promptfic: down to the water he goes (r - h/w)
down to the water he goes, holmes,watson, r (for violence). for shkink prompt: I want a fic where someone hurts Watson in some way and Holmes goes CRAZY. Like 'bodies-in-the-Thames' crazy.
Watson is propped up on his elbows, the bruises spreading their dull rainbow around his swollen mouth. He's safe in Holmes' bed, finally, but his eyes hold a terror they likely didn't when ... that ... was happening.
Watson is thinking. He's plotting. He's not nearly as lost as Holmes is. "I'm afraid," he lies. "Don't leave me, Holmes. Stay beside me tonight, please, I beg you."
Holmes stares at him, a pinpoint of sanity in the red haze of his vision. His hand is paused on the doorknob, but to think there is a true choice -- that's simply madness. "You won't be alone and I'll return by dawn."
"I only want you." Desperate and Holmes is almost swayed, but only in theory.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow," he whispers, throwing open the door and racing down the stairs, so quickly he can't feel the carpeted wood hitting the soles of his feet. He's outdoors then, in the dank air and Holmes smells nothing but blood on the wind, his tongue and fingers itching for a taste ... a slippery touch.
Lestrade enters in his wake. Holmes can hear their conversation from the window. "How could you let him go?" Watson demands, his voice shaking with pain and fury. "You know what he's going to do!"
Lestrade has more sense than Holmes could ever expect. "He's just going for a walk, Doctor. Beyond that, I don't know anything."
Holmes smiles. He's one step closer to being able to breathe again.
~*~
It's painfully easy to find them.
An insult almost and Holmes gives them a chance to run, which none of them take. A blur of lost hours follows, quick mechanical lines of thought as he disarms and disables them. Binds them and pours his specially-made mixture down their stricken throats, watching them twist and retch before rolling them into the river.
The water swallows them alive and they sink gratefully, as if that's the better fate.
It takes time for them to disappear and the experience isn't quite as satisfying as Holmes imagined it would be.
Nevertheless, he keeps good to his promise and returns to Watson by dawn. His poor doctor isn't sleeping, he's weeping pitifully and Holmes holds him close and berates him softly for his silly sentimentality. "And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Full of sound and fury, nothing more, my dearest."
Watson replies with whispers of hell and lost souls and Holmes is forced to kiss his red lips silent.
Eventually, the dear man buries his face against Holmes' shoulder and Holmes knows his doctor's forgiveness flows, as easily as the Thames speeds its graceful arc to the sea carrying four twisted bodies upon its slight waves.
He will strut and fret his hour upon the stage some other day.
But not today.
Watson is propped up on his elbows, the bruises spreading their dull rainbow around his swollen mouth. He's safe in Holmes' bed, finally, but his eyes hold a terror they likely didn't when ... that ... was happening.
Watson is thinking. He's plotting. He's not nearly as lost as Holmes is. "I'm afraid," he lies. "Don't leave me, Holmes. Stay beside me tonight, please, I beg you."
Holmes stares at him, a pinpoint of sanity in the red haze of his vision. His hand is paused on the doorknob, but to think there is a true choice -- that's simply madness. "You won't be alone and I'll return by dawn."
"I only want you." Desperate and Holmes is almost swayed, but only in theory.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow," he whispers, throwing open the door and racing down the stairs, so quickly he can't feel the carpeted wood hitting the soles of his feet. He's outdoors then, in the dank air and Holmes smells nothing but blood on the wind, his tongue and fingers itching for a taste ... a slippery touch.
Lestrade enters in his wake. Holmes can hear their conversation from the window. "How could you let him go?" Watson demands, his voice shaking with pain and fury. "You know what he's going to do!"
Lestrade has more sense than Holmes could ever expect. "He's just going for a walk, Doctor. Beyond that, I don't know anything."
Holmes smiles. He's one step closer to being able to breathe again.
~*~
It's painfully easy to find them.
An insult almost and Holmes gives them a chance to run, which none of them take. A blur of lost hours follows, quick mechanical lines of thought as he disarms and disables them. Binds them and pours his specially-made mixture down their stricken throats, watching them twist and retch before rolling them into the river.
The water swallows them alive and they sink gratefully, as if that's the better fate.
It takes time for them to disappear and the experience isn't quite as satisfying as Holmes imagined it would be.
Nevertheless, he keeps good to his promise and returns to Watson by dawn. His poor doctor isn't sleeping, he's weeping pitifully and Holmes holds him close and berates him softly for his silly sentimentality. "And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Full of sound and fury, nothing more, my dearest."
Watson replies with whispers of hell and lost souls and Holmes is forced to kiss his red lips silent.
Eventually, the dear man buries his face against Holmes' shoulder and Holmes knows his doctor's forgiveness flows, as easily as the Thames speeds its graceful arc to the sea carrying four twisted bodies upon its slight waves.
He will strut and fret his hour upon the stage some other day.
But not today.