igrab
in
grabi_hands
Dogs | Holmes/Watson, Clarkey
title. dogs
pairing. holmes/watson, clarkey
written for. holmestice
details. 1,484 words . PG
The snow was coming down in thick sheets as Constable Clark - Clarkey, to his mates - maneuvered pairs of gossiping ladies and rattling black landaus, making his way to 221b Baker Street. He'd been surprised at the invitation. He knew, as many at the Yard did, that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson hosted a small Christmas dinner. Inspector Lestrade and his wife were often the only Yarders in attendance, but this year, Clarkey had found a small gold-embossed invitation waiting in his postbox. The note read and wife, but Clarkey chuckled as he read it. A good joke that had been, even if Mr. Holmes had not fully appreciated it.
This year, Lestrade and Mrs. Lestrade had another engagement, and so it was that Clarkey found himself proceeding up Baker Street alone. He wasn't all that bothered by it - he was a young man, with a fine career ahead of him. He'd meet a nice girl eventually. Hopefully, someone Mr. Holmes liked better than Dr. Watson's wife (which was a strange thing; she was a wonderful young lady, a perfect match for Dr. Watson. But then, Holmes was full of his oddities). He hoped they'd all still be acquainted. Fascinating people.
He knocked on the door of 221b and was let in immediately by the smiling housekeeper, whom Clarkey gave the utmost warmth and courtesy to. He knew she must be well nigh approaching sainthood by now.
"Here, let me take your coat, Mr. Clark," she said. "They're upstairs. It's just the three of you, I'm afraid. Mrs. Watson is ill, unfortunately, and the elder Holmes couldn't get away from work."
"Elder Holmes?"
But Mrs. Hudson was all but pushing him up the stairs, and Clarkey sensed her fine veil of courtesy thinning. He hope she wasn't counting on his presence to make anything better. Clarkey rarely had that effect on anything.
The sitting room had been transformed. The armchairs were pushed out of the way to make room for a small table, set for three; there was holly all along the mantle and even a sprig of mistletoe, tacked above the door to the bedroom stairs. Clarkey wasn't sure what that was about.
"Clarkey, wonderful. No Mrs. Clarkey?" Holmes, of course, felt the need to bring that right up. He looked splendid, hair all smooth and perfect, shaved, his clothes pressed and fresh and almost probably entirely his own.
He chuckled. "Not this year, Holmes. Is-" he turned around, just to make sure - "Is there anyone else joining us?"
Holmes spread his hands and grinned with catlike intent. "Just us. You, me, and the good doctor, if he ever deigns to show..."
"Right here, Holmes."
There was something off about it. Something... scripted, the moment too perfect for it to have been coincidental. Clarkey couldn't help noticing that Watson's pants were only just touched at the ends with damp; his hair was dry, his nose and cheeks devoid of the rosy blooms that any prolonged exposure to the bitter cold surely would have caused.
But perhaps he'd taken a cab. It was a woeful night to be walking.
"Ah, good. You look wonderful," Holmes added, a slight twist to his lips. "Ran out in a bit of a rush, did we?"
Watson raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"
Holmes, still grinning, tapped the side of his neck.
These was a bit of soap by his ear, or perhaps shaving foam, but Watson quickly wiped it off and sighed in his friend's general direction, like his deductions were tiring rather than brilliant, but Holmes took it in good stride. He seemed in this moment to be the perfect master of himself, elegant, scintillating, pulling out chairs for both parties and serving what would turn out to be a truly delicious dinner.
"So, Clarkey," he started in, in a voice that the Constable had learned to classify as 'about to humiliate me thoroughly', "How is the Yard faring in this weather?"
Clarkey patted his lips with his napkin. "You mean, how have we solved crimes with our heads up our asses? Sorry, Doctor," he amended quickly, but Watson chuckled warmly. There really was more to him than meets the eye. It wasn't any wonder that Holmes was always going on about him, about how Clarkey wasn't Watson and didn't do anything right and if Watson were here, he would...
He'd noticed it before, the incredible affection they had for each other. Coming into the sitting room at Baker Street, even when invited, felt a little like an intrusion - a feeling that should not have even existed, given that Watson no longer lived in these rooms. But it still felt as if he did. There were still two armchairs, two bookcases, even the writing desk tucked away in a corner was still stocked with paper and ink. They hadn't said goodbye; Clarkey wondered if they ever would.
"You're quiet tonight." Holmes was looking at him. Clarkey didn't like it when Holmes looked at him; it meant he was seeing.
"Sorry; just thinking."
One long, critical moment later, and Holmes had turned to Watson with a charmed smile. "And this, my dear, is why I keep him around. Clarkey, unlike the feeble drudges he calls his superiors, actually uses the brain that God gave him..."
They're not talking. They're saying words, but not to each other, not for the other to hear. This is for me. This is a show, an elaborate recital that I'm meant to be privy to. But what was showing? What did they need to hide from him so badly?
The key word, he realized, was they.
It was in their voices, but not in the words they spoke or the falsely bright pitch they were spoken in. It was, in fact, in the lack - the lack of bruising familiarity, the lack of genuine warmth, a careful, calculated distance between them that said so much more than words ever could.
"Whatever it is," he blurted out suddenly, and only retrospectively realized he'd cut Holmes off mid-thought. "....Sorry-"
"No, do go on." It was the first thing Holmes had said that day that Clarkey felt he actually believed. He was present.
"...Whatever it is," he said, "whatever secret you're trying to keep from me - it isn't working." He looked them in the eyes as he spoke, and he saw in them an understanding, a recognition of what he was saying. So it was true. They hadn't just had a row or a falling-out or anything else that could have explained the incongruity. "And, what I mean to say is - it doesn't matter to me. Whatever it is. I just - " he gripped his fork a little harder, looked down, prayed for the words to make this sound right. "It's not right, the two of you acting like you don't mean anything to each other. That's all."
He was terrified, truly terrified that he'd botched it royally, but when he looked up, he saw gratitude in Watson's eyes and a dancing, proud amusement in Holmes's. That, more than anything, reassured him.
"Well. As I was saying," and he picked up where he'd left off, but everything was different now. His words seemed to sparkle, there was a current to them, a joy, as if in giving his words were imbued with meaning and purpose - because Watson was listening. The Doctor, for his part, had a crinkly-soft look in his eyes and a smile on his face, as if he could listen to Holmes speak for hours on whatever subject he pleased.
It wasn't until Clarkey was walking home that he actually added two to two and came up with four.
Well, if that was their secret, he would keep it gladly. He'd always had the belief that a man's business with his own; if it be with other men, well, so be it. In a way, he was relieved - he certainly wasn't being used as any sort of Watson replacement, and Holmes's obsession with the man likely had its roots in... non-professional areas. He was fine with that. He'd be a good friend, then, and a good supporter. Lestrade was probably all too aware. And men such as Holmes - invert or no - he needed friends. He was too eccentric to have many, but the friends he had would have to be loyal as dogs. That's what they were here for, though he sighed to admit it. Mr. Holmes's unfortunate dogs.
Clarkey, Lestrade, and Gladstone. He was in good company.
pairing. holmes/watson, clarkey
written for. holmestice
details. 1,484 words . PG
The snow was coming down in thick sheets as Constable Clark - Clarkey, to his mates - maneuvered pairs of gossiping ladies and rattling black landaus, making his way to 221b Baker Street. He'd been surprised at the invitation. He knew, as many at the Yard did, that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson hosted a small Christmas dinner. Inspector Lestrade and his wife were often the only Yarders in attendance, but this year, Clarkey had found a small gold-embossed invitation waiting in his postbox. The note read and wife, but Clarkey chuckled as he read it. A good joke that had been, even if Mr. Holmes had not fully appreciated it.
This year, Lestrade and Mrs. Lestrade had another engagement, and so it was that Clarkey found himself proceeding up Baker Street alone. He wasn't all that bothered by it - he was a young man, with a fine career ahead of him. He'd meet a nice girl eventually. Hopefully, someone Mr. Holmes liked better than Dr. Watson's wife (which was a strange thing; she was a wonderful young lady, a perfect match for Dr. Watson. But then, Holmes was full of his oddities). He hoped they'd all still be acquainted. Fascinating people.
He knocked on the door of 221b and was let in immediately by the smiling housekeeper, whom Clarkey gave the utmost warmth and courtesy to. He knew she must be well nigh approaching sainthood by now.
"Here, let me take your coat, Mr. Clark," she said. "They're upstairs. It's just the three of you, I'm afraid. Mrs. Watson is ill, unfortunately, and the elder Holmes couldn't get away from work."
"Elder Holmes?"
But Mrs. Hudson was all but pushing him up the stairs, and Clarkey sensed her fine veil of courtesy thinning. He hope she wasn't counting on his presence to make anything better. Clarkey rarely had that effect on anything.
The sitting room had been transformed. The armchairs were pushed out of the way to make room for a small table, set for three; there was holly all along the mantle and even a sprig of mistletoe, tacked above the door to the bedroom stairs. Clarkey wasn't sure what that was about.
"Clarkey, wonderful. No Mrs. Clarkey?" Holmes, of course, felt the need to bring that right up. He looked splendid, hair all smooth and perfect, shaved, his clothes pressed and fresh and almost probably entirely his own.
He chuckled. "Not this year, Holmes. Is-" he turned around, just to make sure - "Is there anyone else joining us?"
Holmes spread his hands and grinned with catlike intent. "Just us. You, me, and the good doctor, if he ever deigns to show..."
"Right here, Holmes."
There was something off about it. Something... scripted, the moment too perfect for it to have been coincidental. Clarkey couldn't help noticing that Watson's pants were only just touched at the ends with damp; his hair was dry, his nose and cheeks devoid of the rosy blooms that any prolonged exposure to the bitter cold surely would have caused.
But perhaps he'd taken a cab. It was a woeful night to be walking.
"Ah, good. You look wonderful," Holmes added, a slight twist to his lips. "Ran out in a bit of a rush, did we?"
Watson raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"
Holmes, still grinning, tapped the side of his neck.
These was a bit of soap by his ear, or perhaps shaving foam, but Watson quickly wiped it off and sighed in his friend's general direction, like his deductions were tiring rather than brilliant, but Holmes took it in good stride. He seemed in this moment to be the perfect master of himself, elegant, scintillating, pulling out chairs for both parties and serving what would turn out to be a truly delicious dinner.
"So, Clarkey," he started in, in a voice that the Constable had learned to classify as 'about to humiliate me thoroughly', "How is the Yard faring in this weather?"
Clarkey patted his lips with his napkin. "You mean, how have we solved crimes with our heads up our asses? Sorry, Doctor," he amended quickly, but Watson chuckled warmly. There really was more to him than meets the eye. It wasn't any wonder that Holmes was always going on about him, about how Clarkey wasn't Watson and didn't do anything right and if Watson were here, he would...
He'd noticed it before, the incredible affection they had for each other. Coming into the sitting room at Baker Street, even when invited, felt a little like an intrusion - a feeling that should not have even existed, given that Watson no longer lived in these rooms. But it still felt as if he did. There were still two armchairs, two bookcases, even the writing desk tucked away in a corner was still stocked with paper and ink. They hadn't said goodbye; Clarkey wondered if they ever would.
"You're quiet tonight." Holmes was looking at him. Clarkey didn't like it when Holmes looked at him; it meant he was seeing.
"Sorry; just thinking."
One long, critical moment later, and Holmes had turned to Watson with a charmed smile. "And this, my dear, is why I keep him around. Clarkey, unlike the feeble drudges he calls his superiors, actually uses the brain that God gave him..."
They're not talking. They're saying words, but not to each other, not for the other to hear. This is for me. This is a show, an elaborate recital that I'm meant to be privy to. But what was showing? What did they need to hide from him so badly?
The key word, he realized, was they.
It was in their voices, but not in the words they spoke or the falsely bright pitch they were spoken in. It was, in fact, in the lack - the lack of bruising familiarity, the lack of genuine warmth, a careful, calculated distance between them that said so much more than words ever could.
"Whatever it is," he blurted out suddenly, and only retrospectively realized he'd cut Holmes off mid-thought. "....Sorry-"
"No, do go on." It was the first thing Holmes had said that day that Clarkey felt he actually believed. He was present.
"...Whatever it is," he said, "whatever secret you're trying to keep from me - it isn't working." He looked them in the eyes as he spoke, and he saw in them an understanding, a recognition of what he was saying. So it was true. They hadn't just had a row or a falling-out or anything else that could have explained the incongruity. "And, what I mean to say is - it doesn't matter to me. Whatever it is. I just - " he gripped his fork a little harder, looked down, prayed for the words to make this sound right. "It's not right, the two of you acting like you don't mean anything to each other. That's all."
He was terrified, truly terrified that he'd botched it royally, but when he looked up, he saw gratitude in Watson's eyes and a dancing, proud amusement in Holmes's. That, more than anything, reassured him.
"Well. As I was saying," and he picked up where he'd left off, but everything was different now. His words seemed to sparkle, there was a current to them, a joy, as if in giving his words were imbued with meaning and purpose - because Watson was listening. The Doctor, for his part, had a crinkly-soft look in his eyes and a smile on his face, as if he could listen to Holmes speak for hours on whatever subject he pleased.
It wasn't until Clarkey was walking home that he actually added two to two and came up with four.
Well, if that was their secret, he would keep it gladly. He'd always had the belief that a man's business with his own; if it be with other men, well, so be it. In a way, he was relieved - he certainly wasn't being used as any sort of Watson replacement, and Holmes's obsession with the man likely had its roots in... non-professional areas. He was fine with that. He'd be a good friend, then, and a good supporter. Lestrade was probably all too aware. And men such as Holmes - invert or no - he needed friends. He was too eccentric to have many, but the friends he had would have to be loyal as dogs. That's what they were here for, though he sighed to admit it. Mr. Holmes's unfortunate dogs.
Clarkey, Lestrade, and Gladstone. He was in good company.