Fic for monkiainen: Cold Reality
Title: Cold Reality
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: blackbird_song
Verse: Ritchie Films
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings: Reference to character death (canon in another 'verse)
Summary: Holmes and Watson are stranded in the middle of the Yorkshire Moors on a December night.
Also on AO3: Cold Reality
"Lie down with me, Watson."
"Under no circumstances, Holmes."
"Why not?"
Watson rolls his eyes. "Because you are not my wife!"
Holmes tugs at his wig, an appalling shade of blonde. "Perhaps another shade would have been-"
"More flattering to your complexion."
Holmes blinks at him. "You noticed that."
Watson stalks to the one, rickety chair in the room and sits on it. "Just take it off!" The memory of Mary overwhelms him, but he refuses to be unmanned in front of Holmes and can't ethically attack the man, however tempting that should be.
"There is only one bed available within a twenty mile radius. Your limp is worsening, suggesting physical pain that would interfere with proper sleep. The temperature of the room will fall by ten degrees when that last lump of coal is consumed and there is one blanket to be shared between us that won't stretch from the bed to the floor or to that ridiculous chair. We can share the bed or the floor and live. Which do you prefer?"
Watson is now forced to study the frost creeping across the window. "There must be a stable available nearby. Perhaps a sheepfold."
Holmes peers through the window. "There does appear to be something crumbling about a hundred yards away."
Watson can't refrain from leaning over to see for himself, even though he saw the ruins when they arrived. Needlessly, he checks his pocket watch. "Half past eight in the middle of the Yorkshire moors in December." He sighs and looks from the stone floor to the small bed. "At least the window is intact."
"And sound," Holmes adds. "Note the lack of apertures near the frame."
A blast of frigid air causes them both to shiver. Watson all but clenches his teeth. "Too bad the same can't be said about the door."
"Roll up your coat and stuff it into the gap."
"Roll up your dress and use that, instead!"
"The dress would be ruined!"
Watson pulls in a breath to stop himself from beating Holmes bloody. "My coat is thicker than your dress and will help keep us alive if we use it as an extra blanket on the bed. Your dress is-" ('ghastly' won't work) "-more flexible and would fill the gap better."
"Ah! Good thinking, Watson!" Holmes divests himself of the dress with astonishing speed and pushes it into the gap with alacrity. As he rises, his bustle swings into place behind him, the very figure of a prim and proper woman of fashion caught out in her undergarments and daring all passers-by to breathe a word to anyone.
Watson tilts his head down and to the left in hopes of regaining some composure. "A golden bustle and lady's heels in the middle of nowhere. I'm going mad..."
"I'll take it off if you'll help me unlace the corset."
"Why didn't you use one with a front fastening? And how did you put this on?"
"It would have spoilt the line of the dress and Mrs Hudson helped me." Holmes unties the bustle and sets it to stand guard next to the door, stepping towards Watson in the primmest of all possible ways and gazing up with just enough defiance to remind him of every woman he'd ever wanted.
"Oh, for God's sake, turn around!"
Holmes smirks and does so.
It's all Watson can do not to throw the man to the ground, rip the corset off him and throw it in the fire. But he did something like that on a train a few years ago and the corset would dowse the fire they'd need to survive the night. And thinking of ripping clothes off of Holmes has always felt a bit off. "I think you can manage the rest," he says, after loosening the garment enough so Holmes could turn it around.
The set of Holmes's shoulder blades as he twists and squirms within the corset whilst attempting to jockey it into position is entirely too fascinating a thing to Watson's eyes. Sinuous yet vulnerable, they remind him in some small measure of Mary. The thought makes him want to roar and beat someone bloody.
And then Holmes frees himself of the corset and turns towards him, eyes full of giddy pride and enthusiasm that fades as he searches Watson's face. "What's wrong?"
Watson can't help but fix his eyes on the scar from Moriarty's barbaric use of the hook. "Does that still bother you when it's cold?" It's a stupid question because the answer is very likely to be-
"Yes." Holmes's face is unmasked now, his voice quiet. "Why do you ask?"
Several answers cascade through Watson's mind at that moment, but he settles on, "Just trying to determine which side of the bed to use."
"Ah. Well, then, I should probably take the one nearest the wall. And, if you don't mind, I should like to keep my wig on. It helps to keep me warm."
Watson nods. The prospect of such close proximity to Holmes when he's wearing a wig so close to the colour of Mary's hair is exquisitely painful, but the thought of losing his friend to hypothermia is worse. "Just choose a different colour next time."
"I'll do my best." Holmes removes his petticoat.
"Well, at least you're wearing trousers-were wearing trousers..."
Holmes folds them almost neatly and lays them on the floor near the fire. "Always be prepared for any eventuality." He climbs into the bed, settling near the wall and looking expectantly at Watson. "It's not getting any warmer in the room."
Watson rolls his eyes and strips down to his drawers, folding his own clothes very carefully and setting the trousers, waistcoat and shirt in a neat pile on the chair. He climbs into the bed and arranges his coat sideways over the blanket to distribute it as equally as possible over the two of them, though the bed is small enough to render such effort moot.
"It would probably be most efficacious to put your arm around me," Holmes mutters, as Watson discovers that he only possible position he can occupy whilst remaining on the mattress and covered is on his left side, facing Holmes's back.
It shouldn't be so hard to do this. He and Holmes are friends. He's touched Holmes as a doctor and a friend multiple times, they've saved each other's lives and given each other comfort, albeit awkwardly. Perhaps if he initiated a brawl with the man or there were a platoon of armed ruffians arrayed against them-
"Oh, do quiet your thoughts and hold me, Watson," Holmes says with a huff. "I'm cold."
Before he can respond, Holmes has seized Watson's hand and pulled it round, settling it in a loosely intimate hold against his belly.
On the rare occasion when he'd found himself in this position before, Watson had acquiesced with a sense of grudging acceptance, smiling secretly beneath the necessary objections. Tonight, he finds himself riveted in discomfort. He misses Mary. He wants to enfold her in his arms, but that has now been impossible for a year and a day. He's still wearing black, his frock coat an overspreading shadow engulfing the two of them.
"Mary..." The name escapes his mouth in a blur of tears and he is unmanned. He does his best not to sob, but it's too late.
Holmes pulls Watson's arm closer round, placing a perfunctory kiss on his hand before folding it against his chest. "I miss her, too. Not like you, of course," he added, squeezing Watson's tensing fingers. "She was worthy of you." It was softly spoken, full of genuine regard and missing all of Holmes's usual distance.
Watson presses his face against the mattress as best he can, but it fails to mask his sobbing, otherworldly in its depth.
Holmes, to Watson's eternal gratitude, lets him weep without further comment.
At some point in what seems the distant future, Watson discovers that Holmes has turned towards and is holding him. He also notes that the wig is gone and his friend is gazing at him.
"You've never mentioned how she died."
"Childbirth," Watson manages. "Our daughter didn't survive it, either."
"Ah."
Watson is too exhausted to rebuke Holmes. He's also far too comforted by Holmes's arms around him.
"What would her name have been?"
"We hadn't decided yet." Watson would dry his eyes, but they're tightly pressed to Holmes's bare chest in an effort not entirely his own. "We quarrelled, but never came to terms."
Holmes strokes Watson's back absently. "Which names were in contention?"
"Elizabeth and Charlotte, if you must know."
"Charlotte Elizabeth Watson has a good ring to it, don't you think?"
"Yes," Watson says, as his eyes moisten again.
"Then we shall call her that." Holmes gathers Watson a little closer.
"Thank you, Holmes. I think you can stop embracing me now." He says it because he thinks he should, and because he's becoming warm and parts of him are responding in a way that worries him.
Holmes's grip tightens in warning. "That would be unwise," he says. "Look at the fire and the window."
Watson sees the frost limned in moonlight on the window. He doesn't have to look to see that the fire has died down, but he does so anyway. "Ah. Yes, frostbite would be the least of our worries."
"Indeed." Holmes's voice is soft and he's gazing at Watson in a way that suggests physical desire. With the trace of lip rouge still lingering, the sight of those almost feminine lips is enough to drive a man mad.
Possessed by an urge he hasn't experienced in a long while, Watson touches them with his own.
"Watson..."
Gathering the sensation of his name spoken against his own lips in that voice, Watson allows his long-dormant hunger to awaken and-
"Watson!" Holmes holds him slightly away. "If you still want this later, after we've slept together, I'm eagerly yours. But if I lost your friendship..." He swallows. "I couldn't..."
Watson kisses Holmes's brow, composing himself. "Thank you." He pulls the blanket and coat closer in around them both. "And you never will."
"Thank you," Holmes says against Watson's cheek.
*****
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: blackbird_song
Verse: Ritchie Films
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings: Reference to character death (canon in another 'verse)
Summary: Holmes and Watson are stranded in the middle of the Yorkshire Moors on a December night.
Also on AO3: Cold Reality
"Lie down with me, Watson."
"Under no circumstances, Holmes."
"Why not?"
Watson rolls his eyes. "Because you are not my wife!"
Holmes tugs at his wig, an appalling shade of blonde. "Perhaps another shade would have been-"
"More flattering to your complexion."
Holmes blinks at him. "You noticed that."
Watson stalks to the one, rickety chair in the room and sits on it. "Just take it off!" The memory of Mary overwhelms him, but he refuses to be unmanned in front of Holmes and can't ethically attack the man, however tempting that should be.
"There is only one bed available within a twenty mile radius. Your limp is worsening, suggesting physical pain that would interfere with proper sleep. The temperature of the room will fall by ten degrees when that last lump of coal is consumed and there is one blanket to be shared between us that won't stretch from the bed to the floor or to that ridiculous chair. We can share the bed or the floor and live. Which do you prefer?"
Watson is now forced to study the frost creeping across the window. "There must be a stable available nearby. Perhaps a sheepfold."
Holmes peers through the window. "There does appear to be something crumbling about a hundred yards away."
Watson can't refrain from leaning over to see for himself, even though he saw the ruins when they arrived. Needlessly, he checks his pocket watch. "Half past eight in the middle of the Yorkshire moors in December." He sighs and looks from the stone floor to the small bed. "At least the window is intact."
"And sound," Holmes adds. "Note the lack of apertures near the frame."
A blast of frigid air causes them both to shiver. Watson all but clenches his teeth. "Too bad the same can't be said about the door."
"Roll up your coat and stuff it into the gap."
"Roll up your dress and use that, instead!"
"The dress would be ruined!"
Watson pulls in a breath to stop himself from beating Holmes bloody. "My coat is thicker than your dress and will help keep us alive if we use it as an extra blanket on the bed. Your dress is-" ('ghastly' won't work) "-more flexible and would fill the gap better."
"Ah! Good thinking, Watson!" Holmes divests himself of the dress with astonishing speed and pushes it into the gap with alacrity. As he rises, his bustle swings into place behind him, the very figure of a prim and proper woman of fashion caught out in her undergarments and daring all passers-by to breathe a word to anyone.
Watson tilts his head down and to the left in hopes of regaining some composure. "A golden bustle and lady's heels in the middle of nowhere. I'm going mad..."
"I'll take it off if you'll help me unlace the corset."
"Why didn't you use one with a front fastening? And how did you put this on?"
"It would have spoilt the line of the dress and Mrs Hudson helped me." Holmes unties the bustle and sets it to stand guard next to the door, stepping towards Watson in the primmest of all possible ways and gazing up with just enough defiance to remind him of every woman he'd ever wanted.
"Oh, for God's sake, turn around!"
Holmes smirks and does so.
It's all Watson can do not to throw the man to the ground, rip the corset off him and throw it in the fire. But he did something like that on a train a few years ago and the corset would dowse the fire they'd need to survive the night. And thinking of ripping clothes off of Holmes has always felt a bit off. "I think you can manage the rest," he says, after loosening the garment enough so Holmes could turn it around.
The set of Holmes's shoulder blades as he twists and squirms within the corset whilst attempting to jockey it into position is entirely too fascinating a thing to Watson's eyes. Sinuous yet vulnerable, they remind him in some small measure of Mary. The thought makes him want to roar and beat someone bloody.
And then Holmes frees himself of the corset and turns towards him, eyes full of giddy pride and enthusiasm that fades as he searches Watson's face. "What's wrong?"
Watson can't help but fix his eyes on the scar from Moriarty's barbaric use of the hook. "Does that still bother you when it's cold?" It's a stupid question because the answer is very likely to be-
"Yes." Holmes's face is unmasked now, his voice quiet. "Why do you ask?"
Several answers cascade through Watson's mind at that moment, but he settles on, "Just trying to determine which side of the bed to use."
"Ah. Well, then, I should probably take the one nearest the wall. And, if you don't mind, I should like to keep my wig on. It helps to keep me warm."
Watson nods. The prospect of such close proximity to Holmes when he's wearing a wig so close to the colour of Mary's hair is exquisitely painful, but the thought of losing his friend to hypothermia is worse. "Just choose a different colour next time."
"I'll do my best." Holmes removes his petticoat.
"Well, at least you're wearing trousers-were wearing trousers..."
Holmes folds them almost neatly and lays them on the floor near the fire. "Always be prepared for any eventuality." He climbs into the bed, settling near the wall and looking expectantly at Watson. "It's not getting any warmer in the room."
Watson rolls his eyes and strips down to his drawers, folding his own clothes very carefully and setting the trousers, waistcoat and shirt in a neat pile on the chair. He climbs into the bed and arranges his coat sideways over the blanket to distribute it as equally as possible over the two of them, though the bed is small enough to render such effort moot.
"It would probably be most efficacious to put your arm around me," Holmes mutters, as Watson discovers that he only possible position he can occupy whilst remaining on the mattress and covered is on his left side, facing Holmes's back.
It shouldn't be so hard to do this. He and Holmes are friends. He's touched Holmes as a doctor and a friend multiple times, they've saved each other's lives and given each other comfort, albeit awkwardly. Perhaps if he initiated a brawl with the man or there were a platoon of armed ruffians arrayed against them-
"Oh, do quiet your thoughts and hold me, Watson," Holmes says with a huff. "I'm cold."
Before he can respond, Holmes has seized Watson's hand and pulled it round, settling it in a loosely intimate hold against his belly.
On the rare occasion when he'd found himself in this position before, Watson had acquiesced with a sense of grudging acceptance, smiling secretly beneath the necessary objections. Tonight, he finds himself riveted in discomfort. He misses Mary. He wants to enfold her in his arms, but that has now been impossible for a year and a day. He's still wearing black, his frock coat an overspreading shadow engulfing the two of them.
"Mary..." The name escapes his mouth in a blur of tears and he is unmanned. He does his best not to sob, but it's too late.
Holmes pulls Watson's arm closer round, placing a perfunctory kiss on his hand before folding it against his chest. "I miss her, too. Not like you, of course," he added, squeezing Watson's tensing fingers. "She was worthy of you." It was softly spoken, full of genuine regard and missing all of Holmes's usual distance.
Watson presses his face against the mattress as best he can, but it fails to mask his sobbing, otherworldly in its depth.
Holmes, to Watson's eternal gratitude, lets him weep without further comment.
At some point in what seems the distant future, Watson discovers that Holmes has turned towards and is holding him. He also notes that the wig is gone and his friend is gazing at him.
"You've never mentioned how she died."
"Childbirth," Watson manages. "Our daughter didn't survive it, either."
"Ah."
Watson is too exhausted to rebuke Holmes. He's also far too comforted by Holmes's arms around him.
"What would her name have been?"
"We hadn't decided yet." Watson would dry his eyes, but they're tightly pressed to Holmes's bare chest in an effort not entirely his own. "We quarrelled, but never came to terms."
Holmes strokes Watson's back absently. "Which names were in contention?"
"Elizabeth and Charlotte, if you must know."
"Charlotte Elizabeth Watson has a good ring to it, don't you think?"
"Yes," Watson says, as his eyes moisten again.
"Then we shall call her that." Holmes gathers Watson a little closer.
"Thank you, Holmes. I think you can stop embracing me now." He says it because he thinks he should, and because he's becoming warm and parts of him are responding in a way that worries him.
Holmes's grip tightens in warning. "That would be unwise," he says. "Look at the fire and the window."
Watson sees the frost limned in moonlight on the window. He doesn't have to look to see that the fire has died down, but he does so anyway. "Ah. Yes, frostbite would be the least of our worries."
"Indeed." Holmes's voice is soft and he's gazing at Watson in a way that suggests physical desire. With the trace of lip rouge still lingering, the sight of those almost feminine lips is enough to drive a man mad.
Possessed by an urge he hasn't experienced in a long while, Watson touches them with his own.
"Watson..."
Gathering the sensation of his name spoken against his own lips in that voice, Watson allows his long-dormant hunger to awaken and-
"Watson!" Holmes holds him slightly away. "If you still want this later, after we've slept together, I'm eagerly yours. But if I lost your friendship..." He swallows. "I couldn't..."
Watson kisses Holmes's brow, composing himself. "Thank you." He pulls the blanket and coat closer in around them both. "And you never will."
"Thank you," Holmes says against Watson's cheek.
*****