[SH] Like Lips Around a Whimper
Title: Like Lips Around a Whimper
Wordcount: ~1,000
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Rating: PG-13 for angst, mostly. No really, so much angst.
Summary: Written for pada_something for a prompt from this meme.
Note: This is...not exactly what you asked for, but it's kind of along the same lines, and it's what fell out of my brain when I listened to that song a thousand times. Hope you like it, bb. ♥
"Well spotted," Holmes remarks, "And better shot." There's more admiration in his voice than he shows anyone, anyone else, and Watson knows it. He lowers his gun, limbs heavy. His free hand clutches at air, grasping for words he doesn't want to say.
"Holmes..." He starts, and Holmes looks up from where he's carefully snipping hairs from the dead man's head with a stolen pair of Watson's medical shears.
"Yes, yes." He says, and turns back to his corpse. "Run along home to Miss Mary if you must. I expect you at Baker Street at precisely one in the afternoon tomorrow."
Watson shakes his head, and Holmes looks back up at him, eyebrows raised. "No?" He asked, disbelieving.
"No," Watson says. "I can't keep...running about with you like this. Not through this kind of danger, not now."
Holmes narrows his eyes at him. "You tried that once," he says. "It didn't work." He stands up, spreading his arms. "I am simply...too magnetic. You are drawn back to my wit and charm."
He's trying to goad Watson into an argument, restore some sort of balance, of rightness to the scene, and part of Watson longs to let him. "No," he says again, to Holmes and to himself. "It's Mary. She..."
"You told me she was amenable to your helping me, as long as you kept up your little practice on the side," Holmes said, and shook his head. "What a fickle creature is woman."
Any other day, Watson would have squawked at the reference to his practice as "little", at the implication that what he was doing, healing the sick, was less important than what Holmes did, which sometimes resulted only in an already-rich man getting his money back. But today...
"We're having a child." He tells Holmes, and watches in silence as every possible quip and joke dies on Holmes' lips.
Holmes takes a breath. "Nonsense." He says, too quick. "She can't be...I would have noticed!"
Would you? Watson wants to ask. Would you have let yourself? But he knows that answer. "It's early yet," he lies, as if that would have made any sort of difference to Holmes' powers of observation.
***
Mary almost glows with it now, her skin flushed and smooth, stomach rounded out and pearled with beads of water as she bathes. Watson pushes her hair out of her face. She has never been more beautiful.
He presses a gentle hand to he stomach. The weight of it is familiar, in a distant sort of way, because he's seen this before, he's delivered babies. The fluttering movement below the skin sets off a string of scientific facts, of cold experiential knowledge, in his head. Distantly, he wonders, is this how Holmes sees everything in the world?
But it's also so new, all so strange and shakingly, nervously real. He presses Mary's hand to his lips and tries to lose himself in her scent. He doesn't want to wonder whether this is what he wants. This is Mary. This is his. This is perfection.
Too perfect, says part of his mind, the part that hears silence and drops flat because it knows it will be broken. The part of him that feels most at home holding steel and breathing in the sulfur and smoke of gunfire.
This is not war, he tells it firmly. This is love.
There doesn't have to be a difference, it whispers back, and Watson swallows against his longing.
***
He meets Holmes for lunch about a week before she's due, sitting in the dining room at the Hotel Dulong. Many of the other tables are full, and
they are buoyed up on a bubble of polite, merry conversation, surrounded by it but never included in it. The room is beautiful, spacious and airy. Watson feels as if he is inside a gilded cage.
"How is she?" Holmes asks suddenly, and Watson raises his eyes from his plate.
"Weak," he admits, and it's true. She hasn't been eating well, he almost adds. She wakes up shaking, in the night. But he doesn't, because he can't abide thinking of what Holmes' reaction might be. Those eyes, filled with pity, would tear him apart.
Worse, they might light with hope.
He crushes his napkin in his fist. "I should return to her." He says, and pushes back from the table, his food untouched.
"Of course." Holmes says as he leaves, his voice subdued, and Watson cannot tell the emotion in it.
***
She's three days early and Watson's hands are shaking. Too soon, too weak. His scalpel is heavy in his hands.
She grips the sheets and she cries for him, sobs to touch him, but his hands are busy, are slick with blood and birthing fluid and he cannot, he cannot, he must make a choice.
"John."
He looks up, and she holds his eyes with hers, clear-eyed and so, so strong, even as every breath draws more life out of her. "Do it."
Tears sting his eyes as he obeys, blocking all noise but the careful, awful sound of a knife through flesh.
***
"Begging your pardon, Doctor, but are you sure this is the best thing for her?"
Watson feels stiff, like the damaged tissue in his leg has spread to his chest, muffling the beat of his heart. He closes his eyes.
"It's just, this isn't exactly a proper place to raise a child," Mrs. Hudson finishes, smoothing a worn knuckle down the soft curve of Watson's daughter's face.
"I cannot stay in that house." Watson says, not opening his eyes.
"Of course not." Mrs. Hudson agrees, and she's silent for a while. "I only - "
"What choice do I have?" Watson snaps, glaring at her. "You think If I had a choice, I would come to you? You think if I had a choice, I would have let Mary - " He swallows, stops. "Please, madam. I need your help."
"Of course, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson leaves the girl in the crib, puts a kind hand on his shoulder. "You did all you could. If there was any chance you could have saved her, you would have."
Watson stares at her. He nods, because it is the proper thing to do, and wishes that he could be sure she is right.
The are footsteps on the stair, and Holmes swings into the room around the door-frame, mid-sentence. "Mrs. Hudson, I shall be gone for several hours. If you would be so good as to - " He stops dead on seeing the small crib, and his eyes flick immediately to where Watson sits, half curled in on himself, on the setee.
"Watson." He says, surprise and joy and worry warring in his voice. "I did not hear you arrive."
Watson twitches his lips in something never really meant to be a smile, and Holmes steps further into the room.
"I'll just...warm some milk for the baby, then." Mrs. Hudson says, and wheels the child from the room.
Holmes settles himself carefully next to Watson. "What will you call her?" He asks, and Watson shakes his head.
"We never decided." He says, monotone. "Mary...she said she wanted to see her face, before she knew what she should be called."
Holmes reaches out a hand, curls it around the back of Watson's neck. He tries to draw him close, but Watson resists, searching his eyes. "Wait, Holmes, I need to...I need to say something."
"You don't," Holmes says, but Watson does, because Holmes has always had this way of looking at him that makes Watson see the falsehood in his own words, even if he when he didn't know it was there. He does, because he cannot lie to Sherlock Holmes.
"I couldn't save her," he says, and then laughs a laugh that would have been a sob if he'd let it. "I really couldn't."
And he lets Holmes pull him in.
Wordcount: ~1,000
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Rating: PG-13 for angst, mostly. No really, so much angst.
Summary: Written for pada_something for a prompt from this meme.
Note: This is...not exactly what you asked for, but it's kind of along the same lines, and it's what fell out of my brain when I listened to that song a thousand times. Hope you like it, bb. ♥
"Well spotted," Holmes remarks, "And better shot." There's more admiration in his voice than he shows anyone, anyone else, and Watson knows it. He lowers his gun, limbs heavy. His free hand clutches at air, grasping for words he doesn't want to say.
"Holmes..." He starts, and Holmes looks up from where he's carefully snipping hairs from the dead man's head with a stolen pair of Watson's medical shears.
"Yes, yes." He says, and turns back to his corpse. "Run along home to Miss Mary if you must. I expect you at Baker Street at precisely one in the afternoon tomorrow."
Watson shakes his head, and Holmes looks back up at him, eyebrows raised. "No?" He asked, disbelieving.
"No," Watson says. "I can't keep...running about with you like this. Not through this kind of danger, not now."
Holmes narrows his eyes at him. "You tried that once," he says. "It didn't work." He stands up, spreading his arms. "I am simply...too magnetic. You are drawn back to my wit and charm."
He's trying to goad Watson into an argument, restore some sort of balance, of rightness to the scene, and part of Watson longs to let him. "No," he says again, to Holmes and to himself. "It's Mary. She..."
"You told me she was amenable to your helping me, as long as you kept up your little practice on the side," Holmes said, and shook his head. "What a fickle creature is woman."
Any other day, Watson would have squawked at the reference to his practice as "little", at the implication that what he was doing, healing the sick, was less important than what Holmes did, which sometimes resulted only in an already-rich man getting his money back. But today...
"We're having a child." He tells Holmes, and watches in silence as every possible quip and joke dies on Holmes' lips.
Holmes takes a breath. "Nonsense." He says, too quick. "She can't be...I would have noticed!"
Would you? Watson wants to ask. Would you have let yourself? But he knows that answer. "It's early yet," he lies, as if that would have made any sort of difference to Holmes' powers of observation.
***
Mary almost glows with it now, her skin flushed and smooth, stomach rounded out and pearled with beads of water as she bathes. Watson pushes her hair out of her face. She has never been more beautiful.
He presses a gentle hand to he stomach. The weight of it is familiar, in a distant sort of way, because he's seen this before, he's delivered babies. The fluttering movement below the skin sets off a string of scientific facts, of cold experiential knowledge, in his head. Distantly, he wonders, is this how Holmes sees everything in the world?
But it's also so new, all so strange and shakingly, nervously real. He presses Mary's hand to his lips and tries to lose himself in her scent. He doesn't want to wonder whether this is what he wants. This is Mary. This is his. This is perfection.
Too perfect, says part of his mind, the part that hears silence and drops flat because it knows it will be broken. The part of him that feels most at home holding steel and breathing in the sulfur and smoke of gunfire.
This is not war, he tells it firmly. This is love.
There doesn't have to be a difference, it whispers back, and Watson swallows against his longing.
***
He meets Holmes for lunch about a week before she's due, sitting in the dining room at the Hotel Dulong. Many of the other tables are full, and
they are buoyed up on a bubble of polite, merry conversation, surrounded by it but never included in it. The room is beautiful, spacious and airy. Watson feels as if he is inside a gilded cage.
"How is she?" Holmes asks suddenly, and Watson raises his eyes from his plate.
"Weak," he admits, and it's true. She hasn't been eating well, he almost adds. She wakes up shaking, in the night. But he doesn't, because he can't abide thinking of what Holmes' reaction might be. Those eyes, filled with pity, would tear him apart.
Worse, they might light with hope.
He crushes his napkin in his fist. "I should return to her." He says, and pushes back from the table, his food untouched.
"Of course." Holmes says as he leaves, his voice subdued, and Watson cannot tell the emotion in it.
***
She's three days early and Watson's hands are shaking. Too soon, too weak. His scalpel is heavy in his hands.
She grips the sheets and she cries for him, sobs to touch him, but his hands are busy, are slick with blood and birthing fluid and he cannot, he cannot, he must make a choice.
"John."
He looks up, and she holds his eyes with hers, clear-eyed and so, so strong, even as every breath draws more life out of her. "Do it."
Tears sting his eyes as he obeys, blocking all noise but the careful, awful sound of a knife through flesh.
***
"Begging your pardon, Doctor, but are you sure this is the best thing for her?"
Watson feels stiff, like the damaged tissue in his leg has spread to his chest, muffling the beat of his heart. He closes his eyes.
"It's just, this isn't exactly a proper place to raise a child," Mrs. Hudson finishes, smoothing a worn knuckle down the soft curve of Watson's daughter's face.
"I cannot stay in that house." Watson says, not opening his eyes.
"Of course not." Mrs. Hudson agrees, and she's silent for a while. "I only - "
"What choice do I have?" Watson snaps, glaring at her. "You think If I had a choice, I would come to you? You think if I had a choice, I would have let Mary - " He swallows, stops. "Please, madam. I need your help."
"Of course, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson leaves the girl in the crib, puts a kind hand on his shoulder. "You did all you could. If there was any chance you could have saved her, you would have."
Watson stares at her. He nods, because it is the proper thing to do, and wishes that he could be sure she is right.
The are footsteps on the stair, and Holmes swings into the room around the door-frame, mid-sentence. "Mrs. Hudson, I shall be gone for several hours. If you would be so good as to - " He stops dead on seeing the small crib, and his eyes flick immediately to where Watson sits, half curled in on himself, on the setee.
"Watson." He says, surprise and joy and worry warring in his voice. "I did not hear you arrive."
Watson twitches his lips in something never really meant to be a smile, and Holmes steps further into the room.
"I'll just...warm some milk for the baby, then." Mrs. Hudson says, and wheels the child from the room.
Holmes settles himself carefully next to Watson. "What will you call her?" He asks, and Watson shakes his head.
"We never decided." He says, monotone. "Mary...she said she wanted to see her face, before she knew what she should be called."
Holmes reaches out a hand, curls it around the back of Watson's neck. He tries to draw him close, but Watson resists, searching his eyes. "Wait, Holmes, I need to...I need to say something."
"You don't," Holmes says, but Watson does, because Holmes has always had this way of looking at him that makes Watson see the falsehood in his own words, even if he when he didn't know it was there. He does, because he cannot lie to Sherlock Holmes.
"I couldn't save her," he says, and then laughs a laugh that would have been a sob if he'd let it. "I really couldn't."
And he lets Holmes pull him in.