I am full of madness (or, a fic prompt post)

[ladyblahblah]

Stolen from nix_this, because . . . turnabout is fair play? IDEK. I think just because I'm crazy. XD

The first ten people to comment in this post get to request that I write a drabble/ficlet of any pairing/character of their choosing. (Fair warning, though: if you choose a pairing I'm not into myself, your return will likely be shorter. XD) In return,

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Confidence In the Doing (2/3)

[ladyblahblah]

I was still sitting there when Holmes swept back in some time later. He had discarded his jacket and cuffs and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. I could only stare, uncertain what to make of the tray he carried, arrayed with a all the necessaries for a late-night tea, including the hot mustard I favored and what looked like the remains of Mrs. Hudson's evening roast, or of what appeared to be a nightshirt and one of my dressing gowns draped over one pale forearm. My gaze followed him across the room, as he set the tray on the little table between our chairs, and pressed the nightclothes into my hands.

"Out of those wet things," he chided me without quite meeting my eyes. "Really, Watson, as a doctor I would have expected you to know better than to sit around in clothes half-soaked through."

He didn't quite wait for my response, but simply began to assist me in stripping off my clothes. The sullen, sodden part of me wanted to protest and pull away, but the calmer part-the part, heaven help me, that sounded suspiciously like Holmes himself-had been busy tallying his behavior thus far this evening and was intrigued to see exactly where all of this was heading. I stood quietly, therefore, and allowed him to help with my jacket, vest and shirt. Though it was hardly the first time Holmes had undressed me, it was distinctly unlike any of the times before. There was no hint of desire in his actions now; it might easily have been any competent orderly tugging my shirt over my head. The thought made me frown as I removed the rest of my clothes and pulled on the nightshirt.

“Holmes,” I began, only to find myself being pressed gently but firmly back into my chair.

“I'm afraid you'll have to wait on your dressing gown for another few minutes yet,” he was saying, “though the fire should keep you warm enough.”

He plucked a jar from the tray, then, one that I had overlooked until that moment. I recognized it quite well: it was the salve that I used on my shoulder from time to time, when the weather made it ache. An overwhelming mix of emotions overcame me at the sight of it, warmth and gratitude and annoyance all vying in equal parts for pride of place.

“Holmes,” I tried again, but got no further before he was talking over me again.

“I'll only need the one arm, if you'd like to start in on that cold roast. The bread was fresh this morning, I believe; not ideal, but when one goes begging . . .” He shrugged, and tugged down the neck of the nightshirt until my shoulder was bared.