Sherlock Holmes fic: Holmes + Mary, 1,281 words, PG, sickfic
Oh look what I found from 3 months ago. O.O This was supposed to be a kinkmeme fill, but I hadn’t gotten to the kink yet.
Holmes + Mary, 1,281 words, PG, sickfic, mentions of drug use
"What is it to be today, Nanny?" Holmes does not open his eyes. It'd be a waste of energy for the dubious reward of watching Mrs. Hudson clearing away the food he hasn't eaten. "Castor oil? An ice bath?"
"Holmes."
That is not Mrs. Hudson. That is Mary and his eyes are open and she is standing in the light from the fire. She is gold and curved and too bright to look at.
"John has been worried about you," she says. Her gloves are clasped lightly in her hand: the pale blue pair, smaller than her others, and difficult to remove. She has been here for some minutes already.
"I'm fine," says Holmes. He doesn't know where his legs are and there is a family of hedgehogs living in his hair. "No need to trouble yourself with my health, Mother. Shouldn't you be at home, putting doilies on the furniture?"
The most agreeable outcome would be for Mary to sneer and huff and remove herself from his lodgings with a series of ladylike stomps. Instead, she moves silently forward and looms over him until he must press his head into the back of the chair lest she do something sinister, like brush the hair out of his eyes with cool, soft fingers. "Mrs Hudson sent a telegraph when she could not wake you," she says. "John is attending a patient in the country; I came in his stead."
"Ah, so Nanny has become a spy. Opium does induce one to sleep," Holmes adds loudly, as Mary has disappeared behind his armchair and, most likely, fallen into a rabbit hole. She is now some miles into the Earth's crust with magma licking at her feet like the sullen waters of a country stream. He shall have to yell for her to hear him. "Perhaps Mrs Hudson would like to read a monograph on the subject! I am considering drafting one, after I have furthered my-oh."
Mary has reappeared and brings with her a souvenir of her travels: a sensible tartan blanket (though what the populace of Hell would need a blanket for, Holmes hasn't a clue. Perhaps it is a mechanism for some torture and the blanket will blacken his flesh as if he were a deer upon the spit.)
Mary tucks it about his limbs with admirable grace and he is neither singed nor seared, unless one counts the look in her eye.
"Bring my slippers, dear. There's a draft," says Holmes.
There is no chance she did not hear him; she is bent low over him in the armchair, her skirts brushing his knuckles and her palms smoothing down his torso, chasing the wrinkles out of the blanket. The flickering whorl of her ear is scant inches from his mouth.
"Have you eaten?" she asks.
"Opium dulls the appetite," Holmes answers loftily. Mrs. Hudson, of course, is a lost cause, but he had considered Mary to be sufficiently clever. This widespread ignorance is disheartening; it is clearly imperative that he write a dossier of narcotics.
"You've lost a great deal of weight these past few weeks," says Mary. She bites her lower lip, voice so sweet and cajoling. She is as devious as all women are. Then is proved when Holmes says,
"Clearly it was flesh I did not need,"
and Mary turns upon him as a snake may strike at a trembling mouse.
"Mr Holmes," she hisses, her voice deep and steely, her fingers cutting into the tenuous muscle of his upper arms. "We have been very patient with your self-destructive eccentricities. Now we have reached our limit."
"I don't see that it's any concern of-"
She squeezes his biceps more tightly and Holmes's mouth shuts of its own accord. There is something decidedly evil in her gaze. His poor dear Watson; he's a solid fellow in a fight, but he has likely been cut to ribbons by this deceitful beast. His remains shall be discovered in a gutter before week's end. The Yard will be baffled, of course, and consult Holmes immediately. Fitting, that the loyal companion will join Holmes for one last case.
"Are you on the trail of some crucial criminal mystery?" asks Mary.
"Not yet," says Holmes. He will hide what knowledge he has, in order to draw the murderess out into the light.
"Are you on the verge of some significant scientific insight?"
"No," says Holmes. Soothing medicines are no great discovery, and want only proper documentation.
Mary stands up and peers down at him along the length of her nose. "So this interlude is merely an exercise in wasteful lethargy, then?"
Holmes sniffs haughtily. "I am the master of my own life. I may waste what I like."
Mary laughs quite suddenly, and it chills him down to his very bones. Such callousness in that laugh, and additionally she has neglected to bring his slippers as he asked.
"You are not even the master of your own drawing room," she says. "Look at this mess."
"It's not a mess-leave it!" Holmes snaps as Mary turns to rifle through the papers on the end table. "Everything is in its proper place!"
"Stop me, then," says Mary.
Lunge from the chair, thinks Holmes. Grab around the waist, throw to floor. Rip off her stupid hat. Pull hair. Avoid sharp kick to shins, protect eyes from claws.
Thus prepared, Holmes launches himself from the chair to defend his notes.
He falls flat upon his front.
"Oh, goodness!" cries Mary. She rushes over and kneels by his side, hooking her arms under his armpits to pull him out of the carpet. An excellent opportunity for Holmes to flip her and secure her in a headlock.
Damn, this villainess must be more crafty than he had anticipated, and has dosed him with a paralytic. Holmes will call in his loyal ally.
"Mrs Hudson!" he cries out. "Mrs Hudson!"
"She won't be coming to help you," says Mary. "She refuses to even enter these rooms after you threw a burning coal at her yesterday."
"I did no such thing," says Holmes. He lays his head against the voluminous cushion of Mary's skirts in order to lull her into a false sense of security.
"Small wonder you don't remember it," says Mary. She smooths her palms over his chest, clearly planning to crack his ribs with a well-aimed blow. "It burnt some of your precious papers to ash. It's sheer luck you didn't manage to burn down the whole of London. Didn't your mother teach you not to play with fire?"
"She provided ample instruction as to the use of a Bunsen burner," Holmes says.
Mary sighs, a dainty exhalation common to those in corsetry, and places her palm upon his forehead. "Your brow is on fire," she murmurs.
"Then douse it, woman!" cries Holmes. He has not forgotten her sojourn to the fiery depths of the planet. It is entirely possible that she experienced some metamorphosis resulting in pyrokinesis (as if he had not enough reason already to be wary of this woman.)
"I meant only that you have a fever, Mr Holmes," Mary says drily. "We must get you into bed and properly nourished."
"I refuse," says Holmes.
"I thought you might," says Mary. She eases his head from her lap and stands up. "I would greatly appreciate your cooperation, of course," she says, as she grasps his left wrist in two deceptively strong hands.
"This is a violation of my bodily rights," Holmes says. "I shall write Lestrade immediately and have you brought up on charges."
"Whatever you think best, Mr Holmes," says Mary, and begins to drag him inch by inch to the bedroom.
This entry is cross-posted from http://kayliemalinza.dreamwidth.org/329729.html (
comments.)
Holmes + Mary, 1,281 words, PG, sickfic, mentions of drug use
"What is it to be today, Nanny?" Holmes does not open his eyes. It'd be a waste of energy for the dubious reward of watching Mrs. Hudson clearing away the food he hasn't eaten. "Castor oil? An ice bath?"
"Holmes."
That is not Mrs. Hudson. That is Mary and his eyes are open and she is standing in the light from the fire. She is gold and curved and too bright to look at.
"John has been worried about you," she says. Her gloves are clasped lightly in her hand: the pale blue pair, smaller than her others, and difficult to remove. She has been here for some minutes already.
"I'm fine," says Holmes. He doesn't know where his legs are and there is a family of hedgehogs living in his hair. "No need to trouble yourself with my health, Mother. Shouldn't you be at home, putting doilies on the furniture?"
The most agreeable outcome would be for Mary to sneer and huff and remove herself from his lodgings with a series of ladylike stomps. Instead, she moves silently forward and looms over him until he must press his head into the back of the chair lest she do something sinister, like brush the hair out of his eyes with cool, soft fingers. "Mrs Hudson sent a telegraph when she could not wake you," she says. "John is attending a patient in the country; I came in his stead."
"Ah, so Nanny has become a spy. Opium does induce one to sleep," Holmes adds loudly, as Mary has disappeared behind his armchair and, most likely, fallen into a rabbit hole. She is now some miles into the Earth's crust with magma licking at her feet like the sullen waters of a country stream. He shall have to yell for her to hear him. "Perhaps Mrs Hudson would like to read a monograph on the subject! I am considering drafting one, after I have furthered my-oh."
Mary has reappeared and brings with her a souvenir of her travels: a sensible tartan blanket (though what the populace of Hell would need a blanket for, Holmes hasn't a clue. Perhaps it is a mechanism for some torture and the blanket will blacken his flesh as if he were a deer upon the spit.)
Mary tucks it about his limbs with admirable grace and he is neither singed nor seared, unless one counts the look in her eye.
"Bring my slippers, dear. There's a draft," says Holmes.
There is no chance she did not hear him; she is bent low over him in the armchair, her skirts brushing his knuckles and her palms smoothing down his torso, chasing the wrinkles out of the blanket. The flickering whorl of her ear is scant inches from his mouth.
"Have you eaten?" she asks.
"Opium dulls the appetite," Holmes answers loftily. Mrs. Hudson, of course, is a lost cause, but he had considered Mary to be sufficiently clever. This widespread ignorance is disheartening; it is clearly imperative that he write a dossier of narcotics.
"You've lost a great deal of weight these past few weeks," says Mary. She bites her lower lip, voice so sweet and cajoling. She is as devious as all women are. Then is proved when Holmes says,
"Clearly it was flesh I did not need,"
and Mary turns upon him as a snake may strike at a trembling mouse.
"Mr Holmes," she hisses, her voice deep and steely, her fingers cutting into the tenuous muscle of his upper arms. "We have been very patient with your self-destructive eccentricities. Now we have reached our limit."
"I don't see that it's any concern of-"
She squeezes his biceps more tightly and Holmes's mouth shuts of its own accord. There is something decidedly evil in her gaze. His poor dear Watson; he's a solid fellow in a fight, but he has likely been cut to ribbons by this deceitful beast. His remains shall be discovered in a gutter before week's end. The Yard will be baffled, of course, and consult Holmes immediately. Fitting, that the loyal companion will join Holmes for one last case.
"Are you on the trail of some crucial criminal mystery?" asks Mary.
"Not yet," says Holmes. He will hide what knowledge he has, in order to draw the murderess out into the light.
"Are you on the verge of some significant scientific insight?"
"No," says Holmes. Soothing medicines are no great discovery, and want only proper documentation.
Mary stands up and peers down at him along the length of her nose. "So this interlude is merely an exercise in wasteful lethargy, then?"
Holmes sniffs haughtily. "I am the master of my own life. I may waste what I like."
Mary laughs quite suddenly, and it chills him down to his very bones. Such callousness in that laugh, and additionally she has neglected to bring his slippers as he asked.
"You are not even the master of your own drawing room," she says. "Look at this mess."
"It's not a mess-leave it!" Holmes snaps as Mary turns to rifle through the papers on the end table. "Everything is in its proper place!"
"Stop me, then," says Mary.
Lunge from the chair, thinks Holmes. Grab around the waist, throw to floor. Rip off her stupid hat. Pull hair. Avoid sharp kick to shins, protect eyes from claws.
Thus prepared, Holmes launches himself from the chair to defend his notes.
He falls flat upon his front.
"Oh, goodness!" cries Mary. She rushes over and kneels by his side, hooking her arms under his armpits to pull him out of the carpet. An excellent opportunity for Holmes to flip her and secure her in a headlock.
Damn, this villainess must be more crafty than he had anticipated, and has dosed him with a paralytic. Holmes will call in his loyal ally.
"Mrs Hudson!" he cries out. "Mrs Hudson!"
"She won't be coming to help you," says Mary. "She refuses to even enter these rooms after you threw a burning coal at her yesterday."
"I did no such thing," says Holmes. He lays his head against the voluminous cushion of Mary's skirts in order to lull her into a false sense of security.
"Small wonder you don't remember it," says Mary. She smooths her palms over his chest, clearly planning to crack his ribs with a well-aimed blow. "It burnt some of your precious papers to ash. It's sheer luck you didn't manage to burn down the whole of London. Didn't your mother teach you not to play with fire?"
"She provided ample instruction as to the use of a Bunsen burner," Holmes says.
Mary sighs, a dainty exhalation common to those in corsetry, and places her palm upon his forehead. "Your brow is on fire," she murmurs.
"Then douse it, woman!" cries Holmes. He has not forgotten her sojourn to the fiery depths of the planet. It is entirely possible that she experienced some metamorphosis resulting in pyrokinesis (as if he had not enough reason already to be wary of this woman.)
"I meant only that you have a fever, Mr Holmes," Mary says drily. "We must get you into bed and properly nourished."
"I refuse," says Holmes.
"I thought you might," says Mary. She eases his head from her lap and stands up. "I would greatly appreciate your cooperation, of course," she says, as she grasps his left wrist in two deceptively strong hands.
"This is a violation of my bodily rights," Holmes says. "I shall write Lestrade immediately and have you brought up on charges."
"Whatever you think best, Mr Holmes," says Mary, and begins to drag him inch by inch to the bedroom.
This entry is cross-posted from http://kayliemalinza.dreamwidth.org/329729.html (
comments.)