SH fic: What You Wanted
Sherlock Holmes | Holmes/Watson | ~1,500 words | R (for ridiculous shmoop)
What You Wanted
Watson stood in the doorway and stared incredulously into Holmes' room. It looked as though a small, extremely localized cyclone had recently passed through, but that was typical and not what had captured his attention. The high bed was untidily made and not one but two individuals were deeply asleep, sprawled across the coverlet and sharing one pillow.
Gladstone whimpered and pedaled his paws in the air (chasing rabbits, they always said, although Watson could not conceive of Gladstone chasing anything that moved more quickly than a breakfast sausage) and Holmes stirred, lifting his arm from where it rested across Gladstone's barrel chest and rolling toward the door. He peered at Watson through one bleary eye.
"Everything all right, old boy?" he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
"Perfectly," Watson replied, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
"Capital," Holmes said, around a yawn.
The dog yipped and rolled onto his side, paws coming to rest in the small of Holmes back with enough force to shift him an inch closer to the edge of the bed. "Watson?" Holmes said, frowning deeply.
"Yes, Holmes?"
"Would you be so kind as to remove the malodorous beast from my bed?"
Watson smiled broadly. "Which one?"
"Oh, very good," Holmes said, huffing a laugh. "I was referring to your wretched dog."
"I thought he was our wretched dog," Watson said, crossing the threshold and skirting around the heaps of newspapers and books and clothes and teacups until he reached the far side of Holmes bed. "Gladstone," he said, not sternly but in a tone that never failed to get the dog's attention.
Gladstone rolled over and lumbered unsteadily to his feet on the mattress and looked up at Watson expectantly.
"Down you get, you great brute," Watson said, tugging gently at his collar.
The dog hit the floor with all the grace he possessed, which was none, and trotted out to the sitting room.
"Thank you," Holmes sighed, drawing his legs toward his chest and sighing happily. "Gladstone is far from the most pleasant bed fellow."
Watson considered and discarded a handful of responses. "Holmes?"
Holmes yawned again. "Yes, Watson?"
"You are aware that Gladstone cannot get onto your bed without some assistance?"
Holmes shut his eyes. "That's absurd," he said after a long, conspicuous moment of silence. "Are you suggesting Nanny let herself into our rooms and lifted the monster onto my bed whilst I slept?"
Watson shook his head and laughed. "Your perspicacity is, as ever, awe inspiring."
Holmes grinned sleepily. "Such flattery," he murmured.
Watson smoothed a wrinkle out of the coverlet and turned to leave the room. "Sleep well, my friend."
*
In spite of the fire, the day's chill permeated the sitting room. Watson wrapped himself in a throw and stretched out on the settee. He considered getting up to retrieve his book, but it had been a trying day and he was weary. He prescribed himself an hour's nap and let his eyes sink shut.
Only a moment had passed when he experienced the singular, but far too familiar, sensation of being closely observed. He sighed and opened his eyes.
Gladstone was staring at him beseechingly from the hearth rug. When he perceived that Watson was awake, he scooted closer and snuffled his hand wetly.
"Are you hungry, boy?" Watson asked, scratching his ear.
Instead of the usual enthusiastic reply, Gladstone rested his chin on the edge of the settee and continued to stare at him mutely.
The dog only ever made two requests, so if he did not want food it followed that he must need to relieve himself. Watson sighed and levered himself up onto one elbow.
Gladstone sat back on his haunches, wiggled his bottom, and launched himself onto the settee, landing perilously close to certain of Watson's more delicate assets.
He rolled his eyes and inched back to make room. "Holmes has spoiled you terribly," he grumbled, tucking a pillow under his head.
The dog collapsed onto his belly at Watson's side and panted happily in his face.
He stroked the wrinkles on Gladstone's massive head until the dog's eyes, and his own, started to droop. "You are malodorous," he said, turning his face into the pillow and drifting off.
*
Watson did not have to open his eyes to know that he was once again the subject of intense scrutiny. Gladstone was still tucked against his side, snoring gently, so it could only be Holmes. Watson could feel the weight of his gaze, scratching against his skin like rough wool. He cracked open one eye warily. "What is it?"
Holmes was perched on the edge of his chair, elbows resting on knees, chin in one hand, staring at him. "You're cuddling the dog," he said, his tone ever so slightly accusatory.
Watson yawned. "Well spotted, Holmes."
"I thought so," Holmes replied. He stood abruptly and spent some few moments stoking the fire, rattling through a pile of papers on the end table, and pacing the perimeter of the hearth rug. He stopped in front of the settee and jammed his hands into his pockets. "I want him back."
Watson had thought he might drift back to sleep, but he should have known better. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands "I beg your pardon?"
"I want him back," Holmes repeated.
Why was Holmes always at his most cryptic when Watson had just woken up? "What are you talking about?"
"I want the dog back," Holmes said, staring gravely at something over Watson's shoulder.
Watson experienced a frisson of panic and twisted around to peer over his shoulder, but they were alone. "You ... what? You want the dog?" he asked. He was wide awake now but profoundly confused.
"Yes," Holmes said.
"Whatever for?"
"I had hoped to get some more sleep," Holmes said, without meeting Watson's eyes.
Watson shook his head, but still nothing made sense. "And?" he prompted Holmes.
"And it is quite cold in my room," Holmes said, defensiveness edging into his voice, and tugged his dressing gown more tightly about him.
When the pieces finally fell into place, it was devilishly hard not to burst out laughing. Watson cleared his throat and took a moment to compose himself. "I don't believe Gladstone has quite advanced to lighting fires yet."
Holmes rolled his eyes. "Watson," he said, raking exasperated fingers through his hair. "Would you just ... give me the damned dog."
"No," Watson said, thoughtfully, and adjusted the throw around his shoulders. "I don't think I will."
Holmes stared at him in disbelief. "And why not, if I might ask?"
"It's a bit chilly in here," Watson replied evenly, resting his head on the pillow once more, "and I had hoped to get some more sleep."
Contrary to appearances, Watson was coiled and ready to spring when Holmes launched himself at the settee and attempted to forcefully seize the dog. Gladstone woke with a start and, in a rare display of liveliness, jumped clear of the fray. Watson freed his arms from the blanket, wrapped them around Holmes' waist, and proceeded to wrestle him, with no small amount of difficulty, to the hearth rug. He pinned Holmes to the floor and rolled on top of him to prevent his escape. Holmes stared up at him with a mutinous expression, but he did not attempt to free himself.
When he became weary of Holmes' silent glaring, Watson said, "You are the most fractious individual I've ever had the displeasure of sharing rooms with." He shook his head but could not stop the corner of his mouth from curling up. Holmes went abruptly limp beneath him.
"Am I?" he asked, sounding almost obscenely pleased with himself. He stretched as much as their position would allow and then smiled beatifically up at Watson.
"Oh, undoubtedly," Watson replied, unable to stop himself from mirroring Holmes' delighted expression.
"Hmm," Holmes said, pensively. Then, in a sudden display of speed and strength, he flipped Watson onto his back and curled up alongside him, head pillowed on Watson's shoulder. He sighed contentedly and flung one arm across Watson's chest. "I say, it's quite snug down here, isn't it old boy?"
It was exceedingly snug, and if Watson stretched out his leg he could, maybe, yes. He spread the throw over them as best he could without moving overmuch, and then let himself bask in the warmth of the fire and of Holmes, humming happily to himself, his long, lean body flush against Watson's side.
If he had simply wanted a cuddle, Holmes' approach was baroque in the extreme. But, as always, there was really no arguing with the man's results. Watson curled his hand over Holmes' ribs and closed his eyes. He was half-asleep when Gladstone trotted across the room and flopped down on his belly, wedging himself between their shins.
"Good dog," Holmes murmured, pressing closer, lips curving against Watson's throat.
What You Wanted
Watson stood in the doorway and stared incredulously into Holmes' room. It looked as though a small, extremely localized cyclone had recently passed through, but that was typical and not what had captured his attention. The high bed was untidily made and not one but two individuals were deeply asleep, sprawled across the coverlet and sharing one pillow.
Gladstone whimpered and pedaled his paws in the air (chasing rabbits, they always said, although Watson could not conceive of Gladstone chasing anything that moved more quickly than a breakfast sausage) and Holmes stirred, lifting his arm from where it rested across Gladstone's barrel chest and rolling toward the door. He peered at Watson through one bleary eye.
"Everything all right, old boy?" he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
"Perfectly," Watson replied, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
"Capital," Holmes said, around a yawn.
The dog yipped and rolled onto his side, paws coming to rest in the small of Holmes back with enough force to shift him an inch closer to the edge of the bed. "Watson?" Holmes said, frowning deeply.
"Yes, Holmes?"
"Would you be so kind as to remove the malodorous beast from my bed?"
Watson smiled broadly. "Which one?"
"Oh, very good," Holmes said, huffing a laugh. "I was referring to your wretched dog."
"I thought he was our wretched dog," Watson said, crossing the threshold and skirting around the heaps of newspapers and books and clothes and teacups until he reached the far side of Holmes bed. "Gladstone," he said, not sternly but in a tone that never failed to get the dog's attention.
Gladstone rolled over and lumbered unsteadily to his feet on the mattress and looked up at Watson expectantly.
"Down you get, you great brute," Watson said, tugging gently at his collar.
The dog hit the floor with all the grace he possessed, which was none, and trotted out to the sitting room.
"Thank you," Holmes sighed, drawing his legs toward his chest and sighing happily. "Gladstone is far from the most pleasant bed fellow."
Watson considered and discarded a handful of responses. "Holmes?"
Holmes yawned again. "Yes, Watson?"
"You are aware that Gladstone cannot get onto your bed without some assistance?"
Holmes shut his eyes. "That's absurd," he said after a long, conspicuous moment of silence. "Are you suggesting Nanny let herself into our rooms and lifted the monster onto my bed whilst I slept?"
Watson shook his head and laughed. "Your perspicacity is, as ever, awe inspiring."
Holmes grinned sleepily. "Such flattery," he murmured.
Watson smoothed a wrinkle out of the coverlet and turned to leave the room. "Sleep well, my friend."
*
In spite of the fire, the day's chill permeated the sitting room. Watson wrapped himself in a throw and stretched out on the settee. He considered getting up to retrieve his book, but it had been a trying day and he was weary. He prescribed himself an hour's nap and let his eyes sink shut.
Only a moment had passed when he experienced the singular, but far too familiar, sensation of being closely observed. He sighed and opened his eyes.
Gladstone was staring at him beseechingly from the hearth rug. When he perceived that Watson was awake, he scooted closer and snuffled his hand wetly.
"Are you hungry, boy?" Watson asked, scratching his ear.
Instead of the usual enthusiastic reply, Gladstone rested his chin on the edge of the settee and continued to stare at him mutely.
The dog only ever made two requests, so if he did not want food it followed that he must need to relieve himself. Watson sighed and levered himself up onto one elbow.
Gladstone sat back on his haunches, wiggled his bottom, and launched himself onto the settee, landing perilously close to certain of Watson's more delicate assets.
He rolled his eyes and inched back to make room. "Holmes has spoiled you terribly," he grumbled, tucking a pillow under his head.
The dog collapsed onto his belly at Watson's side and panted happily in his face.
He stroked the wrinkles on Gladstone's massive head until the dog's eyes, and his own, started to droop. "You are malodorous," he said, turning his face into the pillow and drifting off.
*
Watson did not have to open his eyes to know that he was once again the subject of intense scrutiny. Gladstone was still tucked against his side, snoring gently, so it could only be Holmes. Watson could feel the weight of his gaze, scratching against his skin like rough wool. He cracked open one eye warily. "What is it?"
Holmes was perched on the edge of his chair, elbows resting on knees, chin in one hand, staring at him. "You're cuddling the dog," he said, his tone ever so slightly accusatory.
Watson yawned. "Well spotted, Holmes."
"I thought so," Holmes replied. He stood abruptly and spent some few moments stoking the fire, rattling through a pile of papers on the end table, and pacing the perimeter of the hearth rug. He stopped in front of the settee and jammed his hands into his pockets. "I want him back."
Watson had thought he might drift back to sleep, but he should have known better. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands "I beg your pardon?"
"I want him back," Holmes repeated.
Why was Holmes always at his most cryptic when Watson had just woken up? "What are you talking about?"
"I want the dog back," Holmes said, staring gravely at something over Watson's shoulder.
Watson experienced a frisson of panic and twisted around to peer over his shoulder, but they were alone. "You ... what? You want the dog?" he asked. He was wide awake now but profoundly confused.
"Yes," Holmes said.
"Whatever for?"
"I had hoped to get some more sleep," Holmes said, without meeting Watson's eyes.
Watson shook his head, but still nothing made sense. "And?" he prompted Holmes.
"And it is quite cold in my room," Holmes said, defensiveness edging into his voice, and tugged his dressing gown more tightly about him.
When the pieces finally fell into place, it was devilishly hard not to burst out laughing. Watson cleared his throat and took a moment to compose himself. "I don't believe Gladstone has quite advanced to lighting fires yet."
Holmes rolled his eyes. "Watson," he said, raking exasperated fingers through his hair. "Would you just ... give me the damned dog."
"No," Watson said, thoughtfully, and adjusted the throw around his shoulders. "I don't think I will."
Holmes stared at him in disbelief. "And why not, if I might ask?"
"It's a bit chilly in here," Watson replied evenly, resting his head on the pillow once more, "and I had hoped to get some more sleep."
Contrary to appearances, Watson was coiled and ready to spring when Holmes launched himself at the settee and attempted to forcefully seize the dog. Gladstone woke with a start and, in a rare display of liveliness, jumped clear of the fray. Watson freed his arms from the blanket, wrapped them around Holmes' waist, and proceeded to wrestle him, with no small amount of difficulty, to the hearth rug. He pinned Holmes to the floor and rolled on top of him to prevent his escape. Holmes stared up at him with a mutinous expression, but he did not attempt to free himself.
When he became weary of Holmes' silent glaring, Watson said, "You are the most fractious individual I've ever had the displeasure of sharing rooms with." He shook his head but could not stop the corner of his mouth from curling up. Holmes went abruptly limp beneath him.
"Am I?" he asked, sounding almost obscenely pleased with himself. He stretched as much as their position would allow and then smiled beatifically up at Watson.
"Oh, undoubtedly," Watson replied, unable to stop himself from mirroring Holmes' delighted expression.
"Hmm," Holmes said, pensively. Then, in a sudden display of speed and strength, he flipped Watson onto his back and curled up alongside him, head pillowed on Watson's shoulder. He sighed contentedly and flung one arm across Watson's chest. "I say, it's quite snug down here, isn't it old boy?"
It was exceedingly snug, and if Watson stretched out his leg he could, maybe, yes. He spread the throw over them as best he could without moving overmuch, and then let himself bask in the warmth of the fire and of Holmes, humming happily to himself, his long, lean body flush against Watson's side.
If he had simply wanted a cuddle, Holmes' approach was baroque in the extreme. But, as always, there was really no arguing with the man's results. Watson curled his hand over Holmes' ribs and closed his eyes. He was half-asleep when Gladstone trotted across the room and flopped down on his belly, wedging himself between their shins.
"Good dog," Holmes murmured, pressing closer, lips curving against Watson's throat.