[fic]: the wounded wing [holmes/watson] [pg-13]
[mood| 
writing]
Title: The wounded wing.
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Holmes collects fragments and glimpses of John Watson, and cherishes them as most people would precious jewels.
A/N: A breath of fanfiction snuck between the deadlines that are every ounce of my attention.
Sherlock Holmes could say he does not remember how many times he told John Watson “I love you” - but that would be a lie.
He said it twenty-six times, the last of which less than two minutes ago - now almost three. That one was barely more than a whisper, breathed against Watson’s temple, lips brushing his ruffled, still damp hair. It was a deep murmur, that passed his lips with reluctant sweetness - soft and gentle enough not to wake Watson, who had surrendered to a light sleep after their recent… activities, and was floating somewhere just beyond the threshold of awareness.
Holmes is a master of deduction. There is an exact moment in which Watson’s tormented shoulder shifts just so, losing the stiff, proud stance that naturally belongs to John Watson to slump imperceptibly forward, bending towards the strong chest as if to seek protection, a wounded wing folding over itself. Holmes has learnt by heart the pattern of Watson’s breathing, and he can hear the precise moment in which his breath deepens, slipping in a slow, regular pattern which will only be disturbed by the occasional dream.
Holmes has spent night listening to Watson’s breaths, foolishly, perhaps, unable to stop focusing on them, fascinated by the complex miracle each of them represents. He has catalogued the slight hitch of Watson’s breathing when his lips tense in the suggestion of a smile at some pleasant dream; he knows the broken, accelerated tempo of the breaths Watson will hiss between gritted teeth as nightmares creep on him, and knows to prod him gently closer to awareness before they give way to the strangled whimpers Holmes heard only once, and swore he would never hear again. He recognizes the lighter fluttering breaths Watson will take moments before surfacing from sleep; he treasures that knowledge, just as valuable as the shameless, open mouthed gasps Watson abandons himself to in their heated embraces. Holmes collects fragments and glimpses of John Watson, and cherishes them as most people would precious jewels. That is how he can recognise the moment Watson yields to sleep; how he knows when he is free to speak.
He could say it is just bad timing - that it has been bad timing each of those twenty-six times; a most uncanny series of unfortunate coincidences, a near impossible anomaly in the laws of probability. He could vehemently maintain that any other implication is foolishness, that it is certainly not trepidation or hesitation or - or God forbid fear, or any emotional nonsense that prevent him from speaking out earlier. Yet, as he exhales softly and slowly curls around Watson’s body, enveloping him in his arms, hands resting on Watson’s back, on the thick scar tissue blemishing his thigh, in possessive protection -
Holmes can almost admit that it would be a lie.
---
Holmes has never told John Watson “I love you.” He is not a man who will give in his emotions, not one keen on declarations; Watson does not begrudge him for that.
Sometimes, Watson will catch Holmes looking at him with a strange expression on his face - suspended between a mild surprise and a hint of warm fondness Watson is not entirely sure he can take seeing. Holmes’s lips will quiver, at times, as if words were trembling on the tip of his tongue; yet he will seal his mouth in a thin line, a sudden hardness fluttering across his eyes as a passing cloud. Watson does not think his friend - proud, unreadable Holmes - would want anyone to witness the uncanny shadows of vulnerability that cross his features, well evident in the uncertain line of his lips, the eyes that appear just a little lost, seeking solid ground. So he bends his neck to tuck his head under Holmes’s chin, gaze tilted down to idly trace the well defined lines and planes of Holmes’s body. Holmes’s arms are a fraction too tight around him; Watson rests his cheek on Holmes’s skin, and does not move.
It happened by chance, one of those silent nights of touches and wordless gasps. The sharp corner of a bitter dream nudged Watson awake with quiet suddenness, goose bumps breaking out all over his arms and back. He was hovering in the fuzzy middle ground between sleep and consciousness when he believed he heard Holmes murmur words of love, lips pressed against Watson’s head. It was a somewhat cruel dream, he remembers thinking, moments before he drifted off once more. It would be easy to imagine it was real; at times, he fancies he can recall the warm breath against his scalp with astonishing clarity, that Holmes’s voice was too exact - a hoarse, hushed whisper, half confession, half prayer - to be the product of reverie. He imagines that it may have been no dream at all; he has always been a romantic fool, and he is well aware of it. Occasionally, he allows himself to indulge in such pleasant, delusional thoughts, and does not berate himself for it.
He could say such details are ultimately irrelevant; he could explain how remembering those unreal words does not cause his chest to ache in a warm, heavy pain, pulsing at the rhythm of his heartbeat. He could say, after all, he does not care.
That would be a lie, too.
.
writing]
Title: The wounded wing.
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Holmes collects fragments and glimpses of John Watson, and cherishes them as most people would precious jewels.
A/N: A breath of fanfiction snuck between the deadlines that are every ounce of my attention.
Sherlock Holmes could say he does not remember how many times he told John Watson “I love you” - but that would be a lie.
He said it twenty-six times, the last of which less than two minutes ago - now almost three. That one was barely more than a whisper, breathed against Watson’s temple, lips brushing his ruffled, still damp hair. It was a deep murmur, that passed his lips with reluctant sweetness - soft and gentle enough not to wake Watson, who had surrendered to a light sleep after their recent… activities, and was floating somewhere just beyond the threshold of awareness.
Holmes is a master of deduction. There is an exact moment in which Watson’s tormented shoulder shifts just so, losing the stiff, proud stance that naturally belongs to John Watson to slump imperceptibly forward, bending towards the strong chest as if to seek protection, a wounded wing folding over itself. Holmes has learnt by heart the pattern of Watson’s breathing, and he can hear the precise moment in which his breath deepens, slipping in a slow, regular pattern which will only be disturbed by the occasional dream.
Holmes has spent night listening to Watson’s breaths, foolishly, perhaps, unable to stop focusing on them, fascinated by the complex miracle each of them represents. He has catalogued the slight hitch of Watson’s breathing when his lips tense in the suggestion of a smile at some pleasant dream; he knows the broken, accelerated tempo of the breaths Watson will hiss between gritted teeth as nightmares creep on him, and knows to prod him gently closer to awareness before they give way to the strangled whimpers Holmes heard only once, and swore he would never hear again. He recognizes the lighter fluttering breaths Watson will take moments before surfacing from sleep; he treasures that knowledge, just as valuable as the shameless, open mouthed gasps Watson abandons himself to in their heated embraces. Holmes collects fragments and glimpses of John Watson, and cherishes them as most people would precious jewels. That is how he can recognise the moment Watson yields to sleep; how he knows when he is free to speak.
He could say it is just bad timing - that it has been bad timing each of those twenty-six times; a most uncanny series of unfortunate coincidences, a near impossible anomaly in the laws of probability. He could vehemently maintain that any other implication is foolishness, that it is certainly not trepidation or hesitation or - or God forbid fear, or any emotional nonsense that prevent him from speaking out earlier. Yet, as he exhales softly and slowly curls around Watson’s body, enveloping him in his arms, hands resting on Watson’s back, on the thick scar tissue blemishing his thigh, in possessive protection -
Holmes can almost admit that it would be a lie.
---
Holmes has never told John Watson “I love you.” He is not a man who will give in his emotions, not one keen on declarations; Watson does not begrudge him for that.
Sometimes, Watson will catch Holmes looking at him with a strange expression on his face - suspended between a mild surprise and a hint of warm fondness Watson is not entirely sure he can take seeing. Holmes’s lips will quiver, at times, as if words were trembling on the tip of his tongue; yet he will seal his mouth in a thin line, a sudden hardness fluttering across his eyes as a passing cloud. Watson does not think his friend - proud, unreadable Holmes - would want anyone to witness the uncanny shadows of vulnerability that cross his features, well evident in the uncertain line of his lips, the eyes that appear just a little lost, seeking solid ground. So he bends his neck to tuck his head under Holmes’s chin, gaze tilted down to idly trace the well defined lines and planes of Holmes’s body. Holmes’s arms are a fraction too tight around him; Watson rests his cheek on Holmes’s skin, and does not move.
It happened by chance, one of those silent nights of touches and wordless gasps. The sharp corner of a bitter dream nudged Watson awake with quiet suddenness, goose bumps breaking out all over his arms and back. He was hovering in the fuzzy middle ground between sleep and consciousness when he believed he heard Holmes murmur words of love, lips pressed against Watson’s head. It was a somewhat cruel dream, he remembers thinking, moments before he drifted off once more. It would be easy to imagine it was real; at times, he fancies he can recall the warm breath against his scalp with astonishing clarity, that Holmes’s voice was too exact - a hoarse, hushed whisper, half confession, half prayer - to be the product of reverie. He imagines that it may have been no dream at all; he has always been a romantic fool, and he is well aware of it. Occasionally, he allows himself to indulge in such pleasant, delusional thoughts, and does not berate himself for it.
He could say such details are ultimately irrelevant; he could explain how remembering those unreal words does not cause his chest to ache in a warm, heavy pain, pulsing at the rhythm of his heartbeat. He could say, after all, he does not care.
That would be a lie, too.
.