"Go Down Quickly" (July Writing Prompt 2012), JWP # 9
Title: Go Down Quickly
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Ritchie!Verse)
Rating: G
Warning: Manly scrumpings heavily implied.
Word Count: 800
Summary: Watson's had a crappy day - and he's heading out again.
Author's Notes: For the
watsons_woes 2012 July Writing Prompt #9 - July 25
Prompt type: Poem (use however it inspires you)
Meeting At Night by Robert Browning
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
The rooms were deserted when Watson returned from his evening rounds. Sunlight still followed him through the door, for it was June and dusk was hours away.
Holmes, not here; he was most likely following up a lead or bothering Lestrade. Watson sighed. Life had been sad and tedious these past weeks; a nasty outbreak of typhus from a bad water-pump had taxed all the local medical men. His life had narrowed down to a round of toil, sorrow, and illness, trudging back for a sandwich and a bowl of broth and to sink into his solitary bed before being roused too few hours later to attend to another critical case. He constantly smelled of carbolic and vomit, no matter how often he scrubbed all over with his lavender soap when he finally returned to his rooms.
Gladstone huffed a greeting from his bed in the parlour, a licked-clean dish and a half-full bowl of water before him. Panting? He was; his rotund sides heaved under Watson's hands as he greeted his dumb chum. That meant he'd been walked a good long distance around several blocks before having his supper. Mrs. Hudson would feed the dog but she drew the line at walking the beast - that meant Holmes had done it.
Which meant that Holmes was not on a case, for when he was engaged he neglected to feed and care for himself let alone the damn dog. That left few other options for why he was out. And one of them…
Watson's heart picked up. It had been so long - No, no, wait until you confirm it, you're too tired to deal with a disappointment right now.
Casually he straightened and took up his stick. Leaving his hat and greatcoat on the rack, he headed up the stairs to his room.
Among his odds and ends on the bedside table, his pocket-watch and hairbrush and stethoscope, a plate with a sandwich on it, and a scrap of paper weighed down with three shillings.
Every ounce of weariness fled Watson's bones. Turning up the gas, he took up the note.
Jonathan - go down quickly, and come to the place where thou didst hide thyself when the business was in hand. - David
A slow smile unfurled and stretched across his face like a fiddlehead. Watson headed for the bathroom, loosening his tie and whistling the overture from The Grenadiers.
***
An hour later he was fed, clean, shaved, outfitted for his expedition, and stepping into a cab. Dusk finally deigned to cover London and the lamplighters were at their work.
Down to the riverside, and out of the cab, sent on its way. He walked along the embankment, every sense alert; his revolver was safe in his room but his sword-cane was in his hand - and any idiot who tried to pick his pocket would find only one-and-sixpence for his trouble.
True darkness had finally settled on the city, and the waning-gibbous moon did her best to help. He passed loud taverns and gambling dens, sullen watchmen glaring at him as he passed their ships, closed shipping offices and open dance halls.
There. That one slit between those two particular buildings. His heart beat faster and heavier with the danger and the joy of it all, and the sweet memory.
He made his way into the small and nearly pitch-black alley, carefully picking his way through and not bothering to strike a light. Such an ugly, rank little place, filled with garbage and the reek of every kind of filth - and here it had all begun.
He walked seventeen steps into the abyss, and then stopped and waited.
A different darkness ahead of him, a darkness eddying warmth, and the lovely smells of nitric and sulfur and shag. The scratch of a match and a blue flicker that illuminated those beautiful dark eyes like wells as a cigarette glowed to life and the rich smell of tobacco puffed out.
Watson took the cigarette from Holmes' mouth and put it to his own lips. One of his own Bradleys, of course - and he'd been perishing for a smoke after the day he'd had. He set the cigarette down on a brick, and only then pulled Holmes in for the greeting he'd been denied for so long.
That tiny, feeble orange glow was the only light to witness the kiss as David greeted his Jonathan - here, in the noisome alley into which an angry, drunken soldier had once been wrestled by the boxer he'd lost his money on, and where, pressed up against the wall like shilling whores, they'd spent their passion in each other's hands.
Only when the kiss was done did a breath of speech disturb their air. "Our room is ready," Holmes murmured in Watson's ear. "Madame Geneva expects us."
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Ritchie!Verse)
Rating: G
Warning: Manly scrumpings heavily implied.
Word Count: 800
Summary: Watson's had a crappy day - and he's heading out again.
Author's Notes: For the
watsons_woes 2012 July Writing Prompt #9 - July 25
Prompt type: Poem (use however it inspires you)
Meeting At Night by Robert Browning
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
The rooms were deserted when Watson returned from his evening rounds. Sunlight still followed him through the door, for it was June and dusk was hours away.
Holmes, not here; he was most likely following up a lead or bothering Lestrade. Watson sighed. Life had been sad and tedious these past weeks; a nasty outbreak of typhus from a bad water-pump had taxed all the local medical men. His life had narrowed down to a round of toil, sorrow, and illness, trudging back for a sandwich and a bowl of broth and to sink into his solitary bed before being roused too few hours later to attend to another critical case. He constantly smelled of carbolic and vomit, no matter how often he scrubbed all over with his lavender soap when he finally returned to his rooms.
Gladstone huffed a greeting from his bed in the parlour, a licked-clean dish and a half-full bowl of water before him. Panting? He was; his rotund sides heaved under Watson's hands as he greeted his dumb chum. That meant he'd been walked a good long distance around several blocks before having his supper. Mrs. Hudson would feed the dog but she drew the line at walking the beast - that meant Holmes had done it.
Which meant that Holmes was not on a case, for when he was engaged he neglected to feed and care for himself let alone the damn dog. That left few other options for why he was out. And one of them…
Watson's heart picked up. It had been so long - No, no, wait until you confirm it, you're too tired to deal with a disappointment right now.
Casually he straightened and took up his stick. Leaving his hat and greatcoat on the rack, he headed up the stairs to his room.
Among his odds and ends on the bedside table, his pocket-watch and hairbrush and stethoscope, a plate with a sandwich on it, and a scrap of paper weighed down with three shillings.
Every ounce of weariness fled Watson's bones. Turning up the gas, he took up the note.
Jonathan - go down quickly, and come to the place where thou didst hide thyself when the business was in hand. - David
A slow smile unfurled and stretched across his face like a fiddlehead. Watson headed for the bathroom, loosening his tie and whistling the overture from The Grenadiers.
***
An hour later he was fed, clean, shaved, outfitted for his expedition, and stepping into a cab. Dusk finally deigned to cover London and the lamplighters were at their work.
Down to the riverside, and out of the cab, sent on its way. He walked along the embankment, every sense alert; his revolver was safe in his room but his sword-cane was in his hand - and any idiot who tried to pick his pocket would find only one-and-sixpence for his trouble.
True darkness had finally settled on the city, and the waning-gibbous moon did her best to help. He passed loud taverns and gambling dens, sullen watchmen glaring at him as he passed their ships, closed shipping offices and open dance halls.
There. That one slit between those two particular buildings. His heart beat faster and heavier with the danger and the joy of it all, and the sweet memory.
He made his way into the small and nearly pitch-black alley, carefully picking his way through and not bothering to strike a light. Such an ugly, rank little place, filled with garbage and the reek of every kind of filth - and here it had all begun.
He walked seventeen steps into the abyss, and then stopped and waited.
A different darkness ahead of him, a darkness eddying warmth, and the lovely smells of nitric and sulfur and shag. The scratch of a match and a blue flicker that illuminated those beautiful dark eyes like wells as a cigarette glowed to life and the rich smell of tobacco puffed out.
Watson took the cigarette from Holmes' mouth and put it to his own lips. One of his own Bradleys, of course - and he'd been perishing for a smoke after the day he'd had. He set the cigarette down on a brick, and only then pulled Holmes in for the greeting he'd been denied for so long.
That tiny, feeble orange glow was the only light to witness the kiss as David greeted his Jonathan - here, in the noisome alley into which an angry, drunken soldier had once been wrestled by the boxer he'd lost his money on, and where, pressed up against the wall like shilling whores, they'd spent their passion in each other's hands.
Only when the kiss was done did a breath of speech disturb their air. "Our room is ready," Holmes murmured in Watson's ear. "Madame Geneva expects us."