a tourist in the waking world (Holmes 2009 AU)
Title: a tourist in the waking world
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009 / Cageverse
Rating/Warnings: G/none
Words: 748
Summary: On the way to work, Watson paused under an awning the avoid the rain. That's his story, and he's sticking to it.
Cageverse is an AU created by iambickilometer, spatiograph, and webreathewords. We've all been writing in it, but there's been some discrepancy in world-building. I'm going to try to explain it better in another post, as well as provide links to other stories in it.
a tourist in the waking world
Some days, it rains, and he stares out at the people going by without coming close to the bars. Watson knows because on rainy days he can stop under the awning and not look suspicious. He slips a damp book through the bars, and it disappears into the folds of Holmes' coat. Holmes passes back a folded scrap of paper, which goes into Watson's pocket. The rain, pouring from the awning and all through the city, serves as something of a veil; to a certain degree they are hidden from the world. No one is paying attention to the limping doctor resting in the first dry place he could find. No one cares about the sideshow in this weather.
“They're not expecting me at the clinic for another half-hour,” he says, a little more than a whisper so that he can be heard over the steady tattoo of rain on the roof. “Did you finish the last book I left you?”
Holmes shifts to lean his shoulder against the gap between to bars, so that it's almost as if he's leaning on Watson instead. “I've observed him here among us,” he replies. “He has been in here since publishing that book of his. A fascinating read, by the way; have you read it yourself?”
“I have.” Watson's breath shows briefly in the air between them, white mist. “But I wonder, was it worth it in the end - freedom for infamy?”
“Here is a man who does only what he desires to do,” Holmes says, and his breath is warm in Watson's ear. “He regrets nothing but that his life of indulgence has ended. Living in anonymity would not have suited him.”
The rain is picking up, water bouncing up from the cobblestones to further dampen the lower ends of Watson's trousers. He finds he doesn't really mind. He's going to be soaked by the time he gets to the clinic, and he finds he doesn't mind at all. “And you, Holmes? Could you spend a lifetime keeping your head down?”
He asks these things, makes this kind of statement, as if there is a chance for that to happen. They skirt around the topic of the cage, because Watson doesn't want to think about what this means, friendship with a sideshow freak, doesn't know how they'll go on this way or how he'll keep himself from coming under suspicion. They never discuss they they draw together against the cold, the way Holmes' fingers tangle with Watson's scarf, the contents of the notes they have begun to exchange. Watson sometimes blames himself for ever looking up from the cobblestones, but then he thinks of never having known Sherlock Holmes and can only feel relief.
Days like this, the city smells of water and mold and wet stone, wood smoke and coal smoke and soot. The harshness of smoke and the softness of rain cling to the lining of his jacket and the notes in his pockets. Holmes smells of the same, out too close to the elements every day and night. His skin is lined and pallid, hair overgrown and lank, coat worn and faded. He's smiling now, slightly, almost bitter.
“I have all the practice in anonymity I could ever require,” he says. “Of all the people in the world, you are one of two who know my name.”
Some days, they say nothing at all, just exchange books before Watson moves on. Rarely do they have the luxury of time to say what they want, and really, it makes sense that they would fritter it away with roundabout banter. The things they ought to say are poison, an infection to the way of the world; the things they want to say are far too convoluted to be put into words. Sometimes Watson wants to take an axe to the cage, cut Holmes free, and run off with him into the wilds of rural England. But he is a sensible man, and Holmes smart enough to see this. It's a romantic idea, with no grounding in reality.
Watson smiles, and straightens his hat. Holmes tugs his collar into place. “You will of course need to continue your walk,” he says at length. “I can languish in solitude all the day if you will return this evening.”
“I will,” Watson finds himself promising. “If only momentarily.”
Around them, the rain continues to fall.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 2009 / Cageverse
Rating/Warnings: G/none
Words: 748
Summary: On the way to work, Watson paused under an awning the avoid the rain. That's his story, and he's sticking to it.
Cageverse is an AU created by iambickilometer, spatiograph, and webreathewords. We've all been writing in it, but there's been some discrepancy in world-building. I'm going to try to explain it better in another post, as well as provide links to other stories in it.
a tourist in the waking world
Some days, it rains, and he stares out at the people going by without coming close to the bars. Watson knows because on rainy days he can stop under the awning and not look suspicious. He slips a damp book through the bars, and it disappears into the folds of Holmes' coat. Holmes passes back a folded scrap of paper, which goes into Watson's pocket. The rain, pouring from the awning and all through the city, serves as something of a veil; to a certain degree they are hidden from the world. No one is paying attention to the limping doctor resting in the first dry place he could find. No one cares about the sideshow in this weather.
“They're not expecting me at the clinic for another half-hour,” he says, a little more than a whisper so that he can be heard over the steady tattoo of rain on the roof. “Did you finish the last book I left you?”
Holmes shifts to lean his shoulder against the gap between to bars, so that it's almost as if he's leaning on Watson instead. “I've observed him here among us,” he replies. “He has been in here since publishing that book of his. A fascinating read, by the way; have you read it yourself?”
“I have.” Watson's breath shows briefly in the air between them, white mist. “But I wonder, was it worth it in the end - freedom for infamy?”
“Here is a man who does only what he desires to do,” Holmes says, and his breath is warm in Watson's ear. “He regrets nothing but that his life of indulgence has ended. Living in anonymity would not have suited him.”
The rain is picking up, water bouncing up from the cobblestones to further dampen the lower ends of Watson's trousers. He finds he doesn't really mind. He's going to be soaked by the time he gets to the clinic, and he finds he doesn't mind at all. “And you, Holmes? Could you spend a lifetime keeping your head down?”
He asks these things, makes this kind of statement, as if there is a chance for that to happen. They skirt around the topic of the cage, because Watson doesn't want to think about what this means, friendship with a sideshow freak, doesn't know how they'll go on this way or how he'll keep himself from coming under suspicion. They never discuss they they draw together against the cold, the way Holmes' fingers tangle with Watson's scarf, the contents of the notes they have begun to exchange. Watson sometimes blames himself for ever looking up from the cobblestones, but then he thinks of never having known Sherlock Holmes and can only feel relief.
Days like this, the city smells of water and mold and wet stone, wood smoke and coal smoke and soot. The harshness of smoke and the softness of rain cling to the lining of his jacket and the notes in his pockets. Holmes smells of the same, out too close to the elements every day and night. His skin is lined and pallid, hair overgrown and lank, coat worn and faded. He's smiling now, slightly, almost bitter.
“I have all the practice in anonymity I could ever require,” he says. “Of all the people in the world, you are one of two who know my name.”
Some days, they say nothing at all, just exchange books before Watson moves on. Rarely do they have the luxury of time to say what they want, and really, it makes sense that they would fritter it away with roundabout banter. The things they ought to say are poison, an infection to the way of the world; the things they want to say are far too convoluted to be put into words. Sometimes Watson wants to take an axe to the cage, cut Holmes free, and run off with him into the wilds of rural England. But he is a sensible man, and Holmes smart enough to see this. It's a romantic idea, with no grounding in reality.
Watson smiles, and straightens his hat. Holmes tugs his collar into place. “You will of course need to continue your walk,” he says at length. “I can languish in solitude all the day if you will return this evening.”
“I will,” Watson finds himself promising. “If only momentarily.”
Around them, the rain continues to fall.