Story Time: Certain Misgivings, ch. 1
Title: Certain Misgivings
Author: florfina
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG for this chapter
Word Count: 2833
Spoilers: I'm running out of spoiler jokes. Nope, none here!
Summary: Two boys meet in mutual destination at the train station, becoming friendly (in an off-handish sort of way) with the other until they are forced to part ways. Holmes, however, is completely enamored and will do whatever it takes to keep this young doctor in his life.
Notes/Warnings: A compilation of all the teen/first kiss/Watson's childhood/conflicting emotion prompts from the kinkmeme that I wanted to fill but could never get around to. So I bunched 'em together in this story!
Disclaimer: My update rate is incredibly suckish, but I am totally into this.
Sherlock Holmes was standing at the train station early one morning. He had only one bag, mostly empty, and a ticket bound for the country. His father wished to show him off to a few friends in hopes of landing him a future scholarship of some sorts. It was silly, Holmes thought, but if it contented his father, it contented him. From his pocket he withdrew a simple gold watch with a swirling "S.H." engraved over the cover. He flicked it open and noted the time before the hands could even be read.
He sighed morunfully. An entire hour in a crowded, noisy station and not a thing to occupy his mind with. He looked around at all the faces passing by, not at all interested in learning their life stories. On the ground, near a pillar, was a sodden newspaper. Well, he thought, he could always work on what he'd say when he presented himself to father's friends, but that seemed so mundane and vulgar. Besides, that would best be saved for the equally vile train ride.
Deciding not to stand in the way of busy people, Holmes jumped at the sudden vacancy of a bench. He shrugged off his overcoat and folded it onto his lap, kicking his bag beneath his feet. The hat he wore shielded his gaze from the crowd so that none could know he was watching their boots and discovering all their hidden controversies. But that, too, got old. He was completely unable to focus, which probably meant he was focusing on something in the back of his mind.
He took up a train schedule which was crumpled near his arm, unfolding it carefully so as to prolong his anticipation. It was barely in half now, but he made himself stop. What would one find in its folds? Dirt? Grass? A secret note; a confession meant for a stranger? He highly hoped it was the latter, and yet he knew it wouldn't be. Still, the disappointment of completely clean paper was like a bucket of cold water thrown over his head. It caused him to groan and cast it off into the sea of travelers.
He folded his arms and sunk his chin upon his chest, melting into his seat. Someone took the empty space next to him. From under the brim of his hat, Holmes could see a pair of dark grey trousers and relatively clean boots. A city man, then, reading a pamphlet similar to the one he just threw away. He shrugged, loosing interest, and focused all his attention to the speck of dirt on his thumbnail.
A few minutes passed and Holmes was aware that the stranger was writing something. A note, maybe, of a future transfer. He smiled when he snuck a glance at the man's fingers. The cheap pen was smearing ink onto his glove unbeknownst to their owner. He mumbled this observation under his breath and baited the stranger to respond. Not being able to see him from the neck up, Holmes was satisfied enough to watch the hands still and the figure tense. He chuckled aloud this time, watching as the stranger's palm turned up to reveal the black smudge. The man didn't offer any sort of thanks, but easily took the pen between his teeth and began removing the glove. Holmes, in desperate want of any distraction, watched intently as the folds of leather scrunched up at the base of the man's fingers before lifting off completely over white skin.
He noted with interest that the stranger's hands were actually strong and smooth, more like a boy's than a man's. The fingernails were neatly trimmed and clean, no callous marring the long, gentle fingers. Holmes had expected his companion to be a banker of some sort, but it appeared as though he were sitting with someone closer to his age. Amused at the prospect, Holmes inclined his head back and looked for the first time at the man sitting to his left.
He was immediately in love with the face he saw. Not the man himself, as such ideas were preposterous to Holmes, but he couldn't help but marvel at how wrong he had been. Not elderly, not greying at the temples; the lips were full and supple; much too warm to be a drab old banker's. His eyes, like water over a leaf, were a beautiful nest of green and brown with a bright gold tint that intensified their splendor.
Holmes' lips parted as if he were about to say something, but he hastily schooled his gaze forward, denying himself the pleasure of this boy's eyes. He shivered as a motion to his left jostled his arm.
"You know, I only ever used that pen because my mother wanted me to," the voice was soft in Holmes' ears. It was the type of voice one could fall asleep to; in a good way. "She told me to write all my best papers with it."
Holmes' cheeks were burning as his heart fluttered in his chest. He relished in the sensation, and so, naturally, shrugged his shoulder with indifference.
"What good is a pen for writing great papers? Surely she didn't mean train schedules."
The young man chuckled, examining the ink which bled through his glove. Holmes wanted to take that hand in his and rub the ink off himself, but he didn't.
"I'm going to medical school, so hopefully I'll be writing on something a bit more prestigious then old schedules."
Holmes displayed a look of silent scrutiny, as if the joke were of bad taste, so that he could further examine this fascinating creature.
The young doctor smiled and held out his ink-stained hand.
"My name is John--"
"-- Watson. Yes, I know."
"Oh... you do?"
It was Holmes' turn to smile. "I saw it on that book of yours. I must say, I didn't take you for a religious fellow."
Watson turned in his seat to look at the book which was, admittedly, in the means of slipping from his bag.
"That," he scoffed. "That is the one thing I wish I hadn't brought with me."
"Your mother must not be expecting you to succeed as a doctor, then. That book will only get in the way." Holmes sniffed and pinched his nose, cleverly hiding his smile.
"She wanted to instill a grand balance of work and faith for me... But, really, it's only with my best interest in mind that she endeared me to carry it along. It'll remind me of her and all she's done over the years." Watson spoke defensively.
"Which is why you'll do your best to ignore her." The joy Holmes derived from invoking his peers was a long standing habit which showed no signs of lifting. If he were without so many friends his age, it was because he drove them away with his insulting remarks. His purpose wasn't to bully, however, it was endearing to find that one tick and see how far it could go. Most times they would sneer, anger burning behind their eyes or else a cowering ego which retreated with their footsteps. But sometimes they surprised him, but never for long. It was curious to think what this example would prove. Holmes delighted in that twitch of his lip while hoping with all his heart that the doctor would do something to astound him. It was a very long wait for the train, after all.
Their eyes locked as he awaited either cruel rejection or meek remarks. Sitting and staring, their knees were barely an inch apart on the crowded bench. Holmes observed a stray lock of chestnut hair from beneath a fine hat as time seemed to still long enough for him to notice. John Watson smiled. And then he broke into a hearty laugh which caused Holmes to jerk, shifting his position and narrowing his eyes.
In a low, offended voice, he muttered, "I've done nothing to elicit such a horrible sound from you."
Watson pursed his lips but the laughter remained in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he managed. "It's just that, well, you're quite a small fellow, aren't you? One such as yourself would need to stand on a soap box in order to be heard."
He was completely speechless. Dropping his gaze to the toe of his boot, Holmes rolled his shoulder and closed his eyes. This certainly was astonishing. He's never been quite insulted by that before... usually they never noticed his height in contrast to his egotism.
"One doesn't need to be a giant to rule the world," he ground out flatly.
"No, but one would need to be sufficiently taller to reach the top shelf of anything."
"Aren't you an incredible man!" It didn't matter what people thought of him, but for whatever reason, this boy's opinion mattered very much.
"Oh, God, I do apologize, believe me. It's just that I've never met anyone with the gall to speak out against that particular book." He took his bag onto his lap and carefully pushed the leather volume back into place. "I'm not usually so bold as to insult people I don't know, but I must admit that the look on your face was well worth it."
Holmes refused to look at him, but knowing that such a gaze was cast his way, and that such a voice was meant for him to hear, he couldn't help but to regain this harrowing spotlight.
"It is a long while for the train," he murmured under his breath.
"I suppose it is. Say, I don't believe I caught your name?"
"For the simple reason that it wasn't out to be caught."
Watson smiled again, lifting a fine eyebrow at Holmes' reclusive behavior. "Alright then. Well, I truly am sorry for offending you, it was not my intention at all. In fact, I'm quite sure you've devised a plan for reaching anything on a high shelf despite your short-commings."
Holmes trained his eyes forward, checking his watch only to find that it hasn't moved much at all. To his left, Watson was becoming wracked with guilt as Holmes' silence only increased the awkward air forming between them. Holmes found it a cruel, justified mean of revenge. I'll give him five more minutes.
Time passed.
It didn't take one.
"Look, I'm really, terribly sorry if I've insulted you! If there's anything I can do...?"
Holmes let his head lull back so that he was staring at the rafters overhead. His black hat folded beneath his skull as chilled air blew across his neck. When the strange boy said or did nothing, Watson found himself lightly brushing a speck of dust from Holmes' shoulder and touching it again just to make sure.
At the cost of losing his carefully crafted nonchalance, Holmes could not stop himself from immediately flinching away.
Confused, and just a little hurt, Watson tucked his arm closely around his bag and looked straight ahead.
Holmes stared at him. Watson blinked uncomfortably, but Holmes would not look away.
Being unable to sit still, he tried to appeal once more. "I've already--"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm afraid you've struck a nerve of mine."
"Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yes. Would you like me to repeat it?"
"No. No, that's... that's quite alright."
"Well I apologize, Watson, if it's not to your liking, but--"
"That's not what I meant at all! Look, I-- it's a very nice name, I like the way it sounds..."
"Thank you..." A flush of warmth washed over Holmes' cheeks as he prayed it'd go unnoticed. Though finding the young doctor turning red like a beat was enough to calm his senses. Deciding to smooth things over, he very cheerily said, "You know, the surname Watson is a very pleasant one as well, despite the fact that there are so many. You could have had something more vulgar or plain, but I find that yours works nicely against the tongue."
"That's a nice way of putting it, to say the least."
Holmes dropped his eyes to where the doctor's hand had been moments ago. "I see you're headed to the country?"
"Yes, I am."
"Why is that? One should think the best schools of medicine would be found in the city."
"Well of course they are! But I'm to meet my grandfather at his country home to help him through the summer."
"Helping what? Dissecting pigs?" Holmes turned a wide grin towards his companion.
Watson shrugged and played up indifference. "Hardly that. He promised to help pay my tuition in turn for weeks of promising labor. I'm not one to complain."
Of course you're not, Holmes wanted to say. You're too good for that. Instead he took out his watch compulsively and checked the time. Watson pursed his lips, lifting his head just a little so that he could read it too.
"So," remarked Holmes as he slid the watch back in his pocket-- this time for good. "Where in the field have you been learned?"
"Oh, well actually I--"
"Don't bother," said the sulky boy as he picket at his nail. "I wouldn't know what you were talking about anyway."
"Then why ask?"
"Isn't that what strangers do? Make idle chit-chat over a topic neither gives a damn about?"
This elicited a laugh.
"I'm glad you think so. I hate talking about my education, it's my least favorite topic of discussion."
"Do you fancy a swim, then?"
"A swim?"
"It's a spontaneous question contrary to the obvious."
"Not really. Had you and I been by a lake, of course that would be the first question asked. In of itself, it's not original at all."
"Why on earth would you and I be by a lake?"
"It was only an example, but that question on its own could be interesting. So tell me, my dear Holmes, why on earth would you and I by a lake?"
"Suppose we were close friends suffering on a sweltering day in the summer. Perhaps even at one of our grandfather's country estates." He watched the green eyes narrow, searching within his own. Holmes felt sick at the thought of possibly allowing himself to slip; one word too far and revealing his silent admiration of this exceedingly handsome boy. But he kept his composure, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in genuine amusement. There was the amazing fact that this man seemed to laugh whenever he was expected to scorn.
The steady trembling of the train station intensified as an engine pulled to a stop, bellowing steam with a heavy sigh and breaking the stare.
Both Holmes and Watson looked to the train and stood up immediately. Watson, seeing his companion rise with him, asked, "Is this you train as well?" He looked hopeful.
Holmes looked at the numbers, the same as on his ticket, and then he looked at the boy. He felt his face grow hot as his stomach churned at the cruel coincidence. Calmly, he said, "No, that it not my train."
"Oh," was the response. Watson heaved his carrier bag and reached for his ticket. The two young men stood in silence while idly tapping a foot, or flicking whatever lay in their hands. Finally, the doctor looked up and asked in a quiet whisper:
"Would you like to come with me?"
The friendly inquiry was met with a blank stare. Watson blushed.
"What I mean to say is, my grandfather wouldn't mind my bringing a friend along, and really, I'd love to have you on the ride over! I know we just met, and perhaps it might be a bit inappropriate to extend such an invitation as that, but if you'd like to--"
"I can't." He said quickly.
"You can't? Well, that's alright," Watson stammered. "Oh, forgive me, I never asked where you were going! It was silly of me to suppose... well, never mind. It was a pleasure meeting you all the same."
He held out his hand, taking Holmes' and imposing the proper handshake he was at first denied. Holmes reciprocated weakly, allowing his arm to fall limp at his side as the young doctor turned to leave.
Once by himself, Holmes sat back on the bench and stared at his ticket. He thought about the boy with beautiful eyes and the odd way in which they hit it off. He also thought about the ink stain as the lingering warmth started to fade away. He cast a cursory glance towards the train, stood up, and headed for the telegraph station.
He wrote to his father.
"Am not coming to country. Happily awaiting your safe return. S.H."
A few days later he received a response.
"Disappointed to hear that. Enjoy your summer. F."
Holmes laughed, crushing the telegram and tossing it in the fire. "Oh father," he said with recovering breath. "You're always so disappointed with everything. Perhaps you should make the effort to ask yourself why."
Author: florfina
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG for this chapter
Word Count: 2833
Spoilers: I'm running out of spoiler jokes. Nope, none here!
Summary: Two boys meet in mutual destination at the train station, becoming friendly (in an off-handish sort of way) with the other until they are forced to part ways. Holmes, however, is completely enamored and will do whatever it takes to keep this young doctor in his life.
Notes/Warnings: A compilation of all the teen/first kiss/Watson's childhood/conflicting emotion prompts from the kinkmeme that I wanted to fill but could never get around to. So I bunched 'em together in this story!
Disclaimer: My update rate is incredibly suckish, but I am totally into this.
Sherlock Holmes was standing at the train station early one morning. He had only one bag, mostly empty, and a ticket bound for the country. His father wished to show him off to a few friends in hopes of landing him a future scholarship of some sorts. It was silly, Holmes thought, but if it contented his father, it contented him. From his pocket he withdrew a simple gold watch with a swirling "S.H." engraved over the cover. He flicked it open and noted the time before the hands could even be read.
He sighed morunfully. An entire hour in a crowded, noisy station and not a thing to occupy his mind with. He looked around at all the faces passing by, not at all interested in learning their life stories. On the ground, near a pillar, was a sodden newspaper. Well, he thought, he could always work on what he'd say when he presented himself to father's friends, but that seemed so mundane and vulgar. Besides, that would best be saved for the equally vile train ride.
Deciding not to stand in the way of busy people, Holmes jumped at the sudden vacancy of a bench. He shrugged off his overcoat and folded it onto his lap, kicking his bag beneath his feet. The hat he wore shielded his gaze from the crowd so that none could know he was watching their boots and discovering all their hidden controversies. But that, too, got old. He was completely unable to focus, which probably meant he was focusing on something in the back of his mind.
He took up a train schedule which was crumpled near his arm, unfolding it carefully so as to prolong his anticipation. It was barely in half now, but he made himself stop. What would one find in its folds? Dirt? Grass? A secret note; a confession meant for a stranger? He highly hoped it was the latter, and yet he knew it wouldn't be. Still, the disappointment of completely clean paper was like a bucket of cold water thrown over his head. It caused him to groan and cast it off into the sea of travelers.
He folded his arms and sunk his chin upon his chest, melting into his seat. Someone took the empty space next to him. From under the brim of his hat, Holmes could see a pair of dark grey trousers and relatively clean boots. A city man, then, reading a pamphlet similar to the one he just threw away. He shrugged, loosing interest, and focused all his attention to the speck of dirt on his thumbnail.
A few minutes passed and Holmes was aware that the stranger was writing something. A note, maybe, of a future transfer. He smiled when he snuck a glance at the man's fingers. The cheap pen was smearing ink onto his glove unbeknownst to their owner. He mumbled this observation under his breath and baited the stranger to respond. Not being able to see him from the neck up, Holmes was satisfied enough to watch the hands still and the figure tense. He chuckled aloud this time, watching as the stranger's palm turned up to reveal the black smudge. The man didn't offer any sort of thanks, but easily took the pen between his teeth and began removing the glove. Holmes, in desperate want of any distraction, watched intently as the folds of leather scrunched up at the base of the man's fingers before lifting off completely over white skin.
He noted with interest that the stranger's hands were actually strong and smooth, more like a boy's than a man's. The fingernails were neatly trimmed and clean, no callous marring the long, gentle fingers. Holmes had expected his companion to be a banker of some sort, but it appeared as though he were sitting with someone closer to his age. Amused at the prospect, Holmes inclined his head back and looked for the first time at the man sitting to his left.
He was immediately in love with the face he saw. Not the man himself, as such ideas were preposterous to Holmes, but he couldn't help but marvel at how wrong he had been. Not elderly, not greying at the temples; the lips were full and supple; much too warm to be a drab old banker's. His eyes, like water over a leaf, were a beautiful nest of green and brown with a bright gold tint that intensified their splendor.
Holmes' lips parted as if he were about to say something, but he hastily schooled his gaze forward, denying himself the pleasure of this boy's eyes. He shivered as a motion to his left jostled his arm.
"You know, I only ever used that pen because my mother wanted me to," the voice was soft in Holmes' ears. It was the type of voice one could fall asleep to; in a good way. "She told me to write all my best papers with it."
Holmes' cheeks were burning as his heart fluttered in his chest. He relished in the sensation, and so, naturally, shrugged his shoulder with indifference.
"What good is a pen for writing great papers? Surely she didn't mean train schedules."
The young man chuckled, examining the ink which bled through his glove. Holmes wanted to take that hand in his and rub the ink off himself, but he didn't.
"I'm going to medical school, so hopefully I'll be writing on something a bit more prestigious then old schedules."
Holmes displayed a look of silent scrutiny, as if the joke were of bad taste, so that he could further examine this fascinating creature.
The young doctor smiled and held out his ink-stained hand.
"My name is John--"
"-- Watson. Yes, I know."
"Oh... you do?"
It was Holmes' turn to smile. "I saw it on that book of yours. I must say, I didn't take you for a religious fellow."
Watson turned in his seat to look at the book which was, admittedly, in the means of slipping from his bag.
"That," he scoffed. "That is the one thing I wish I hadn't brought with me."
"Your mother must not be expecting you to succeed as a doctor, then. That book will only get in the way." Holmes sniffed and pinched his nose, cleverly hiding his smile.
"She wanted to instill a grand balance of work and faith for me... But, really, it's only with my best interest in mind that she endeared me to carry it along. It'll remind me of her and all she's done over the years." Watson spoke defensively.
"Which is why you'll do your best to ignore her." The joy Holmes derived from invoking his peers was a long standing habit which showed no signs of lifting. If he were without so many friends his age, it was because he drove them away with his insulting remarks. His purpose wasn't to bully, however, it was endearing to find that one tick and see how far it could go. Most times they would sneer, anger burning behind their eyes or else a cowering ego which retreated with their footsteps. But sometimes they surprised him, but never for long. It was curious to think what this example would prove. Holmes delighted in that twitch of his lip while hoping with all his heart that the doctor would do something to astound him. It was a very long wait for the train, after all.
Their eyes locked as he awaited either cruel rejection or meek remarks. Sitting and staring, their knees were barely an inch apart on the crowded bench. Holmes observed a stray lock of chestnut hair from beneath a fine hat as time seemed to still long enough for him to notice. John Watson smiled. And then he broke into a hearty laugh which caused Holmes to jerk, shifting his position and narrowing his eyes.
In a low, offended voice, he muttered, "I've done nothing to elicit such a horrible sound from you."
Watson pursed his lips but the laughter remained in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he managed. "It's just that, well, you're quite a small fellow, aren't you? One such as yourself would need to stand on a soap box in order to be heard."
He was completely speechless. Dropping his gaze to the toe of his boot, Holmes rolled his shoulder and closed his eyes. This certainly was astonishing. He's never been quite insulted by that before... usually they never noticed his height in contrast to his egotism.
"One doesn't need to be a giant to rule the world," he ground out flatly.
"No, but one would need to be sufficiently taller to reach the top shelf of anything."
"Aren't you an incredible man!" It didn't matter what people thought of him, but for whatever reason, this boy's opinion mattered very much.
"Oh, God, I do apologize, believe me. It's just that I've never met anyone with the gall to speak out against that particular book." He took his bag onto his lap and carefully pushed the leather volume back into place. "I'm not usually so bold as to insult people I don't know, but I must admit that the look on your face was well worth it."
Holmes refused to look at him, but knowing that such a gaze was cast his way, and that such a voice was meant for him to hear, he couldn't help but to regain this harrowing spotlight.
"It is a long while for the train," he murmured under his breath.
"I suppose it is. Say, I don't believe I caught your name?"
"For the simple reason that it wasn't out to be caught."
Watson smiled again, lifting a fine eyebrow at Holmes' reclusive behavior. "Alright then. Well, I truly am sorry for offending you, it was not my intention at all. In fact, I'm quite sure you've devised a plan for reaching anything on a high shelf despite your short-commings."
Holmes trained his eyes forward, checking his watch only to find that it hasn't moved much at all. To his left, Watson was becoming wracked with guilt as Holmes' silence only increased the awkward air forming between them. Holmes found it a cruel, justified mean of revenge. I'll give him five more minutes.
Time passed.
It didn't take one.
"Look, I'm really, terribly sorry if I've insulted you! If there's anything I can do...?"
Holmes let his head lull back so that he was staring at the rafters overhead. His black hat folded beneath his skull as chilled air blew across his neck. When the strange boy said or did nothing, Watson found himself lightly brushing a speck of dust from Holmes' shoulder and touching it again just to make sure.
At the cost of losing his carefully crafted nonchalance, Holmes could not stop himself from immediately flinching away.
Confused, and just a little hurt, Watson tucked his arm closely around his bag and looked straight ahead.
Holmes stared at him. Watson blinked uncomfortably, but Holmes would not look away.
Being unable to sit still, he tried to appeal once more. "I've already--"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm afraid you've struck a nerve of mine."
"Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yes. Would you like me to repeat it?"
"No. No, that's... that's quite alright."
"Well I apologize, Watson, if it's not to your liking, but--"
"That's not what I meant at all! Look, I-- it's a very nice name, I like the way it sounds..."
"Thank you..." A flush of warmth washed over Holmes' cheeks as he prayed it'd go unnoticed. Though finding the young doctor turning red like a beat was enough to calm his senses. Deciding to smooth things over, he very cheerily said, "You know, the surname Watson is a very pleasant one as well, despite the fact that there are so many. You could have had something more vulgar or plain, but I find that yours works nicely against the tongue."
"That's a nice way of putting it, to say the least."
Holmes dropped his eyes to where the doctor's hand had been moments ago. "I see you're headed to the country?"
"Yes, I am."
"Why is that? One should think the best schools of medicine would be found in the city."
"Well of course they are! But I'm to meet my grandfather at his country home to help him through the summer."
"Helping what? Dissecting pigs?" Holmes turned a wide grin towards his companion.
Watson shrugged and played up indifference. "Hardly that. He promised to help pay my tuition in turn for weeks of promising labor. I'm not one to complain."
Of course you're not, Holmes wanted to say. You're too good for that. Instead he took out his watch compulsively and checked the time. Watson pursed his lips, lifting his head just a little so that he could read it too.
"So," remarked Holmes as he slid the watch back in his pocket-- this time for good. "Where in the field have you been learned?"
"Oh, well actually I--"
"Don't bother," said the sulky boy as he picket at his nail. "I wouldn't know what you were talking about anyway."
"Then why ask?"
"Isn't that what strangers do? Make idle chit-chat over a topic neither gives a damn about?"
This elicited a laugh.
"I'm glad you think so. I hate talking about my education, it's my least favorite topic of discussion."
"Do you fancy a swim, then?"
"A swim?"
"It's a spontaneous question contrary to the obvious."
"Not really. Had you and I been by a lake, of course that would be the first question asked. In of itself, it's not original at all."
"Why on earth would you and I be by a lake?"
"It was only an example, but that question on its own could be interesting. So tell me, my dear Holmes, why on earth would you and I by a lake?"
"Suppose we were close friends suffering on a sweltering day in the summer. Perhaps even at one of our grandfather's country estates." He watched the green eyes narrow, searching within his own. Holmes felt sick at the thought of possibly allowing himself to slip; one word too far and revealing his silent admiration of this exceedingly handsome boy. But he kept his composure, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in genuine amusement. There was the amazing fact that this man seemed to laugh whenever he was expected to scorn.
The steady trembling of the train station intensified as an engine pulled to a stop, bellowing steam with a heavy sigh and breaking the stare.
Both Holmes and Watson looked to the train and stood up immediately. Watson, seeing his companion rise with him, asked, "Is this you train as well?" He looked hopeful.
Holmes looked at the numbers, the same as on his ticket, and then he looked at the boy. He felt his face grow hot as his stomach churned at the cruel coincidence. Calmly, he said, "No, that it not my train."
"Oh," was the response. Watson heaved his carrier bag and reached for his ticket. The two young men stood in silence while idly tapping a foot, or flicking whatever lay in their hands. Finally, the doctor looked up and asked in a quiet whisper:
"Would you like to come with me?"
The friendly inquiry was met with a blank stare. Watson blushed.
"What I mean to say is, my grandfather wouldn't mind my bringing a friend along, and really, I'd love to have you on the ride over! I know we just met, and perhaps it might be a bit inappropriate to extend such an invitation as that, but if you'd like to--"
"I can't." He said quickly.
"You can't? Well, that's alright," Watson stammered. "Oh, forgive me, I never asked where you were going! It was silly of me to suppose... well, never mind. It was a pleasure meeting you all the same."
He held out his hand, taking Holmes' and imposing the proper handshake he was at first denied. Holmes reciprocated weakly, allowing his arm to fall limp at his side as the young doctor turned to leave.
Once by himself, Holmes sat back on the bench and stared at his ticket. He thought about the boy with beautiful eyes and the odd way in which they hit it off. He also thought about the ink stain as the lingering warmth started to fade away. He cast a cursory glance towards the train, stood up, and headed for the telegraph station.
He wrote to his father.
"Am not coming to country. Happily awaiting your safe return. S.H."
A few days later he received a response.
"Disappointed to hear that. Enjoy your summer. F."
Holmes laughed, crushing the telegram and tossing it in the fire. "Oh father," he said with recovering breath. "You're always so disappointed with everything. Perhaps you should make the effort to ask yourself why."