Fic: Where The Heart Is
Title: Where The Heart Is
Fandom: Canon
Wordcount: 1,376
Rating: G
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Warning(s): None. Save that this is schmoop of the highest order.
Summary: After being invalided out of the army for a second time, Holmes attempts to convince Watson as to where home really is. Retirement!fic.
A/N: Written for the July 5th prompt over at watsons_woes And don't ask how I managed to get this done in a single day when I have other projects that I'd be grateful to write an intelligible sentence for...
PROMPT: If actions speak louder than words, how is the pen mightier than the sword?
Ultimately, what convinced me to once again throw in my lot with Sherlock Holmes at the wizened old age of five-and-sixty was the underlying hint of desperation that his argument had, of late, acquired. For months, my insufferable friend had been needling me incessantly on the invigorating benefits of sea air, but on that particular afternoon, Holmes all but threw his pride to the wind and outright admitted his wish to have me by his side once more.
“I require a doctor,” said he through the tinny lines of the telephone, “and as that influenza epidemic has deprived the Downs of its former exalted medical practitioner -” here his caustic intonation conveyed to me precisely what his opinion was of that poor departed individual, “and being that you so mulishly refuse to retire like a sensible fellow, the only logical solution to both our predicaments is for you to disencumber yourself of that inadequate excuse of a city practice and take up residence here.”
It was early summer of 1916, and being that my second spell in His Majesty’s Army fared me little better than the first, I found myself back in London, offering my medical services at a humble practice in Kensington. Some months prior, I had been discharged on account of my affliction with trench fever. Not a serious malady in and of itself, yet the frequency of my relapses proved enough to place an inglorious end to my service. Holmes, to my great consternation, did condescend to come up on one instance, for what I can only assume was some inspection of my new acquisition, which I daresay he found rather lacking.
He had also fallen into the nettlesome habit of deliberately interrupting me during consulting hours, normally via imprudently timed telegrams, though as he grew accustomed to what he referred to as “that confounded contraption”, ringing me up on the ‘phone at all hours was becoming more common.
On one memorable occasion which I am eager to put out of my mind, he went to the lengths of hiring a troupe of actors to infiltrate my consulting room, each claiming to be afflicted with the most outrageous of tropical diseases. I was forced to shut down for the day, and I’ve no doubts my subsequent verbal tirade on the botheration caused by malingerers gave the operator quite an earful.
That was the last he pulled so bold a performance, though several times daily for the past two months, this outrage upon my patience tirelessly persisted, until my resolve began to waver under his campaign. I was also growing ever more bone weary with each new morning, and not even my weekly sojourns to the baths were able to ease away the aches of advancing age and old injuries any longer. While I should not have admitted it to Holmes for the world, the prospect of a much overdue rest did have its appeal, and the seaside smelt sweeter to me with each new visit to my reclusive friend.
Instead, I feigned alarm at his proclamation of requiring medical attention, offering to recommend the services of a fellow medico should his condition be dire. Never mind I’d a valise packed on my bed, a ticket purchased for an impromptu trip to Sussex absently flitting between my fingertips as I sat at my desk, listening to Holmes enumerate the reasons why my remaining here was tragically impractical to his interests.
Let the fellow squirm, for all the new grey hairs he had added since my second discharge from military service.
“If it is very serious,” I went on blithely, “I can have you admitted to Bart’s before the day is out.”
The line went quiet, interrupted but once by a queer sort of noise I fancied might even be called a splutter if any other man besides Holmes had uttered it.
“Really, Watson,” said he, feigning offence, but knowing full well how quickly I had seen through his petty subterfuge. I flatter myself that my translations of his capricious moods grow clearer as age dims my eyesight. “That pawky humour of yours has yet to improve. Can’t a fellow have a care over the state of his health without being accused of deception?”
So affronted did he sound that I was unable to stifle the chortle of laughter that, in short order, became a proper outburst.
"If you have duly amused yourself now Doctor, I suggest taking the 5:17 train from Waterloo Station to be here in time for a late supper."
"My dear fellow, what makes you believe I am coming down to visit you this weekend? I've a busy schedule what with the influenza going around, and Mrs Harrington's young boy with St Vitus' Dance is coming in for an examination, and -"
"That paper," said he as though he'd not heard my contradictions, "you have been so vexatiously fiddling with for the past ten minutes tells me I can expect you here before the day is through."
"Oh, come now," said I, slumping back into my chair, resigned to the fact Holmes was about to deduce me over the blasted telephone.
"Must I explain how obviously it is not quite thick enough to be foolscap, if my ears do not deceive, so we can infer this is not the usual absentminded shuffling of your patient notes or writing out of prescriptions."
"It could be from the stiffer pages of my notebook," I offered, lamely.
"Bosh. I haven't given you leave to write up a case in months. And being that your usual cursory protestations to my invitation were rather tepid, to say the least, the logical inference is that you have already bought a ticket and planned on paying me some appallingly sentimental surprise visit. Now do hurry along before you miss your train."
With that, there was a clicking at the other end of the line, and I was left at a loss for doing aught but calling for the maid to fetch my luggage.
***
Shortly before eight o'clock, I disembarked to find Holmes, sharply clad as ever in a suit of light linen, waiting for me on the platform. Barely had I set foot off the train when he practically charged over to me, greeting me with a mildly suppressed agitation, that I was tempted to mistake for a genuine delight in my company. Yet intimate as we once were, I have ever been acutely aware of that gap between us, the one established by him to keep humanity at bay and hopelessly widened by my own thoughtless neglect of our friendship since Holmes’ retirement.
Of late, that gap had spread into a chasm, one we both seemed to be perpetually sidestepping in the others' company.
Nonetheless, his manner was effusive on this particular occasion, and it was in the moment he wrung my hand in both of his that I came to realize just how sorely I had missed the maddening fellow. Reluctant as I was to admit the thing to myself, I was sorely tempted to take up his offer and spend the remainder of my years with the one man whose mere presence to me, after all these years, still meant home.
Why I was at all startled that he came to this conclusion far in advance of my own realization of this intent remains to be seen, though the fact is, when we arrived at his lonely cottage, the first words to his old housekeeper was a boorishly phrased injunction to adequately air out the guest room, since I was to take permanent ownership of it. After which, I was myself ordered from where he'd draped himself upon the sofa, to cease my unbecoming gaping and see if my new quarters were to my satisfaction. An unusual request, even from my eccentric friend, for the upstairs bedroom was set aside for my use shortly after Holmes' acquisition of the place.
My feeble objections that I should much rather have a brandy than view a room already familiar to me was met with so livid a glare, I had put down the decanter before my brain even registered the action. Though let me not suggest I went without uttering under my breath the most vulgar of curses at the man for troubling me to make the stairs, what with the rheumatism in my leg creaking louder than the floorboards.
Switching on the electric lights, I immediately noticed a dun coloured envelope lying atop the bedclothes, and though I at first wondered if Holmes had not left the thing there quite by accident, my doubts were allayed when I came close enough to observe my name printed on the front in my friend's sharp scrawl.
No sooner had I the contents - a single piece of paper - removed from the packet, Holmes, quietly as a door-mouse, stepped up beside me.
"Does everything meet your approval, Watson?" His gaze was strategically averted, his voice an uncertain whisper. "If there is anything at all you would like me to change..." he continued when it became clear I was too affected to verbalize any response.
"Yes, my dear fellow," said I, answering his true question. "I do believe I shall stay."
And simply as that, two words written in earnest had inexorably sealed the gap.
'Welcome home'.
Fandom: Canon
Wordcount: 1,376
Rating: G
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Warning(s): None. Save that this is schmoop of the highest order.
Summary: After being invalided out of the army for a second time, Holmes attempts to convince Watson as to where home really is. Retirement!fic.
A/N: Written for the July 5th prompt over at watsons_woes And don't ask how I managed to get this done in a single day when I have other projects that I'd be grateful to write an intelligible sentence for...
PROMPT: If actions speak louder than words, how is the pen mightier than the sword?
Ultimately, what convinced me to once again throw in my lot with Sherlock Holmes at the wizened old age of five-and-sixty was the underlying hint of desperation that his argument had, of late, acquired. For months, my insufferable friend had been needling me incessantly on the invigorating benefits of sea air, but on that particular afternoon, Holmes all but threw his pride to the wind and outright admitted his wish to have me by his side once more.
“I require a doctor,” said he through the tinny lines of the telephone, “and as that influenza epidemic has deprived the Downs of its former exalted medical practitioner -” here his caustic intonation conveyed to me precisely what his opinion was of that poor departed individual, “and being that you so mulishly refuse to retire like a sensible fellow, the only logical solution to both our predicaments is for you to disencumber yourself of that inadequate excuse of a city practice and take up residence here.”
It was early summer of 1916, and being that my second spell in His Majesty’s Army fared me little better than the first, I found myself back in London, offering my medical services at a humble practice in Kensington. Some months prior, I had been discharged on account of my affliction with trench fever. Not a serious malady in and of itself, yet the frequency of my relapses proved enough to place an inglorious end to my service. Holmes, to my great consternation, did condescend to come up on one instance, for what I can only assume was some inspection of my new acquisition, which I daresay he found rather lacking.
He had also fallen into the nettlesome habit of deliberately interrupting me during consulting hours, normally via imprudently timed telegrams, though as he grew accustomed to what he referred to as “that confounded contraption”, ringing me up on the ‘phone at all hours was becoming more common.
On one memorable occasion which I am eager to put out of my mind, he went to the lengths of hiring a troupe of actors to infiltrate my consulting room, each claiming to be afflicted with the most outrageous of tropical diseases. I was forced to shut down for the day, and I’ve no doubts my subsequent verbal tirade on the botheration caused by malingerers gave the operator quite an earful.
That was the last he pulled so bold a performance, though several times daily for the past two months, this outrage upon my patience tirelessly persisted, until my resolve began to waver under his campaign. I was also growing ever more bone weary with each new morning, and not even my weekly sojourns to the baths were able to ease away the aches of advancing age and old injuries any longer. While I should not have admitted it to Holmes for the world, the prospect of a much overdue rest did have its appeal, and the seaside smelt sweeter to me with each new visit to my reclusive friend.
Instead, I feigned alarm at his proclamation of requiring medical attention, offering to recommend the services of a fellow medico should his condition be dire. Never mind I’d a valise packed on my bed, a ticket purchased for an impromptu trip to Sussex absently flitting between my fingertips as I sat at my desk, listening to Holmes enumerate the reasons why my remaining here was tragically impractical to his interests.
Let the fellow squirm, for all the new grey hairs he had added since my second discharge from military service.
“If it is very serious,” I went on blithely, “I can have you admitted to Bart’s before the day is out.”
The line went quiet, interrupted but once by a queer sort of noise I fancied might even be called a splutter if any other man besides Holmes had uttered it.
“Really, Watson,” said he, feigning offence, but knowing full well how quickly I had seen through his petty subterfuge. I flatter myself that my translations of his capricious moods grow clearer as age dims my eyesight. “That pawky humour of yours has yet to improve. Can’t a fellow have a care over the state of his health without being accused of deception?”
So affronted did he sound that I was unable to stifle the chortle of laughter that, in short order, became a proper outburst.
"If you have duly amused yourself now Doctor, I suggest taking the 5:17 train from Waterloo Station to be here in time for a late supper."
"My dear fellow, what makes you believe I am coming down to visit you this weekend? I've a busy schedule what with the influenza going around, and Mrs Harrington's young boy with St Vitus' Dance is coming in for an examination, and -"
"That paper," said he as though he'd not heard my contradictions, "you have been so vexatiously fiddling with for the past ten minutes tells me I can expect you here before the day is through."
"Oh, come now," said I, slumping back into my chair, resigned to the fact Holmes was about to deduce me over the blasted telephone.
"Must I explain how obviously it is not quite thick enough to be foolscap, if my ears do not deceive, so we can infer this is not the usual absentminded shuffling of your patient notes or writing out of prescriptions."
"It could be from the stiffer pages of my notebook," I offered, lamely.
"Bosh. I haven't given you leave to write up a case in months. And being that your usual cursory protestations to my invitation were rather tepid, to say the least, the logical inference is that you have already bought a ticket and planned on paying me some appallingly sentimental surprise visit. Now do hurry along before you miss your train."
With that, there was a clicking at the other end of the line, and I was left at a loss for doing aught but calling for the maid to fetch my luggage.
***
Shortly before eight o'clock, I disembarked to find Holmes, sharply clad as ever in a suit of light linen, waiting for me on the platform. Barely had I set foot off the train when he practically charged over to me, greeting me with a mildly suppressed agitation, that I was tempted to mistake for a genuine delight in my company. Yet intimate as we once were, I have ever been acutely aware of that gap between us, the one established by him to keep humanity at bay and hopelessly widened by my own thoughtless neglect of our friendship since Holmes’ retirement.
Of late, that gap had spread into a chasm, one we both seemed to be perpetually sidestepping in the others' company.
Nonetheless, his manner was effusive on this particular occasion, and it was in the moment he wrung my hand in both of his that I came to realize just how sorely I had missed the maddening fellow. Reluctant as I was to admit the thing to myself, I was sorely tempted to take up his offer and spend the remainder of my years with the one man whose mere presence to me, after all these years, still meant home.
Why I was at all startled that he came to this conclusion far in advance of my own realization of this intent remains to be seen, though the fact is, when we arrived at his lonely cottage, the first words to his old housekeeper was a boorishly phrased injunction to adequately air out the guest room, since I was to take permanent ownership of it. After which, I was myself ordered from where he'd draped himself upon the sofa, to cease my unbecoming gaping and see if my new quarters were to my satisfaction. An unusual request, even from my eccentric friend, for the upstairs bedroom was set aside for my use shortly after Holmes' acquisition of the place.
My feeble objections that I should much rather have a brandy than view a room already familiar to me was met with so livid a glare, I had put down the decanter before my brain even registered the action. Though let me not suggest I went without uttering under my breath the most vulgar of curses at the man for troubling me to make the stairs, what with the rheumatism in my leg creaking louder than the floorboards.
Switching on the electric lights, I immediately noticed a dun coloured envelope lying atop the bedclothes, and though I at first wondered if Holmes had not left the thing there quite by accident, my doubts were allayed when I came close enough to observe my name printed on the front in my friend's sharp scrawl.
No sooner had I the contents - a single piece of paper - removed from the packet, Holmes, quietly as a door-mouse, stepped up beside me.
"Does everything meet your approval, Watson?" His gaze was strategically averted, his voice an uncertain whisper. "If there is anything at all you would like me to change..." he continued when it became clear I was too affected to verbalize any response.
"Yes, my dear fellow," said I, answering his true question. "I do believe I shall stay."
And simply as that, two words written in earnest had inexorably sealed the gap.
'Welcome home'.