Sherlock Holmes, Holmes/Watson, "I was a married man" or "I am a married man"
From comment_fic
Prompt by leavesoflorien
Sherlock Holmes, Holmes/Watson, "I was a married man" or "I am a married man"
As a general rule from the philosophy of Sherlock Holmes, everything is a clue. John's first clue should have been the uncommonly warm air. The sky was hazy, the air thick with humidity, odd for a day in March. His clothes stuck tight to his skin, uncomfortably warm yet comfortingly constricting, like a tight blanket, reminiscent perhaps of the womb.
Everyone acted a bit stranger. Spring fever perhaps, and yet to Watson it seemed like a genuine disease. People acting like rabid animals. Glances about, young men looking at young women like meat. Even the rent boys and girls wandered the streets in the foggy daylight. Love, or more importantly lust, floated through the air as thick as smoke.
As the stink of fornication was high in the air, as was the stink of death. With the new air came the new insanity. Sex and murder. A woman, slain. Watson had yet to inspect the corpse for himself, but he could tell some heated passion may have been the cause. That and a shot or twelve of liquor.
If that had failed to alert him in some way, perhaps then this should have raised suspicion. When he entered the familiar building at Baker Street, refreshingly cool air mingled with the scent of bread enveloped him. He offered his greetings to those he passed as he always did upon returning to his once residence. As he entered 221B, a wave of heat washed over him. No smoke, but the damp air he had only just escaped. He could not help but be a little disappointed, and even annoyed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was barely visible. He stood with his back to Watson, standing before the great window, the light from outside framing his body like a silver lining. All so unlike Sherlock. He was never one to regard the spring morning. Nor was he one to take a break from his pipe long enough to make the interior air as clean as the exterior.
Watson cleared his throat, and upon making the noise, Holmes tensed, his shoulder bunching together.
"Holmes?" he called quietly. In a single move, Sherlock spun around from his place, facing Watson full on.
"Ah, John. I hadn't been expecting you so soon," he wisped. Watson nodded, a sudden awkwardness in him.
"Well," Watson stuttered, "I thought that perhaps you may wish for my assistance in the recent, ah..."
"Ah. The homicides," Holmes said shortly. He turned back around, attention once more outside the window.
"No doubt some lover's quarrel. But you have already thought of that, yes?"
Watson nodded again and answered yes.
"Hmm," Holmes sighed. "Watson!"
"Yes!" Watson squeaked in the sudden shout.
Holmes turned to him. "Come here for a moment, would you?" Watson stared at him a moment before walking over to the window.
"Look down there." Watson peered down the lane.
"See that boy holding the flowers? Yes? He's delivering them to a young girl he admires. He has never spoken to her before, she may not even know his name, but by the grace of God she will remember it after today. How about that older gentleman over there by the corner? He, bless him, is about to buy a prostitute. He has never done that before. However, there is emptiness about him. A lost lover, perhaps, maybe even a spouse. And that young girl there? Do you see her? Oh, the dear. She has no one. She does not admire, no one admires her. She hasn't any money for a prostitute, not that she is the type to buy love, no. She seems to be one of the few to be lonely on this day.”
“That’s quite sad,” Watson mused, watching the blonde girl, standing on the street, enthralled with the love around her but not for her. Men and girls danced around her. Flowers and candies and money with love, smiles, and sex. Her eyes seemed cast on a particular boy; the boy with the flowers.
“Hah! My dear Holmes, it seems you have missed something. She does admire, she does love. Can’t you see? It’s the flower boy. She loves him! Perhaps she’ll run to him, or maybe the flowers are for her and he didn’t see her!”
“Perhaps,” Holmes whispered, warm breath filling the space between them. Watson tore his eyes off the lass.
“You don’t think so?” he asked, eyes boring into Holmes’.
“No, I do not. Not really. As they say, love is blind. I do believe she loves him, but does he even know her name? I think it not. You see, Watson, people often do not understand those around them. You may love a person all your life and the other may never know. Cowardice! That is to blame. The cowardice of affection. Rejection is worse than ignorance.”
Watson listened intently, feeling a vital lesson seeping in. Holmes’ face lit with wisdom, as it always did during an intense investigation.
“However,” Holmes whispered and lowered his head toward Watson. “There is something in the air. Is it bravery? The young man felt it, as did that gentleman. Is it that easy? Can a simple change of seasons bring out such strong courage? Is rejection not that scary? Is it possible….” he trailed off. Something in his eyes changed.
A shock of contact, soft lips. A warm chill ran through Watson’s being. Immediately he pulled back. Holmes circled him, pinning him against the window frame.
“Are you scared, John, or are you blind as well?” Holmes said with a tremble in his voice. He leaned back down, reaching for Watson’s mouth.
“Wha-?,” he shook. Holmes’ head did not move, but instead lithe fingers slid up his arms and eyes danced down his face. “Stop! I…I’m a married man…I ca--” His breaths came out shallow and vocal.
“Are you scared?” Watson looked into Holmes’ eyes.
“Holmes…” Watson whispered. “I-”
“Shhh,” Holmes hushed and ghosted his lips against Watson’s. “It’s alright. Don’t be afraid.” His arms encircled the quivering Watson.
“I’m…God“ Watson trembled against the man’s frame.
“No fear, sweet Watson. Why waste such a wonderful day on fear? I fear no more…You aren’t afraid, are you?”
Watson looked up at Holmes, a protest on his tongue, but his face. Holmes, had he always seemed so vulnerable? The stoic Mr. Sherlock Holmes, flustered by humble Dr. John Watson? When had he become so fragile?
“No,” he whispered, wondering if anyone heard out the window. “I’m not afraid.” A faint smile grew on Holmes’ face.
“Nor am I.”
Prompt by leavesoflorien
Sherlock Holmes, Holmes/Watson, "I was a married man" or "I am a married man"
As a general rule from the philosophy of Sherlock Holmes, everything is a clue. John's first clue should have been the uncommonly warm air. The sky was hazy, the air thick with humidity, odd for a day in March. His clothes stuck tight to his skin, uncomfortably warm yet comfortingly constricting, like a tight blanket, reminiscent perhaps of the womb.
Everyone acted a bit stranger. Spring fever perhaps, and yet to Watson it seemed like a genuine disease. People acting like rabid animals. Glances about, young men looking at young women like meat. Even the rent boys and girls wandered the streets in the foggy daylight. Love, or more importantly lust, floated through the air as thick as smoke.
As the stink of fornication was high in the air, as was the stink of death. With the new air came the new insanity. Sex and murder. A woman, slain. Watson had yet to inspect the corpse for himself, but he could tell some heated passion may have been the cause. That and a shot or twelve of liquor.
If that had failed to alert him in some way, perhaps then this should have raised suspicion. When he entered the familiar building at Baker Street, refreshingly cool air mingled with the scent of bread enveloped him. He offered his greetings to those he passed as he always did upon returning to his once residence. As he entered 221B, a wave of heat washed over him. No smoke, but the damp air he had only just escaped. He could not help but be a little disappointed, and even annoyed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was barely visible. He stood with his back to Watson, standing before the great window, the light from outside framing his body like a silver lining. All so unlike Sherlock. He was never one to regard the spring morning. Nor was he one to take a break from his pipe long enough to make the interior air as clean as the exterior.
Watson cleared his throat, and upon making the noise, Holmes tensed, his shoulder bunching together.
"Holmes?" he called quietly. In a single move, Sherlock spun around from his place, facing Watson full on.
"Ah, John. I hadn't been expecting you so soon," he wisped. Watson nodded, a sudden awkwardness in him.
"Well," Watson stuttered, "I thought that perhaps you may wish for my assistance in the recent, ah..."
"Ah. The homicides," Holmes said shortly. He turned back around, attention once more outside the window.
"No doubt some lover's quarrel. But you have already thought of that, yes?"
Watson nodded again and answered yes.
"Hmm," Holmes sighed. "Watson!"
"Yes!" Watson squeaked in the sudden shout.
Holmes turned to him. "Come here for a moment, would you?" Watson stared at him a moment before walking over to the window.
"Look down there." Watson peered down the lane.
"See that boy holding the flowers? Yes? He's delivering them to a young girl he admires. He has never spoken to her before, she may not even know his name, but by the grace of God she will remember it after today. How about that older gentleman over there by the corner? He, bless him, is about to buy a prostitute. He has never done that before. However, there is emptiness about him. A lost lover, perhaps, maybe even a spouse. And that young girl there? Do you see her? Oh, the dear. She has no one. She does not admire, no one admires her. She hasn't any money for a prostitute, not that she is the type to buy love, no. She seems to be one of the few to be lonely on this day.”
“That’s quite sad,” Watson mused, watching the blonde girl, standing on the street, enthralled with the love around her but not for her. Men and girls danced around her. Flowers and candies and money with love, smiles, and sex. Her eyes seemed cast on a particular boy; the boy with the flowers.
“Hah! My dear Holmes, it seems you have missed something. She does admire, she does love. Can’t you see? It’s the flower boy. She loves him! Perhaps she’ll run to him, or maybe the flowers are for her and he didn’t see her!”
“Perhaps,” Holmes whispered, warm breath filling the space between them. Watson tore his eyes off the lass.
“You don’t think so?” he asked, eyes boring into Holmes’.
“No, I do not. Not really. As they say, love is blind. I do believe she loves him, but does he even know her name? I think it not. You see, Watson, people often do not understand those around them. You may love a person all your life and the other may never know. Cowardice! That is to blame. The cowardice of affection. Rejection is worse than ignorance.”
Watson listened intently, feeling a vital lesson seeping in. Holmes’ face lit with wisdom, as it always did during an intense investigation.
“However,” Holmes whispered and lowered his head toward Watson. “There is something in the air. Is it bravery? The young man felt it, as did that gentleman. Is it that easy? Can a simple change of seasons bring out such strong courage? Is rejection not that scary? Is it possible….” he trailed off. Something in his eyes changed.
A shock of contact, soft lips. A warm chill ran through Watson’s being. Immediately he pulled back. Holmes circled him, pinning him against the window frame.
“Are you scared, John, or are you blind as well?” Holmes said with a tremble in his voice. He leaned back down, reaching for Watson’s mouth.
“Wha-?,” he shook. Holmes’ head did not move, but instead lithe fingers slid up his arms and eyes danced down his face. “Stop! I…I’m a married man…I ca--” His breaths came out shallow and vocal.
“Are you scared?” Watson looked into Holmes’ eyes.
“Holmes…” Watson whispered. “I-”
“Shhh,” Holmes hushed and ghosted his lips against Watson’s. “It’s alright. Don’t be afraid.” His arms encircled the quivering Watson.
“I’m…God“ Watson trembled against the man’s frame.
“No fear, sweet Watson. Why waste such a wonderful day on fear? I fear no more…You aren’t afraid, are you?”
Watson looked up at Holmes, a protest on his tongue, but his face. Holmes, had he always seemed so vulnerable? The stoic Mr. Sherlock Holmes, flustered by humble Dr. John Watson? When had he become so fragile?
“No,” he whispered, wondering if anyone heard out the window. “I’m not afraid.” A faint smile grew on Holmes’ face.
“Nor am I.”