having a hand over his throat, feeling caught and peculiarly glad for it. He opened his eyes then, a peculiar sort of smile on his face.
"But if you insist on having these conversations, then you must accept that I will complain, at least a little."
There was only fondness and amusement in his voice.
Lestrade -- doesn't quite know what he feels. It's been so quick, falling for Mary, but he doesn't see how it could've been any other way. She's far too charming, fits too easily in his life, for him to have prolonged this at all. He'd thought it was a little silly, the idea that you could fall for someone that quickly, could know that there wasn't anyone else for you. He's practical, and that didn't seem a practical notion.
Practical or no, his head's swimming because Mary's promised to be his wife, and he doesn't have a single doubt that they're going in the wrong direction. It just makes sense in a way that reminds him, a little, of solving a case. Lestrade needs a wife? Well, Miss Mary Morstan is the prime suspect. Case closed
( ... )
Squeezing Lestrade's hand back, Mary felt more than a little nervous, and she wasn't entirely sure why. Besides feeling uncomfortably aware of the fact that there had been so much effort on Mrs. Forrester's part to arrange a match between herself and Dr. Watson, she was still uncertain as to whether the good doctor was really so comfortable with a former potential lover engaged to a friend. Besides, she was finding it a little nerve-wracking to be introduced to her fiancé's friends, even if she had met them before.
Her fiancé. What a thing that was! She would, presently, be Mrs. Mary Lestrade and it was wonderful. She'd rather given up on herself as being destined for spinsterhood, too.
"Extremely important," she murmured sideways at him, her eyes dancing with laughter, excitement, nervousness.
Excitement doesn't flare as it might otherwise with such an apparent promise of work because he knows that Lestrade isn't here on business at all. He's with Mary, and judging by the happiness in their steps and voices, they've come to announce their engagement. That's wonderful news, certainly, and he's very happy for them, but he's less thrilled with surprise social calls. Ah, well.
"Here you are, my dear. A pair of people with whom you can have some normal conversation." He certainly isn't making any move to answer the door, however. Reclining further in his seat, he closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Their engagement will make a delightful conversation topic," he says calmly.
After sitting bolt upright, alarmed at the sudden intrusion upon such a very intimate moment, Watson shot Holmes an irritated look. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," he grumbled.
He set his book aside, and after taking a moment to straighten out his rather rumpled clothing, he went to answer the door. What sort of "engagement" Lestrade might have momentarily eluded him, but as he opened the door to greet him, and saw who was with him, what Holmes was talking about suddenly dawned on him. Surely not already?
"Lestrade!" Watson greeted, ushering them inside. "Miss Morstan! This is an unexpected pleasure." Ideally it wouldn't have been just at that moment, when he was so comfortably seated in Holmes's lap; he resisted the urge to reach up to feel if his hair was ruffled, and to smooth it down if it was. "What brings you this way tonight?"
"Important business, as I said," he says with a grin, stepping into their sitting room, fit to burst with excitement. Where and how this friendship came about he isn't quite sure -- somewhere between watching Holmes crawl around on his knees and exchanging comments with Watson and then catching them in the act of... well, just any act. And now he met his fiancee through them, of all things.
Glancing at Mary, he lifts an eyebrow questioningly. "Shall we sit first?"
"If we're invited to stay," Mary said, looking between Holmes and Watson. "If we're not interrupting anything, of course. This isn't a bad time, I hope? We wouldn't want to intrude." Her expression was bright, eager, practically glowing. She wanted to see their reaction.
The look she gave Lestrade was ridiculously fond, ridiculously happy. "But it is quite important news, I think."
Holmes is right, of course. They're clearly engaged, and almost sickeningly happy about it. The upside to his and Watson's relationship being a secret is that he never has to look like this; while he enjoys being able to be open about his relationship, being able to hold Watson's hand if he wants or make references to it, he doesn't think he wants Lestrade or Mary for that matter to see Holmes look at Watson with that amount of love in his eyes. That's just far too private.
"There's always time for important news here," Holmes says magnanimously as he stands and gestures to the couch. "Please, be seated and tell us all about your engagement."
He realizes that maybe he's taking the wind out of their sails a bit, but that's just what Holmes does.
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes or apologise for Holmes, Watson closed the door to the sitting room and went to one of the chairs by the fire.
"Is this so?" He smiled, shaking his head a little. So much for Holmes's claim that this would be a normal conversation. It hadn't even begun and they were already skipping ahead. Not everyone was as used to it as Watson. "Congratulations are in order if it is."
Oh, blast -- the -- so-and-so. Lestrade eyes Holmes with a mixture of genuine frustration and annoyance and a touch -- just a touch, mind you -- of fondness. Of course that arrogant man would be able to tell; probably anyone on the street could tell, if Lestrade's honest with himself, but that still doesn't mean he's any less annoyed.
"Very clever, Mr. Holmes, but one of your less impressive deductions, I think. I can work out your reasoning easily enough." He sits and turns his mostly-but-not-totally serious glare from Holmes and softens it before he sets it on Watson.
"But yes, congratulations are in order. I believe we have you to thank for all this," he says, smiling.
Amused more than anything, Mary hid a small laugh behind one gloved hand. "As I wasn't lucky enough to have met Guy when I met you, we certainly have you to thank for introducing us."
Well, she certainly sensed no jealousy, no sore feelings from Watson. That was reassuring. She would have hated to be the wedge into their friendship.
Reply
"Not mortally," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "Fortunately, the young lady is more than equipped to help nurse him back to health. Must you start the conversation halfway through like that? It's unsettling."
There was no real ire in his tone; it would have difficult to be seriously annoyed as cosy as he was now, and he enjoyed the feeling of Holmes's fingers in his hair, an added bonus.
Reply
Once Watson's hair is fixed, he casts about for something else to do with his hands, and settles on a light scalp massage, gently rubbing his fingers in small circles against Watson's scalp. Sometimes it's daunting to realize that Watson is his -- that he can massage Watson's scalp if he wants to, can draw Watson into his lap, can spend hours in silence or hours in not-so-silent activity. How much he loves Watson is occasionally daunting too, but he leans into it and embraces it because what else is there to do.
Reply
"I suppose," he sighed, "you have managed to work it out by watching me." There was something humbling about that. Watson laid the book down on his chest. "Most people, you realise, don't aim to save time in conversation."
Reply
"And I'm not particularly interested in how they conduct their conversations when mine are perfectly satisfying as they are."
Reply
He leaned his head back, feeling strangely vulnerable about having a hand over his throat, feeling caught and peculiarly glad for it. He opened his eyes then, a peculiar sort of smile on his face.
"But if you insist on having these conversations, then you must accept that I will complain, at least a little."
There was only fondness and amusement in his voice.
Reply
Practical or no, his head's swimming because Mary's promised to be his wife, and he doesn't have a single doubt that they're going in the wrong direction. It just makes sense in a way that reminds him, a little, of solving a case. Lestrade needs a wife? Well, Miss Mary Morstan is the prime suspect. Case closed ( ... )
Reply
Her fiancé. What a thing that was! She would, presently, be Mrs. Mary Lestrade and it was wonderful. She'd rather given up on herself as being destined for spinsterhood, too.
"Extremely important," she murmured sideways at him, her eyes dancing with laughter, excitement, nervousness.
Reply
"Here you are, my dear. A pair of people with whom you can have some normal conversation." He certainly isn't making any move to answer the door, however. Reclining further in his seat, he closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Their engagement will make a delightful conversation topic," he says calmly.
Reply
He set his book aside, and after taking a moment to straighten out his rather rumpled clothing, he went to answer the door. What sort of "engagement" Lestrade might have momentarily eluded him, but as he opened the door to greet him, and saw who was with him, what Holmes was talking about suddenly dawned on him. Surely not already?
"Lestrade!" Watson greeted, ushering them inside. "Miss Morstan! This is an unexpected pleasure." Ideally it wouldn't have been just at that moment, when he was so comfortably seated in Holmes's lap; he resisted the urge to reach up to feel if his hair was ruffled, and to smooth it down if it was. "What brings you this way tonight?"
Reply
Glancing at Mary, he lifts an eyebrow questioningly. "Shall we sit first?"
Reply
The look she gave Lestrade was ridiculously fond, ridiculously happy. "But it is quite important news, I think."
Reply
"There's always time for important news here," Holmes says magnanimously as he stands and gestures to the couch. "Please, be seated and tell us all about your engagement."
He realizes that maybe he's taking the wind out of their sails a bit, but that's just what Holmes does.
Reply
"Is this so?" He smiled, shaking his head a little. So much for Holmes's claim that this would be a normal conversation. It hadn't even begun and they were already skipping ahead. Not everyone was as used to it as Watson. "Congratulations are in order if it is."
Reply
"Very clever, Mr. Holmes, but one of your less impressive deductions, I think. I can work out your reasoning easily enough." He sits and turns his mostly-but-not-totally serious glare from Holmes and softens it before he sets it on Watson.
"But yes, congratulations are in order. I believe we have you to thank for all this," he says, smiling.
Reply
Well, she certainly sensed no jealousy, no sore feelings from Watson. That was reassuring. She would have hated to be the wedge into their friendship.
Reply
Leave a comment