Sherlock Holmes Fic: The Hexham Affair (PG)
Title: The Hexham Affair
Author: cassierua
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,400
Genre: Fluff? More of a bromance than slash.
Author's Notes: Written from a prompt on comment_fic from leavesoflorien: Sherlock Holmes, Holmes/Watson, in which Watson is gone all day and it drives Holmes crazy.
I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm not even in the Holmes fandom... I just saw the prompt and this came to mind. I have read the first two books and seen the film multiple times, so what I've written is sort of influenced by both. That said... I'm sorry for any mistakes/canon errors. Unbeta'd, because I don't intend to post it anywhere except here! I've set this somewhere in between A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four and pre-movie, because it's easier than going into the whole Miss Morstan issue.
Also, in writing this I learnt that I am ridiculous when it comes to writing anything set in a historical time. I just spent about two hours looking up lighting to see if it would be an oil lamp or a paraffin lamp on Watson's desk. And then I had to calculate how long it would take a stage/train to get to Hexham. History nerd ftw!
The evening lamps had just been lit, filling the misty streets of London with a faint glow. From a second-floor window of 221B Baker Street, Dr. John Watson watched as a grubby youth shut the glass casing of the street light and nimbly climbed down his ladder. He drew the curtains fully, and moved to light the small paraffin lamp on his desk.
“I’m going to Hexham in the morning - I daresay I’ll be back late.”
The only other occupant of the room was Sherlock Holmes, the saviour of the Metropolitan Police and Watson’s unorthodox flatmate, who was sitting in a rather large red armchair, face obscured by the evening paper. He made no sign that he had heard Watson’s remark, a fact which appeared to have no effect on the doctor, who took a seat at his desk, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards him and dipped the nib of his pen into a bottle of ink.
At great length, Holmes replied, “Visiting family, I presume?”
Watson glanced up, but his friend’s face was still hidden behind the newspaper.
“Yes. My grand-aunt. She invited me to tea.”
“Indeed.”
A lengthy silence followed Holmes’ remark, during which time Watson finished a letter to one of his clients. Checking his pocket watch, Watson stretched and stood, before snuffing out the lamp.
“Yes, well. Don’t wait up for me, old chap. And try not to burn the house down while I’m away. It would upset Gladstone terribly and you know Mrs. Hudson would lay all the blame on me,” he said, as he reached the door into his chamber.
This pointed remark made Holmes lower his paper. His lips twitched, and he lifted a pipe to his mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I would never be so careless to set fire to my own home.”
Watson raised an eyebrow, and Holmes returned his attention to the news, but not before adding, “Unless, of course, it was the prudent thing to do.”
***
Holmes woke late the next morning. This simple fact was exceedingly peculiar; generally, Watson’s patients - the asthmatic who leaned heavily to his left; the ex-navy general with a quick, efficient step and a booming voice; the old woman who shuffled with a cane - would wake Holmes up by nine at the latest. The angle at which the light spilt in from cracks in the curtains attested to the late hour, and as Holmes dressed he calculated that it must be nearly eleven.
It wasn’t until Holmes had entered the rather large living room that he remembered that Watson was not, in fact, in London today. The sensation in the pit of his stomach which accompanied this realisation Holmes accounted to the late hour and the lack of breakfast.
Later, Holmes had to admit that this hypothesis was logically unsound. After a breakfast of cold eggs and bacon, and a tepid cup of tea, Holmes felt none the better. Not even working on his new monograph - a particularly fascinating treatise on the different types of tyres found on European bicycles - was enough to alleviate a gnawing feeling in his stomach.
Perhaps he was sick? Holmes did not feel particularly sick - no nausea, fever, chills - but perhaps it was some sort of new sickness. He might have contracted it from that fellow who had called in yesterday with the coals: he was almost certainly of French or Spanish extraction, and goodness knows what hygiene would be like in such places. Normally, Holmes would have raised the question with Watson, but as it was, Holmes simply jotted it down on a piece of paper, which he proceeded to leave between page one hundred and fourteen and one hundred and fifteen of Justus von Liebig’s Organic Chemistry and its Application to Physiology and Pathology. Just as a little aide memoire upon Watson’s return.
This completed, Holmes sat down in his favourite red armchair again, and plucked idly at his violin. It was an abstraction, and it filled several minutes before the subtle sound of a swish of fabric heralded Mrs. Hudson’s arrival with lunch. He gave her a distracted smile, and put down his violin. As the elderly woman served him his lunch - sandwiches, followed by muffins and a cup of tea - Holmes busied himself with his pipe. He was puffing away at it by the time Mrs. Hudson swept from the room again, collecting the breakfast dishes as she went.
Holmes perused the paper that had been left on the desk while he half-heartedly ate a few bites of a cucumber sandwich. As he read, he wrote a few short notes - anonymously, of course, but Holmes knew that there was little doubt that Lestrade would not recognise the handwriting of the most successful free-lance detective in London. Holmes had long felt it prudent to send the police force a few pointers whenever he had spare time. Doubly prudent, in fact, as Holmes found it kept his mind occupied, and his hands away from the cocaine bottle.
After lunch, Holmes decided to take a quick stroll around the busier areas in London. This was a regular occurrence, as it allowed him the opportunity to keep up to date with any developments - new building work, the news on the street, the price of vegetables - but usually Watson would accompany the detective for at least part of his walk. The hollow feeling had returned as Holmes pulled on a coat and a bowler, but he firmly put it from his mind. To distract himself, he wondered briefly about the distance from London to Hexham and roughly calculated the time in would take to travel there by train, coach, and on horseback. This diverting thought lead him easily out of his front door and down the street, at which point he began to observe the going-on of the city in earnest.
***
By supper, Holmes was still feeling odd, and was decidedly put-out. He only picked at his dinner, read the evening broadsheet and flicked through a book or two before giving in to temptation. He reached for his little kit that he kept beside his chair, and selected a small vial and a clean syringe. He could only deduce, from the empty feeling in his stomach, his irritability and his restlessness that he was suffering due to a lack of morphine. Happy to have figured out the source of his unease, Holmes rolled up a sleeve and leaned back to enjoy the experience.
***
Upon his arrival at his rooms late that night, Watson found Holmes asleep in the red armchair, violin loosely cradled in his arms. The detective’s pipe lay on a nearby table, still smoking softly, and it was all the doctor could do to role his eyes, and thank heaven the house wasn’t up in smoke.
Watson moved around the room, quietly extinguishing all the lamps, before hearing a voice from the semi-darkness of the room.
“Morphine, it appears, is not always satisfactory in alleviating mental distraction,” Holmes muttered, almost to himself.
“I’ve told you many times, old friend, morphine should only be used sparingly,” Watson said, a chuckle in his voice.
There was a rustle of papers and a sigh as Holmes stood, leaving his violin on the chair.
“There is only one possible rational explanation, then.”
Watson could hear Holmes move towards him in the gloom.
“And what would that be, may I ask?” Watson inquired.
Holmes laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and Watson noticed that his eyes were particularly cold and calculating.
“I must have missed you,” the detective said, as though it were only logical. His eyes softened then, and he sagged somewhat. “Another case solved, my friend.”
Watson placed a steadying arm around the other man, and his eyes lit up in a smile.
“It’s late, Holmes. You should get to bed.”
The detective nodded, before looking up at Watson and saying, with some severity, “My dear Watson, if you find it absolutely necessary to pay another visit to your grand-aunt, I insist on accompanying you. I have a number of acquaintances who work on the Hexham Courante and the knowledge of a journalist could be quite integral to the successful resolution of a case, should one ever arise in that corner of Northumberland.”
Yeah... I'm sorry Sherlock Holmes fandom!
Author: cassierua
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,400
Genre: Fluff? More of a bromance than slash.
Author's Notes: Written from a prompt on comment_fic from leavesoflorien: Sherlock Holmes, Holmes/Watson, in which Watson is gone all day and it drives Holmes crazy.
I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm not even in the Holmes fandom... I just saw the prompt and this came to mind. I have read the first two books and seen the film multiple times, so what I've written is sort of influenced by both. That said... I'm sorry for any mistakes/canon errors. Unbeta'd, because I don't intend to post it anywhere except here! I've set this somewhere in between A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four and pre-movie, because it's easier than going into the whole Miss Morstan issue.
Also, in writing this I learnt that I am ridiculous when it comes to writing anything set in a historical time. I just spent about two hours looking up lighting to see if it would be an oil lamp or a paraffin lamp on Watson's desk. And then I had to calculate how long it would take a stage/train to get to Hexham. History nerd ftw!
The evening lamps had just been lit, filling the misty streets of London with a faint glow. From a second-floor window of 221B Baker Street, Dr. John Watson watched as a grubby youth shut the glass casing of the street light and nimbly climbed down his ladder. He drew the curtains fully, and moved to light the small paraffin lamp on his desk.
“I’m going to Hexham in the morning - I daresay I’ll be back late.”
The only other occupant of the room was Sherlock Holmes, the saviour of the Metropolitan Police and Watson’s unorthodox flatmate, who was sitting in a rather large red armchair, face obscured by the evening paper. He made no sign that he had heard Watson’s remark, a fact which appeared to have no effect on the doctor, who took a seat at his desk, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards him and dipped the nib of his pen into a bottle of ink.
At great length, Holmes replied, “Visiting family, I presume?”
Watson glanced up, but his friend’s face was still hidden behind the newspaper.
“Yes. My grand-aunt. She invited me to tea.”
“Indeed.”
A lengthy silence followed Holmes’ remark, during which time Watson finished a letter to one of his clients. Checking his pocket watch, Watson stretched and stood, before snuffing out the lamp.
“Yes, well. Don’t wait up for me, old chap. And try not to burn the house down while I’m away. It would upset Gladstone terribly and you know Mrs. Hudson would lay all the blame on me,” he said, as he reached the door into his chamber.
This pointed remark made Holmes lower his paper. His lips twitched, and he lifted a pipe to his mouth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I would never be so careless to set fire to my own home.”
Watson raised an eyebrow, and Holmes returned his attention to the news, but not before adding, “Unless, of course, it was the prudent thing to do.”
***
Holmes woke late the next morning. This simple fact was exceedingly peculiar; generally, Watson’s patients - the asthmatic who leaned heavily to his left; the ex-navy general with a quick, efficient step and a booming voice; the old woman who shuffled with a cane - would wake Holmes up by nine at the latest. The angle at which the light spilt in from cracks in the curtains attested to the late hour, and as Holmes dressed he calculated that it must be nearly eleven.
It wasn’t until Holmes had entered the rather large living room that he remembered that Watson was not, in fact, in London today. The sensation in the pit of his stomach which accompanied this realisation Holmes accounted to the late hour and the lack of breakfast.
Later, Holmes had to admit that this hypothesis was logically unsound. After a breakfast of cold eggs and bacon, and a tepid cup of tea, Holmes felt none the better. Not even working on his new monograph - a particularly fascinating treatise on the different types of tyres found on European bicycles - was enough to alleviate a gnawing feeling in his stomach.
Perhaps he was sick? Holmes did not feel particularly sick - no nausea, fever, chills - but perhaps it was some sort of new sickness. He might have contracted it from that fellow who had called in yesterday with the coals: he was almost certainly of French or Spanish extraction, and goodness knows what hygiene would be like in such places. Normally, Holmes would have raised the question with Watson, but as it was, Holmes simply jotted it down on a piece of paper, which he proceeded to leave between page one hundred and fourteen and one hundred and fifteen of Justus von Liebig’s Organic Chemistry and its Application to Physiology and Pathology. Just as a little aide memoire upon Watson’s return.
This completed, Holmes sat down in his favourite red armchair again, and plucked idly at his violin. It was an abstraction, and it filled several minutes before the subtle sound of a swish of fabric heralded Mrs. Hudson’s arrival with lunch. He gave her a distracted smile, and put down his violin. As the elderly woman served him his lunch - sandwiches, followed by muffins and a cup of tea - Holmes busied himself with his pipe. He was puffing away at it by the time Mrs. Hudson swept from the room again, collecting the breakfast dishes as she went.
Holmes perused the paper that had been left on the desk while he half-heartedly ate a few bites of a cucumber sandwich. As he read, he wrote a few short notes - anonymously, of course, but Holmes knew that there was little doubt that Lestrade would not recognise the handwriting of the most successful free-lance detective in London. Holmes had long felt it prudent to send the police force a few pointers whenever he had spare time. Doubly prudent, in fact, as Holmes found it kept his mind occupied, and his hands away from the cocaine bottle.
After lunch, Holmes decided to take a quick stroll around the busier areas in London. This was a regular occurrence, as it allowed him the opportunity to keep up to date with any developments - new building work, the news on the street, the price of vegetables - but usually Watson would accompany the detective for at least part of his walk. The hollow feeling had returned as Holmes pulled on a coat and a bowler, but he firmly put it from his mind. To distract himself, he wondered briefly about the distance from London to Hexham and roughly calculated the time in would take to travel there by train, coach, and on horseback. This diverting thought lead him easily out of his front door and down the street, at which point he began to observe the going-on of the city in earnest.
***
By supper, Holmes was still feeling odd, and was decidedly put-out. He only picked at his dinner, read the evening broadsheet and flicked through a book or two before giving in to temptation. He reached for his little kit that he kept beside his chair, and selected a small vial and a clean syringe. He could only deduce, from the empty feeling in his stomach, his irritability and his restlessness that he was suffering due to a lack of morphine. Happy to have figured out the source of his unease, Holmes rolled up a sleeve and leaned back to enjoy the experience.
***
Upon his arrival at his rooms late that night, Watson found Holmes asleep in the red armchair, violin loosely cradled in his arms. The detective’s pipe lay on a nearby table, still smoking softly, and it was all the doctor could do to role his eyes, and thank heaven the house wasn’t up in smoke.
Watson moved around the room, quietly extinguishing all the lamps, before hearing a voice from the semi-darkness of the room.
“Morphine, it appears, is not always satisfactory in alleviating mental distraction,” Holmes muttered, almost to himself.
“I’ve told you many times, old friend, morphine should only be used sparingly,” Watson said, a chuckle in his voice.
There was a rustle of papers and a sigh as Holmes stood, leaving his violin on the chair.
“There is only one possible rational explanation, then.”
Watson could hear Holmes move towards him in the gloom.
“And what would that be, may I ask?” Watson inquired.
Holmes laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and Watson noticed that his eyes were particularly cold and calculating.
“I must have missed you,” the detective said, as though it were only logical. His eyes softened then, and he sagged somewhat. “Another case solved, my friend.”
Watson placed a steadying arm around the other man, and his eyes lit up in a smile.
“It’s late, Holmes. You should get to bed.”
The detective nodded, before looking up at Watson and saying, with some severity, “My dear Watson, if you find it absolutely necessary to pay another visit to your grand-aunt, I insist on accompanying you. I have a number of acquaintances who work on the Hexham Courante and the knowledge of a journalist could be quite integral to the successful resolution of a case, should one ever arise in that corner of Northumberland.”
Yeah... I'm sorry Sherlock Holmes fandom!