Random fic! ("More than Music")fyrethiefJanuary 31 2010, 17:36:41 UTC
Guh. I have been STRUGGLING to write something fluffy for this meme. Everything I try ends up either NOT fluffy, or long (1000+ words). Le sigh. I might try and brush up a couple of them and post them anyway, but in the mean time have this little random fic. ♥
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More than Music
It was quiet. Across the grey patch of sky framed in the window a pigeon flew with short, frantic wingbeats. Holmes watched it, tried to count those wingbeats, tried to determine what direction the bird had flown from and where it was going - gave up, and did not care. His eyes fluttered shut.
There was, he thought, a form of music in everything, even the simplest things. There was a rhythm here, in this quiet, still room, in the even, slightly unsynchronised breathing of Watson and himself; a rhythm, too, in Watson’s fingers.
He sat on the floor in his shirt and trousers, barefoot and messy. Watson was in the chair behind him, as impeccably dressed as ever; there was never a pin out of place on his dear Watson. Holmes’ head was tipped back, resting on Watson’s thigh, and the doctor was running his firm fingers through Holmes’ hair in gentle, unconscious strokes while he read his letters.
A little tension loosened in Holmes’ chest. It would be as perfect a moment as possible if he had his pipe.
A dog barked in the street, and downstairs Gladstone returned a gruff response.
Watson tossed aside the papers. His fingers tugged on a hair, then slipped down to Holmes’ stubbly chin to tilt his head further back.
Holmes opened his eyes, looking straight into Watson’s face. He saw the meaning there, and slowly turned his body until he was kneeling before his companion.
Watson took Holmes’ face between his hands, and Holmes saw the twitch of the tawny moustache that meant Watson was trying not to smile. Then Watson pulled him closer and kissed him, slow and soft and warm. Holmes’ hand gripped Watson’s knee.
When he pulled back, Watson smiled fully and carefully brushed Holmes’ hair back from his forehead. ‘Your feet will get cold,’ he said quietly.
‘If they do, you can warm them up again.’
Watson chuckled. He rubbed his thumb over a streak of grime on the bridge of Holmes’ nose. ‘You need a bath.’
‘Hmm,’ said Holmes, and sinking down onto his hip, he rested his arms across Watson’s leg, his chin on his wrist. Briefly he pressed his lips to Watson’s trousers.
Watson sighed contentedly and rested back in his chair. ‘Or we could just stay here,’ he said, his thumb drawing lazy circles in the rough stubble of Holmes’ cheek.
‘Hmm,’ said Holmes again, and Watson smiled and closed his own eyes.
Yes, thought Holmes, there was more than music here, there was a sweeping symphony, silent and unseen but there all the same.
Behind them, another pigeon flew past the grey window. Holmes did not even hear it.
Re: Random fic! ("More than Music")avictoriangirlJanuary 31 2010, 19:09:14 UTC
I love the feeling this gives me, one of those quiet moments in time where everything is crystal sharp and perfect and you never want it to end. As usual your writing amazes me sweetie. ♥!!!!!!!
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More than Music
It was quiet. Across the grey patch of sky framed in the window a pigeon flew with short, frantic wingbeats. Holmes watched it, tried to count those wingbeats, tried to determine what direction the bird had flown from and where it was going - gave up, and did not care. His eyes fluttered shut.
There was, he thought, a form of music in everything, even the simplest things. There was a rhythm here, in this quiet, still room, in the even, slightly unsynchronised breathing of Watson and himself; a rhythm, too, in Watson’s fingers.
He sat on the floor in his shirt and trousers, barefoot and messy. Watson was in the chair behind him, as impeccably dressed as ever; there was never a pin out of place on his dear Watson. Holmes’ head was tipped back, resting on Watson’s thigh, and the doctor was running his firm fingers through Holmes’ hair in gentle, unconscious strokes while he read his letters.
A little tension loosened in Holmes’ chest. It would be as perfect a moment as possible if he had his pipe.
A dog barked in the street, and downstairs Gladstone returned a gruff response.
Watson tossed aside the papers. His fingers tugged on a hair, then slipped down to Holmes’ stubbly chin to tilt his head further back.
Holmes opened his eyes, looking straight into Watson’s face. He saw the meaning there, and slowly turned his body until he was kneeling before his companion.
Watson took Holmes’ face between his hands, and Holmes saw the twitch of the tawny moustache that meant Watson was trying not to smile. Then Watson pulled him closer and kissed him, slow and soft and warm. Holmes’ hand gripped Watson’s knee.
When he pulled back, Watson smiled fully and carefully brushed Holmes’ hair back from his forehead. ‘Your feet will get cold,’ he said quietly.
‘If they do, you can warm them up again.’
Watson chuckled. He rubbed his thumb over a streak of grime on the bridge of Holmes’ nose. ‘You need a bath.’
‘Hmm,’ said Holmes, and sinking down onto his hip, he rested his arms across Watson’s leg, his chin on his wrist. Briefly he pressed his lips to Watson’s trousers.
Watson sighed contentedly and rested back in his chair. ‘Or we could just stay here,’ he said, his thumb drawing lazy circles in the rough stubble of Holmes’ cheek.
‘Hmm,’ said Holmes again, and Watson smiled and closed his own eyes.
Yes, thought Holmes, there was more than music here, there was a sweeping symphony, silent and unseen but there all the same.
Behind them, another pigeon flew past the grey window. Holmes did not even hear it.
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I love this little snippet of their life together. Quiet and beautiful. Thank you very much!
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Well done, you!
Excellently well done!
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