(Untitled)

[armydoctor]

Who: Holmes, Watson
What: It's time for a picnic.
When: Early afternoon.
Where: Starting in their cottage, moving out.

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[armydoctor]

"I beg to differ," Watson said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "I think I've eliminated quite a few possibilities. That is, you realise, how one plays this game."

With his thumb between Holmes's brows, Watson sighed happily. His mind was not entirely on the game, to be honest. "Is he primarily known for good works, as opposed to bad?"

[mustbetruth]

"What a question," he puffs, chuckling. "And it isn't exactly yes or no, either. I'm afraid you'll have to rephrase." He opens his eyes to grin teasingly up at him. Reaching up, he takes Watson's hand and links their fingers together.

[armydoctor]

Though he gave a sort of harrumph of annoyance, Watson couldn't hold back his smile, either. "Fine, fine. If you insist on being petty, I'll play by your rules. Is he known for good reasons?"

It would help to know whether he ought to be cataloguing a list of villains, after all.

[mustbetruth]

"Yes. And they aren't simply my rules. I didn't just make that up on the spot. That's how one plays the game." He's enjoying this, as he's sure Watson's figured out by now; he does wonder if Watson will get around to figuring it out. Holmes could have picked someone much more random than Stradivari -- Charlemagne, for instance, or Cleopatra. At least Stradivari's somewhat relevant.

He shifts, finding a slightly more comfortable spot for his head, and he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply.

[armydoctor]

"Oh, you knew exactly what I meant. You merely chose to be difficult. Don't you fall asleep, now." He was far more amused than seriously put-out, and he ran his fingers gently over Holmes's face, exploring familiar bone structure, familiar angles. He was content, and he was amused to wonder what someone might think if they were to happen upon the two of them, settled so intimately out in the open. The knowledge that such an act could do them no harm was wonderful.

"Fine, fine. What to ask now... is this person of note..." Watson cast around for another possibility. "Is he a man of science?"

[mustbetruth]

"No, he isn't a man of science." He lets Watson's fingers enjoy themselves before he finally catches one and places tender kisses to each of his fingertips, tongue sliding out to lick briefly at each one.

"You have ten more, my dear. The clock is ticking."

[armydoctor]

"Are you trying to distract me?" Watson demanded, an eyebrow raised. "It won't work, I'll have you know." Truthfully, Holmes was doing a good job at that, but he could hardly admit that.

"All right, what else could this person be. Is this person an artist?"

[mustbetruth]

Holmes considers that a moment, and ultimately decides that Watson is asking about the art profession specifically. "No," he drawls, kissing Watson's palm now; he traces the life line with his tongue, and presses a kiss at the base of his thumb.

"To both questions. I'm merely exploring your hand. Is that a problem?"

[armydoctor]

"No, no. Please continue." Laughter threatened to bubble up through Watson's words. "But let it be said I suspect you of ulterior motives."

He closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy the attentions, letting his mind wander instead of concentrating on the matter at hand. He was beginning to feel at a bit of a loss as to where to go from here. What else could he guess?

"Would you count this man a hero?"

[mustbetruth]

He snorts and moves Watson's hand out of the way, so he can tilt his head and look up at Watson. "That is your next question?" he scoffs, and then he considers it for a moment, pulling down Watson's sleeve and placing soft kisses along the sensitive skin of Watson's wrist.

"I suppose I do, yes," he decides ultimately. Anyone who can make instruments so delicately -- and an instrument that has saved him on occasion -- may count as a hero in his book. "Only eight more now. Really, Watson. It's a good thing I'm the consulting detective of this operation, though perhaps I should worry for your patients." He smiles teasingly and nips at the bottom of Watson's palm.

[armydoctor]

"It was a perfectly good question," Watson protested. "Think of what it might reveal about you. What sort of man might Sherlock Holmes find to be a hero?"

Truthfully, it wasn't that helpful, but it was at least something. He was beginning to suspect he would not guess correctly after all. That would hurt his pride, but there were worse things than losing to Holmes.

Watson exhaled through his nose, heavily. "Is this man English?"

[mustbetruth]

"No," he intones, teasingly sing-song, and he turns Watson's hand over to kiss his knuckles. "What a wide field there is to choose from now. Is he American? German? Italian? Swedish? Where will your next question take you?"

It's very likely that he'll pay for his teasing, particularly if Watson manages to win, and for a flash of a moment he hopes that Watson will win, solely for that reason.

[armydoctor]

"Rest assured," Watson returned dryly, "I will not waste my remaining questions with inquiry as to every possible nationality."

What would he ask, then? He was beginning to feel more than a little frustrated, and lost, and perhaps a little dense. He disliked feeling that way. "Fine, fine. Is he an explorer, then?"

[mustbetruth]

"I'm afraid not, my dear boy." He sets Watson's hand atop his head, wordlessly commanding him to stroke his hair, and he sighs as he settles again, finding himself rather absurdly comfortable. "Five more. Shall I start considering what form my prize will take?"

[armydoctor]

Obediently, gladly, Watson began to stroke Holmes's hair again. He thought, privately, that Holmes had better start thinking about his prize, because he was losing hope of victory. He could hardly think of what else he could guess, come to that.

"Please don't count yourself a winner before it's official. Is he a military man?" He was grasping at straws, he knew, but he had to guess something.

[mustbetruth]

Holmes rather enjoys when Watson toys with his hair, and he lets himself be momentarily distracted, reaching a hand up to settle against the side of Watson's thigh.

"No," he murmurs. "I admire your effort to eliminate the possibilities, but there's quite a lot remaining, my dear. This isn't fifty questions."