FIC: Stay With Me
Title: Stay With Me
Author: dealliasnape (harmonymarguerite)
Summary: A day in the life of John Watson
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Character Death, Implied insanity, brains in jars
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company are the creations of Arthur Conan Doyle.
Notes: Because I can come up with no ideas myself, this is a shkinkmeme prompt, located over here. The OP asked for: After Holmes' death, Watson keeps his brain in a jar. And this is what came out.
Thank you to cutebutpsycho99 for a quick look through Beta!
***
Doctor John Watson had a jar, which he would carry around with him in a black case, surrounded by his medical supplies. He took it everywhere, for it was his most important possession. It was also his most private, for Watson would never show his jar to anyone. He wouldn’t want to risk someone taking it away.
Watson’s daily routine goes something like this:
He takes breakfast alone at the table, the empty space around him filled with mutterings on how careless his friend is with his own health. There is often no answer, but then again, Holmes has always been the type to ignore Watson when he went on doctor-related rants.
He packs his bag, carefully placing the jar inside and surrounding it with towels. Mustn’t let you get cold, he will tell it, or let you break. For what a mess that would be, having you spilling everywhere. And how people will talk! You always were a messy person, but at least outside the home, you exhibited some sense of decorum. Let us try to keep up that appearance, shall we?
Off he will go to see patients, all smiles and ease. They stare at his smile, and ask if he is truly alright, but of course he is fine. Why shouldn’t he be? For between each patient he becomes better as he slips into an alley and opens his bag. A small caress to the jar assures him that his friend is fine. If Holmes is fine, then John Watson is as well.
He returns to the house for tea, taken with two cups, the person bringing the tea set shaking their head and leaving, muttering about ‘grieving’ and ‘lost friend’.
He hasn’t lost a friend, he tells the jar. You are right here. So he pours the tea, fixed exactly how they both like it, and smiles into the silence.
Sometimes he wonders why their friends don’t come by anymore, but he thinks they have finally been driven away by a sharp tongue. The thought makes him laugh, so he shares with the jar.
Sometimes, the jar laughs back, but you can never predict a black mood.
He places the jar on the table filled with chemicals in the late afternoon, locking the door against intrusion. There is no telling what sort of experiment may happen today, and it would be a shame for someone to be injured by a wayward explosion. Watson will sit at his table, inscribing all of their adventures to paper.
They did happen once, these adventures. They did. And soon, next week perhaps, when Holmes is feeling better, they will happen again. Soon.
Anyone who tells Watson otherwise is a liar.
As the evening wears on, they settle on the couch, Watson curled around the jar with a book in his hand. He reads everything he can get his hands on, from his favorite adventure novels to current criminal cases and lithographs to help detectives solve them. He is always on the lookout for those, for he knows how much Holmes loves new knowledge.
Though, selfishly, he tends to read his favorite novels more so than something for Holmes because no one will mutter about useless romantic books. The jar is suspiciously silent on the subject, which Watson is grateful for.
Every few days, he tells it, I am so glad you are coming around Holmes. It may be overly flowery for you, but these books are a lovely escape, don’t you think?
The jar is silent then too, but Watson sees it as acquiesce.
They retire to bed, Watson settling the jar next to him. He kisses the lid goodnight, and when he wakes he will kiss the side good morning.
I am never alone, he tells it, for some part of you is always with me. Who needs the whole body around, when at least I have the most important part of you here?
Trapped in a viscous clear fluid, the brain makes no answer.
End
Author: dealliasnape (harmonymarguerite)
Summary: A day in the life of John Watson
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Character Death, Implied insanity, brains in jars
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company are the creations of Arthur Conan Doyle.
Notes: Because I can come up with no ideas myself, this is a shkinkmeme prompt, located over here. The OP asked for: After Holmes' death, Watson keeps his brain in a jar. And this is what came out.
Thank you to cutebutpsycho99 for a quick look through Beta!
***
Doctor John Watson had a jar, which he would carry around with him in a black case, surrounded by his medical supplies. He took it everywhere, for it was his most important possession. It was also his most private, for Watson would never show his jar to anyone. He wouldn’t want to risk someone taking it away.
Watson’s daily routine goes something like this:
He takes breakfast alone at the table, the empty space around him filled with mutterings on how careless his friend is with his own health. There is often no answer, but then again, Holmes has always been the type to ignore Watson when he went on doctor-related rants.
He packs his bag, carefully placing the jar inside and surrounding it with towels. Mustn’t let you get cold, he will tell it, or let you break. For what a mess that would be, having you spilling everywhere. And how people will talk! You always were a messy person, but at least outside the home, you exhibited some sense of decorum. Let us try to keep up that appearance, shall we?
Off he will go to see patients, all smiles and ease. They stare at his smile, and ask if he is truly alright, but of course he is fine. Why shouldn’t he be? For between each patient he becomes better as he slips into an alley and opens his bag. A small caress to the jar assures him that his friend is fine. If Holmes is fine, then John Watson is as well.
He returns to the house for tea, taken with two cups, the person bringing the tea set shaking their head and leaving, muttering about ‘grieving’ and ‘lost friend’.
He hasn’t lost a friend, he tells the jar. You are right here. So he pours the tea, fixed exactly how they both like it, and smiles into the silence.
Sometimes he wonders why their friends don’t come by anymore, but he thinks they have finally been driven away by a sharp tongue. The thought makes him laugh, so he shares with the jar.
Sometimes, the jar laughs back, but you can never predict a black mood.
He places the jar on the table filled with chemicals in the late afternoon, locking the door against intrusion. There is no telling what sort of experiment may happen today, and it would be a shame for someone to be injured by a wayward explosion. Watson will sit at his table, inscribing all of their adventures to paper.
They did happen once, these adventures. They did. And soon, next week perhaps, when Holmes is feeling better, they will happen again. Soon.
Anyone who tells Watson otherwise is a liar.
As the evening wears on, they settle on the couch, Watson curled around the jar with a book in his hand. He reads everything he can get his hands on, from his favorite adventure novels to current criminal cases and lithographs to help detectives solve them. He is always on the lookout for those, for he knows how much Holmes loves new knowledge.
Though, selfishly, he tends to read his favorite novels more so than something for Holmes because no one will mutter about useless romantic books. The jar is suspiciously silent on the subject, which Watson is grateful for.
Every few days, he tells it, I am so glad you are coming around Holmes. It may be overly flowery for you, but these books are a lovely escape, don’t you think?
The jar is silent then too, but Watson sees it as acquiesce.
They retire to bed, Watson settling the jar next to him. He kisses the lid goodnight, and when he wakes he will kiss the side good morning.
I am never alone, he tells it, for some part of you is always with me. Who needs the whole body around, when at least I have the most important part of you here?
Trapped in a viscous clear fluid, the brain makes no answer.
End