Sherlock Holmes - Hands
Title: Hands
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: M
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: These gentlemen were dead long before I was born.
Summary: Watson waxes lyrical about Holmes' hands.
Warnings: Non-graphic sex. Prose teetering dangerously on the edge of purple.
Word Count: 580
Author's Notes: written for the schmoop_bingo prompt "holding hands". Apologies in advance.
A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two, who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. - From The Sign of Four
He seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. - From Charles Augustus Milverton
It has never been any secret, to anyone who has paid close attention to my humble writings about my time with Sherlock Holmes, that I am rather fond of his hands. They are, of course, very lovely hands by themselves. Lily-white and long-fingered, nervous, sensitive and clearly those of a musician, even to such an untrained eye as mine. From a less objective standpoint, they are very much a representation of him. Covered in tiny scars and stains, fingernails striated with his ever-tenuous health. One finger on his left hand forever slightly crooked, a souvenir from a fight long before I met him. They are his history, as well as the tools of his trade.
I have always enjoyed the simple affection of holding hands with another, and I believe I am yet to give up an opportunity to do so with Holmes. Besides their innate beauty and delicacy, Holmes' hands have the ability to lend their strength to anyone he touches, and in moments when we find ourselves in dire circumstances - and there are more of these than I would like there to be - the feeling of Holmes' hand stealing into mine, squeezing gently, reassuring and allowing me to draw on his abundant confidence has always been enough to get us both through it.
When he comes home to me bloodied and bruised from some altercation in the line of his work, he always insists that I see to his hands first. He would like me to believe, I think, that it is his vanity and his love of the violin that causes him to do this. I know better; it is difficult to spend the better part of twenty years with a person without learning them through and through, and unless there is something more pressing, there is a simple comfort in taking his hands gently and cleaning them, stitching and bandaging; healing. It says that he's still here, still with me, and will live to fight another day. It may well be the kindest thing he does for me, though he would be upset to learn how much kindness I have caught him doing for me over the years.
On the occasions when we make love - admittedly less often now than we did in our youth - it is again Holmes' hands which hold much of my attention. This is not to suggest that there is anything lacking in the rest of his form; his hands are the perfect echo of his body, long, thin, pale and delicate, but deceptively strong and able to give strength enough to another, should he so choose. But it has always been the case with us, from first time to latest, that at some point our hands find their way to each other, and as we rock together gently we hold on as if it is only us two in the world. When we finish, I find that our hands remain joined as we cannot, and I often wake up to find that even though Holmes is sprawled across the bed; legs and arms flung in every direction, as the man cannot even remain still in his sleep; our hands remain in the centre, fingers laced together tightly.
It is the mornings that holding my hand is the only thing keeping him from falling heavily onto the floorboards that I remember most fondly, however, as they remind me that my dependence on the act is not entirely mine alone.
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: M
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: These gentlemen were dead long before I was born.
Summary: Watson waxes lyrical about Holmes' hands.
Warnings: Non-graphic sex. Prose teetering dangerously on the edge of purple.
Word Count: 580
Author's Notes: written for the schmoop_bingo prompt "holding hands". Apologies in advance.
A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two, who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. - From The Sign of Four
He seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. - From Charles Augustus Milverton
It has never been any secret, to anyone who has paid close attention to my humble writings about my time with Sherlock Holmes, that I am rather fond of his hands. They are, of course, very lovely hands by themselves. Lily-white and long-fingered, nervous, sensitive and clearly those of a musician, even to such an untrained eye as mine. From a less objective standpoint, they are very much a representation of him. Covered in tiny scars and stains, fingernails striated with his ever-tenuous health. One finger on his left hand forever slightly crooked, a souvenir from a fight long before I met him. They are his history, as well as the tools of his trade.
I have always enjoyed the simple affection of holding hands with another, and I believe I am yet to give up an opportunity to do so with Holmes. Besides their innate beauty and delicacy, Holmes' hands have the ability to lend their strength to anyone he touches, and in moments when we find ourselves in dire circumstances - and there are more of these than I would like there to be - the feeling of Holmes' hand stealing into mine, squeezing gently, reassuring and allowing me to draw on his abundant confidence has always been enough to get us both through it.
When he comes home to me bloodied and bruised from some altercation in the line of his work, he always insists that I see to his hands first. He would like me to believe, I think, that it is his vanity and his love of the violin that causes him to do this. I know better; it is difficult to spend the better part of twenty years with a person without learning them through and through, and unless there is something more pressing, there is a simple comfort in taking his hands gently and cleaning them, stitching and bandaging; healing. It says that he's still here, still with me, and will live to fight another day. It may well be the kindest thing he does for me, though he would be upset to learn how much kindness I have caught him doing for me over the years.
On the occasions when we make love - admittedly less often now than we did in our youth - it is again Holmes' hands which hold much of my attention. This is not to suggest that there is anything lacking in the rest of his form; his hands are the perfect echo of his body, long, thin, pale and delicate, but deceptively strong and able to give strength enough to another, should he so choose. But it has always been the case with us, from first time to latest, that at some point our hands find their way to each other, and as we rock together gently we hold on as if it is only us two in the world. When we finish, I find that our hands remain joined as we cannot, and I often wake up to find that even though Holmes is sprawled across the bed; legs and arms flung in every direction, as the man cannot even remain still in his sleep; our hands remain in the centre, fingers laced together tightly.
It is the mornings that holding my hand is the only thing keeping him from falling heavily onto the floorboards that I remember most fondly, however, as they remind me that my dependence on the act is not entirely mine alone.