The Boys on Holiday
Another shkinkmeme fic.
Holmes
In the pages of my flatmate’s often-florid and rarely-accurate memoirs, he makes much of my propensity to devote all of my energies in the successful conclusion of a case, often forsaking food and rest. While this is frequently true, his generous and self-effacing nature prohibits him from adequately documenting his not-inconsiderable role in the maintenance of my health and, more frequently than I would care to admit, my sanity. But even more than my need to solve a mystery and untangle the riddles which are presented for my consideration, my dear Watson cannot rest easily, or at all, when he feels there is suffering that is within his ability to alleviate. Thus, when an epidemic strikes, Watson is always at the front and remains there until the last vestiges of the disease have left the City, often at the expense of his time, his sleep, and eventually his health.
In these times, it often falls me to me (or, recently, my brother Mycroft) to ensure that the doctor is taking adequate time to rest and recover from his exertions. The irony in the reversal of our usual roles is not lost on me. Whatever the doctor says of my recalcitrant nature or my inability to draw my focus away from a problem, I cannot help but notice when he works himself to exhaustion. And however observant I am, my brother is doubly so. Thus, it is no surprise that six weeks into the most virulent typhoid epidemic I can remember I receive a rather terse telegram from him with the morning mail.
SAW W TODAY STOP FREE FOR MAYFIELD VISIT SATURDAY QUERY ALSO CEASE BOTHERING DIOGENES DOORMAN STOP SIX IN TWO WEEKS IS REALLY TOO MUCH BROTHER FINAL STOP
Mycroft’s telegram might as well have said “You bring the Watson, I’ll bring the sherry.” Of course he would have instantly absorbed the thousands of tiny details that spelled out Watson’s exhaustion, the long nights spent at bedsides and in sickrooms, the gray fog of his sense of failure for every life he “could” have saved, no matter how far removed the poor soul was from any hope of salvation by the time he had been called in. And of course, it would fall to me to accomplish the Herculean task of prying the doctor from his sense of duty. I knew, however, that I would not be alone in ensuring Watson’s stay was both relaxing and restorative.
Mycroft
Doctor Watson had walked past my window at 8 am on Wednesday and already had that air of exhausted frustration that is his hallmark whenever he is plagued by a string of what he views as failures (no matter how hard he worked or how much extra time was given to the patient). Thus, it was only logical that those who knew him best (namely my brother and myself) take him away from the stressors that would certainly be his undoing and remind him of his worth as a medical man and, more importantly in our eyes, as a person. How Sherlock managed to convince him to part with his patients I could deduce from Watson’s completely lax form and faint aroma of brandy as they entered the carriage on Friday night. Whatever my brother’s methods, I knew that he had ensured that the doctor’s caseload was at an adequate stopping point. The Holmes family is a forceful group, but there is no getting between John Watson and his sense of duty.
When we finally arrived at Mayfield, I assisted Sherlock in transporting Watson to his room and bid the two of them good night, informing my brother that there was no set time for breakfast and admonishing him to let the doctor sleep as late as he wished.
Holmes
Wrestling Watson to bed was no easy task, even with Mycroft’s help. However, we eventually managed it, and Watson and I were in bed and asleep within 30 minutes. I was awakened not an hour later, however, by an insistent hand roaming down my stomach to points southern. Amused, I turned over to find Watson, wide-awake and apparently desiring some comfort in its most basic, physical form.
“Watson, you should be sleeping” I whispered.
“Why?” he asked. “You’re right here and it’s so cold outside.”
I felt my eyes crinkle at him, but my smile quickly faded as he looked at me with eyes full of sorrow and grief. While my Watson is a writer at heart, he finds difficulty expressing himself verbally, stemming from both a natural inclination towards reticence and a bred-in sense of decorum and propriety. I knew that he would never speak of his troubles aloud to me. Instead, he spoke in shoulders a fraction of an inch lower than normal, in a left thumb in constant motion, in a smudge on his ear lobe from where he tugged in frustration, and a thousand other little tells invisible to the unfamiliar eye. I knew there would be no sleeping until he had completely exhausted himself in every area, so I decided then to induce slumber as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, I failed to account for the near-frantic nature of Watson’s desire--not for physical release but for the human connection, the assurance that he was still loved and cherished. I was more than happy to provide him with this, no matter how long it took, and our energies lasted well into the night, finally ending just as the sun was rising. Content, Watson snuggled close to me and we fell asleep. I have trained my body to require little sleep, so I was awake, refreshed, at 7:30. Leaving Watson in bed, I wrote left a note for Mycroft on his breakfast plate where I hoped he would find it before he filled it with food and headed to the village for some research at the library.
Mycroft
When I arrived at breakfast at 8:30, I was greeted at the table by Doctor Watson, who despite what I presumed had been a full night’s sleep looked much the worse for the wear.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes” he greeted me with a sidelong glance at the butler standing near the door.
“Good morning, John” I replied, signaling that he should be as comfortable around the staff as he was in his own home. “Unfortunately, we shall be without the staff today, as there is the recent fire in the village will require much assistance from them. I hope this won’t inconvenience you too terribly.”
“Not at all,” he replied, the very picture of gentility and grace. “I do hope they will inform me if they need my services.”
“Indeed. I have taken great care to address that point with them.” In fact what I had told them was that Watson was to be consulted only under the most dire of circumstances, as the village boasted a complete surgery that had been almost untouched by the fire. He was going to rest on this holiday whether he desired it or not.
After our quite leisurely breakfast, I excused myself to provide further instructions to the staff and to ensure the house was quite empty for the weekend. My search for the doctor afterwards did not take long. He was lying on the settee reading a yellow-backed novel. As I entered, he lifted his head in invitation, and I sat so he could lay his head upon my lap. We sat like that for approximately 26 minutes until he shifted so his nose was pressed into my stomach. I laid the hand that had been carding through his hair on his shoulder and assumed with his breathy sigh that he was attempting to nap. Oh, how wrong I was!
Instead of settling into sleep, he began to mouth me through my trousers and I soon found myself aching in anticipation. I estimated that an hour was enough to satiate his desires, relieve the pressure under which I found myself, and (most importantly) exhaust him enough so he would fall into a deep slumber to gain some benefit before lunch. Unfortunately, I underestimated both his fortitude and stamina, and what I had planned as a quick venture turned into a marathon session of tender touches and whispered assurances. Our good doctor had been more shaken than usual over his efforts during the past weeks, and I venture it was worth keeping him awake for those few hours for the look of relief that flooded his countenance when I stroked, nipped, and licked those places chosen precisely to demonstrate how much attention I paid to his person.
Eventually, I left him asleep on the sofa and retired to my study to complete some work I had brought with me. I decided as sleep was more important than sustenance at that moment (although in truth he could afford to miss little of either), I would not wake him for luncheon and settled to eat alone.
Holmes
When I returned from the village shortly after luncheon, I found Watson asleep in the library. I couldn’t resist a gentle kiss, which unfortunately woke him up. He blinked sleepily at me as a piece of hair drooped over his eyes.
“Holmes?” he snuffled. “Where have you been?”
“At the library, my dear fellow, doing some vital research. I hope your morning was as refreshing as mine.”
He smiled at me and said “Indeed, it was. What do you have planned for us for the rest of the day?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“In that case, would you care to join me on a walk of the grounds?” he inquired.
I acquiesced and we spent the next hour wandering the footpaths through the gardens. Despite his outward cheerfulness, I could sense that Watson still had not relived himself of his lethargy and eventually steered us back towards our shared room. There, I encouraged him to lie down and rest. He, however, seemed reluctant, and with a flash of insight I realized that he must be plagued by nightmares, as is usually the case when he has spent himself too freely. Removing my clothing down to my undershirt and trousers, I settled into the bed and allowed him to pillow his head on my chest.
Eventually, we dozed off and slept for two and a half hours before the gurgling of Watson’s stomach woke him up and, by proximity, me as well. He chuckled heartily, a sound I was most gratified to hear as it had been long absent from our home, and I allowed myself a quick smirk. Watson leaned down to capture my mouth in a deep kiss, and quickly turned his attentions to the rest of my body.
When we had both reached our completion, we remained in bed until dinner time, simply touching each other. Watson spoke more of his distress with his eyes and his hands than he ever could though given the sky as parchment and the seas as ink. I did my best to comfort and console him with brushes through his hair and down his back, but to little appreciable affect. Eventually, we separated ourselves to ready for dinner and I followed him into the dining room.
As I followed him into the room, I traded a quick glance with Mycroft and saw that he had had as little success as I had at lifting the malaise that affected our companion. I shot a quick concerned glance at Watson when he tripped over a chair that had not moved since our first visit to the house and sat across from him at the table. What followed next was not a somber affair by any means, but it lacked the charm and quick wit from our dining companion that we had come to expect.
Eventually, he lapsed into silence and we, to our later mutual chagrin, ignored him in favor of arguing a point on early Etruscan art. The clatter of Watson’s spoon was my only warning before his head began an impossibly-fast decent into his bowl of soup. My quick reflexes in insinuating a hand between the back of his neck and his shirt collar were the only things that saved him from a tomato-basil bath. Mycroft levered himself out of his chair and helped me settle Watson back into his seat.
“Sherlock!” he hissed. “What is wrong with you? Look at the state he’s in! Did you keep him up all night?”
I glared back. “Me?! What about you? He was sleeping as of 7:30 this morning!”
Mycroft blinked once, his only indication of surprise. “7:30? He was at breakfast at 8:30.”
I quickly thought back. “That means he had less than three hours of sleep last night.”
The more we compared notes, the more we realized our lack of coordination and communication had resulted in one very exhausted, if satisfied, companion. Together, we maneuvered Watson to a bedroom of his own and left to discuss our options. The consensus was reached that we would allow Watson to sleep for as long as he needed and then we weren’t going to allow him to leave the room for the remainder of the weekend.
Watson woke up late Sunday morning and, with a minimum amount of fuss considering the source, consented to spending a majority of the rest of his time in bed, obtaining entertainment (of various descriptions) and food from one of us. When we returned to London on Monday, Watson was still not at peak health, but he was in a more stable frame of mind. The epidemic was declared officially over by the next Friday, and Mycroft and I were able to take Watson on a longer visit to the seashore, where he has become much happier, healthier, and a little bit tanner (a fact neither of us minds).
In fact, I hear him calling me now. Dear Lord, something about flying kites? Perhaps he has contracted a fever, or heat sickness. I do believe it is Mycroft’s turn to entertain him, if only I could find him. He always was good at hide and seek as a child.
Holmes
In the pages of my flatmate’s often-florid and rarely-accurate memoirs, he makes much of my propensity to devote all of my energies in the successful conclusion of a case, often forsaking food and rest. While this is frequently true, his generous and self-effacing nature prohibits him from adequately documenting his not-inconsiderable role in the maintenance of my health and, more frequently than I would care to admit, my sanity. But even more than my need to solve a mystery and untangle the riddles which are presented for my consideration, my dear Watson cannot rest easily, or at all, when he feels there is suffering that is within his ability to alleviate. Thus, when an epidemic strikes, Watson is always at the front and remains there until the last vestiges of the disease have left the City, often at the expense of his time, his sleep, and eventually his health.
In these times, it often falls me to me (or, recently, my brother Mycroft) to ensure that the doctor is taking adequate time to rest and recover from his exertions. The irony in the reversal of our usual roles is not lost on me. Whatever the doctor says of my recalcitrant nature or my inability to draw my focus away from a problem, I cannot help but notice when he works himself to exhaustion. And however observant I am, my brother is doubly so. Thus, it is no surprise that six weeks into the most virulent typhoid epidemic I can remember I receive a rather terse telegram from him with the morning mail.
SAW W TODAY STOP FREE FOR MAYFIELD VISIT SATURDAY QUERY ALSO CEASE BOTHERING DIOGENES DOORMAN STOP SIX IN TWO WEEKS IS REALLY TOO MUCH BROTHER FINAL STOP
Mycroft’s telegram might as well have said “You bring the Watson, I’ll bring the sherry.” Of course he would have instantly absorbed the thousands of tiny details that spelled out Watson’s exhaustion, the long nights spent at bedsides and in sickrooms, the gray fog of his sense of failure for every life he “could” have saved, no matter how far removed the poor soul was from any hope of salvation by the time he had been called in. And of course, it would fall to me to accomplish the Herculean task of prying the doctor from his sense of duty. I knew, however, that I would not be alone in ensuring Watson’s stay was both relaxing and restorative.
Mycroft
Doctor Watson had walked past my window at 8 am on Wednesday and already had that air of exhausted frustration that is his hallmark whenever he is plagued by a string of what he views as failures (no matter how hard he worked or how much extra time was given to the patient). Thus, it was only logical that those who knew him best (namely my brother and myself) take him away from the stressors that would certainly be his undoing and remind him of his worth as a medical man and, more importantly in our eyes, as a person. How Sherlock managed to convince him to part with his patients I could deduce from Watson’s completely lax form and faint aroma of brandy as they entered the carriage on Friday night. Whatever my brother’s methods, I knew that he had ensured that the doctor’s caseload was at an adequate stopping point. The Holmes family is a forceful group, but there is no getting between John Watson and his sense of duty.
When we finally arrived at Mayfield, I assisted Sherlock in transporting Watson to his room and bid the two of them good night, informing my brother that there was no set time for breakfast and admonishing him to let the doctor sleep as late as he wished.
Holmes
Wrestling Watson to bed was no easy task, even with Mycroft’s help. However, we eventually managed it, and Watson and I were in bed and asleep within 30 minutes. I was awakened not an hour later, however, by an insistent hand roaming down my stomach to points southern. Amused, I turned over to find Watson, wide-awake and apparently desiring some comfort in its most basic, physical form.
“Watson, you should be sleeping” I whispered.
“Why?” he asked. “You’re right here and it’s so cold outside.”
I felt my eyes crinkle at him, but my smile quickly faded as he looked at me with eyes full of sorrow and grief. While my Watson is a writer at heart, he finds difficulty expressing himself verbally, stemming from both a natural inclination towards reticence and a bred-in sense of decorum and propriety. I knew that he would never speak of his troubles aloud to me. Instead, he spoke in shoulders a fraction of an inch lower than normal, in a left thumb in constant motion, in a smudge on his ear lobe from where he tugged in frustration, and a thousand other little tells invisible to the unfamiliar eye. I knew there would be no sleeping until he had completely exhausted himself in every area, so I decided then to induce slumber as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, I failed to account for the near-frantic nature of Watson’s desire--not for physical release but for the human connection, the assurance that he was still loved and cherished. I was more than happy to provide him with this, no matter how long it took, and our energies lasted well into the night, finally ending just as the sun was rising. Content, Watson snuggled close to me and we fell asleep. I have trained my body to require little sleep, so I was awake, refreshed, at 7:30. Leaving Watson in bed, I wrote left a note for Mycroft on his breakfast plate where I hoped he would find it before he filled it with food and headed to the village for some research at the library.
Mycroft
When I arrived at breakfast at 8:30, I was greeted at the table by Doctor Watson, who despite what I presumed had been a full night’s sleep looked much the worse for the wear.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes” he greeted me with a sidelong glance at the butler standing near the door.
“Good morning, John” I replied, signaling that he should be as comfortable around the staff as he was in his own home. “Unfortunately, we shall be without the staff today, as there is the recent fire in the village will require much assistance from them. I hope this won’t inconvenience you too terribly.”
“Not at all,” he replied, the very picture of gentility and grace. “I do hope they will inform me if they need my services.”
“Indeed. I have taken great care to address that point with them.” In fact what I had told them was that Watson was to be consulted only under the most dire of circumstances, as the village boasted a complete surgery that had been almost untouched by the fire. He was going to rest on this holiday whether he desired it or not.
After our quite leisurely breakfast, I excused myself to provide further instructions to the staff and to ensure the house was quite empty for the weekend. My search for the doctor afterwards did not take long. He was lying on the settee reading a yellow-backed novel. As I entered, he lifted his head in invitation, and I sat so he could lay his head upon my lap. We sat like that for approximately 26 minutes until he shifted so his nose was pressed into my stomach. I laid the hand that had been carding through his hair on his shoulder and assumed with his breathy sigh that he was attempting to nap. Oh, how wrong I was!
Instead of settling into sleep, he began to mouth me through my trousers and I soon found myself aching in anticipation. I estimated that an hour was enough to satiate his desires, relieve the pressure under which I found myself, and (most importantly) exhaust him enough so he would fall into a deep slumber to gain some benefit before lunch. Unfortunately, I underestimated both his fortitude and stamina, and what I had planned as a quick venture turned into a marathon session of tender touches and whispered assurances. Our good doctor had been more shaken than usual over his efforts during the past weeks, and I venture it was worth keeping him awake for those few hours for the look of relief that flooded his countenance when I stroked, nipped, and licked those places chosen precisely to demonstrate how much attention I paid to his person.
Eventually, I left him asleep on the sofa and retired to my study to complete some work I had brought with me. I decided as sleep was more important than sustenance at that moment (although in truth he could afford to miss little of either), I would not wake him for luncheon and settled to eat alone.
Holmes
When I returned from the village shortly after luncheon, I found Watson asleep in the library. I couldn’t resist a gentle kiss, which unfortunately woke him up. He blinked sleepily at me as a piece of hair drooped over his eyes.
“Holmes?” he snuffled. “Where have you been?”
“At the library, my dear fellow, doing some vital research. I hope your morning was as refreshing as mine.”
He smiled at me and said “Indeed, it was. What do you have planned for us for the rest of the day?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“In that case, would you care to join me on a walk of the grounds?” he inquired.
I acquiesced and we spent the next hour wandering the footpaths through the gardens. Despite his outward cheerfulness, I could sense that Watson still had not relived himself of his lethargy and eventually steered us back towards our shared room. There, I encouraged him to lie down and rest. He, however, seemed reluctant, and with a flash of insight I realized that he must be plagued by nightmares, as is usually the case when he has spent himself too freely. Removing my clothing down to my undershirt and trousers, I settled into the bed and allowed him to pillow his head on my chest.
Eventually, we dozed off and slept for two and a half hours before the gurgling of Watson’s stomach woke him up and, by proximity, me as well. He chuckled heartily, a sound I was most gratified to hear as it had been long absent from our home, and I allowed myself a quick smirk. Watson leaned down to capture my mouth in a deep kiss, and quickly turned his attentions to the rest of my body.
When we had both reached our completion, we remained in bed until dinner time, simply touching each other. Watson spoke more of his distress with his eyes and his hands than he ever could though given the sky as parchment and the seas as ink. I did my best to comfort and console him with brushes through his hair and down his back, but to little appreciable affect. Eventually, we separated ourselves to ready for dinner and I followed him into the dining room.
As I followed him into the room, I traded a quick glance with Mycroft and saw that he had had as little success as I had at lifting the malaise that affected our companion. I shot a quick concerned glance at Watson when he tripped over a chair that had not moved since our first visit to the house and sat across from him at the table. What followed next was not a somber affair by any means, but it lacked the charm and quick wit from our dining companion that we had come to expect.
Eventually, he lapsed into silence and we, to our later mutual chagrin, ignored him in favor of arguing a point on early Etruscan art. The clatter of Watson’s spoon was my only warning before his head began an impossibly-fast decent into his bowl of soup. My quick reflexes in insinuating a hand between the back of his neck and his shirt collar were the only things that saved him from a tomato-basil bath. Mycroft levered himself out of his chair and helped me settle Watson back into his seat.
“Sherlock!” he hissed. “What is wrong with you? Look at the state he’s in! Did you keep him up all night?”
I glared back. “Me?! What about you? He was sleeping as of 7:30 this morning!”
Mycroft blinked once, his only indication of surprise. “7:30? He was at breakfast at 8:30.”
I quickly thought back. “That means he had less than three hours of sleep last night.”
The more we compared notes, the more we realized our lack of coordination and communication had resulted in one very exhausted, if satisfied, companion. Together, we maneuvered Watson to a bedroom of his own and left to discuss our options. The consensus was reached that we would allow Watson to sleep for as long as he needed and then we weren’t going to allow him to leave the room for the remainder of the weekend.
Watson woke up late Sunday morning and, with a minimum amount of fuss considering the source, consented to spending a majority of the rest of his time in bed, obtaining entertainment (of various descriptions) and food from one of us. When we returned to London on Monday, Watson was still not at peak health, but he was in a more stable frame of mind. The epidemic was declared officially over by the next Friday, and Mycroft and I were able to take Watson on a longer visit to the seashore, where he has become much happier, healthier, and a little bit tanner (a fact neither of us minds).
In fact, I hear him calling me now. Dear Lord, something about flying kites? Perhaps he has contracted a fever, or heat sickness. I do believe it is Mycroft’s turn to entertain him, if only I could find him. He always was good at hide and seek as a child.