Thievery
Title: Thievery
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: Holmes acquires mementos
Author's Notes: Unapologetic fluff for flying_android in exchange.
It started with a simple stray gold cufflink, long since separated from its twin. Holmes found it under his bed in a feverish search for an article that mentioned his latest case’s long-estranged brother. As he caught sight of the bauble, his mind flashed back to the furious fight in an abandoned warehouse. He had once again neglected to tell Watson of his plans, but his faithful biographer and companion managed to discover his whereabouts anyway. And he arrived just in time, as Holmes had found himself on the receiving end of more than his fair share of jabs and kicks. Watson immediately joined the fray against the seven adversaries and the duo soon found themselves surrounded by unconscious thugs. Watson’s best cane had a few new scuffs and dents in it and half of his right shirtsleeve had been torn off in the fracas, but the man himself seemed unconcerned. Indeed, he complained more bitterly about the loss of the cufflink than the bruise quickly darkening on his right eye. They had returned to Holmes’s room, where they performed their post-case ritual of mutual care and wound-tending. Obviously, this cufflink had fallen under the bed at some interval and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t managed to coerce, cajole, or threaten Holmes enough to gain entry.
A soft smile stole over his face as he rooted around in his room in search of an old cigar tin. Holmes deposited the errant cufflink in the box and hid it deep in the recesses of his wardrobe. He told himself it was in order to be able to purchase another set just like it for Christmas or Watson’s birthday, but in the smallest part of his heart, the part most hidden from the world, he knew it was to serve as a tangible reminder of his steadfast friend’s loyalty.
**************************
It continued with a plain white handkerchief that unexpectedly found its way into his pile of laundry. A sudden urge struck Holmes, and he brought the square of linen to his nose. His keen senses detected the unmistakable hints of camphor, mint, and sweat that were reminders of a three-day vigil over their ailing landlady.
Mrs. Hudson was advanced enough in years that she had ceased succumbing to simple diseases long ago. Any bug that managed to send her to her sickbed was a dangerous enemy, indeed. Especially one that lasted for so long. Holmes had been impressed with the lady as she matched a raging fever with inexhaustible stamina and faced severe chills and bodily aches with a stoutness that would have impressed Watson’s army comrades. Even more than that, he was impressed with Watson’s unflagging support and care of their landlady. The doctor had spent hours cooling her fevered brow, creating poultices and administering medicine with nary a thought to his own comfort and needs.
After the second day of no food and no rest, Holmes found himself in the unusual position of forcing his friend to take care of himself, bundling him off to bed with the assurance that he had been observing for long enough to understand the intricacies of the treatment regimen. Watson had stubbornly woken himself up a mere four hours later and forced Holmes to relinquish his position, albeit at the cost of eating two less-than-appetizing sandwiches Holmes concocted in the kitchen while Watson was arranging Mrs. Hudson into a more comfortable position and assessing her vital signs.
Their vigil lasted until the redoubtable woman declared her fitness for housework and subsequently dismissed them both from her rooms. Not before, however, heaping praise and promises of favorite dishes upon Watson as he gathered his supplies and left.
Although she had gathered enough strength to banish them from her sanctuaries, she was quite obviously still not up to par. One didn’t need to be the world’s greatest consulting detective to observe the rougher-than-normal meals and the layer of dust currently making itself home in the more out-of-the-way areas of the room. And the final piece of evidence: her mistaking Watson’s pristine handkerchief for Holmes’s somewhat more…well-used ones. However, Holmes was never one to miss an opportunity when one so graciously presented itself to him. Rather than return the errant cloth to his flatmate, he squirreled it away in the cigar box that held the cufflink. After all, it wasn’t often he was provided with such concrete evidence of Watson’s kindness and generosity of spirit and he was damned if he was going to let it slip through his fingers.
**************************
It grew slightly more complicated with a dented pocketwatch. Holmes returned from his “adventures” in Europe to a Watson he scarcely recognized. The silver hair at his temples and the lines on his face bespoke of the deepest sort of pain, the kind not tempered by time or distance. Holmes was mostly deeply saddened to see that Watson had not only taken to wearing the watch he received from his erstwhile brother despite its refusal to keep time properly, the timepiece fairly glowed with evidence of long hours spent being rubbed by hands restless in their perceived uselessness.
More shocking than Watson’s dead faint at the sight of Holmes’s transformation was how easy it was to pick him up and place him in the chair behind the desk. Watson had never fully regained his bulk after his misfortune in Afghanistan, but he had also never been so frail in all the time Holmes had known him.
Eventually Holmes coaxed out an admission of meals missed for days in a row, of nights spent in sleepless despair, of engagements and calls neglected until at last his friends dropped down to a mere handful: Lestrade, Stanford, Colonel Haytar, Anstruther.
That night, Moran captured and Lestrade’s questions answered, Holmes joined Watson in bed with arms that promised security and words that poured out his anguish at causing so much pain. The fact that Watson was sleeping the slumber of the deeply-tried while words tumbled over shame-frozen lips convinced Holmes only that his was the greatest kind of cowardice. He vowed that he would rather die than be the cause of such sorrow in his dearest companion again.
Thus, the next day Watson received a beautiful new watch with “Never Again” engraved inside, and Holmes found another item for his growing collection, a battered old watch, a symbol of his friend’s deepest pains, but of his resilience as well.
**************************
It ended with a bloody nightshirt. Holmes had absorbed his concentration into an intricate case, again, and done something extraordinarily stupid, also again. And Watson would have followed him again had he not been suffering the effects of a nasty cold. Instead, Holmes was forced to drag himself back to Baker Street, making it only as far as the front steps before collapsing. Luckily, it was right as Mrs. Hudson was going outside to light the porch lights. The ensuing flurry of activity to get Holmes inside woke up Watson, who dashed downstairs clad only in his nightgown.
The good doctor managed to get Holmes patched up, but the sheer number and depth of lacerations meant that his favorite nightshirt was sacrificed for bandages and dressings. Several hours later found Holmes lying as comfortably as could be arranged on the settee, with his head on Watson’s lap and the blanket from his bed draped comfortably over him.
The hand rubbing gently up and down his arm and the other that ran through his hair quickly lulled him into a deep slumber, content in the security Watson offered.
By the time he awoke late the next morning, Watson had fallen asleep with this head tilted back, snoring gently. Holmes at first thought he would have difficulty extracting himself from his partner’s grasp, but Watson’s exhaustion proved complete and he made it out unscathed. After attending to his needs, Holmes woke up Watson and gently suggested they move to a bed where they could both get some much-needed rest. Watson acquiesced with an alacrity that concerned Holmes. That concern only grew ten-fold when between them they managed to get Watson into one of Holmes’s nightshirts and he accidentally brushed his hands over Watson’s feverish face. Eventually, with much shuffling and repositioning, they found positions that managed not to exacerbate their various conditions.
Holmes waited until Watson was deeply asleep before sneaking out of the bed to place the bloodied, torn nightshirt in the box with his other mementos. It was another six hours of thought before the man with the most agile brain in London eventually came to realize that the items in the box represented more of his own love for Watson than any of Watson’s admirable traits, then so much the better.
Edited to eradicate the longest-running cold known to man.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Watson, Holmes
Summary: Holmes acquires mementos
Author's Notes: Unapologetic fluff for flying_android in exchange.
It started with a simple stray gold cufflink, long since separated from its twin. Holmes found it under his bed in a feverish search for an article that mentioned his latest case’s long-estranged brother. As he caught sight of the bauble, his mind flashed back to the furious fight in an abandoned warehouse. He had once again neglected to tell Watson of his plans, but his faithful biographer and companion managed to discover his whereabouts anyway. And he arrived just in time, as Holmes had found himself on the receiving end of more than his fair share of jabs and kicks. Watson immediately joined the fray against the seven adversaries and the duo soon found themselves surrounded by unconscious thugs. Watson’s best cane had a few new scuffs and dents in it and half of his right shirtsleeve had been torn off in the fracas, but the man himself seemed unconcerned. Indeed, he complained more bitterly about the loss of the cufflink than the bruise quickly darkening on his right eye. They had returned to Holmes’s room, where they performed their post-case ritual of mutual care and wound-tending. Obviously, this cufflink had fallen under the bed at some interval and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t managed to coerce, cajole, or threaten Holmes enough to gain entry.
A soft smile stole over his face as he rooted around in his room in search of an old cigar tin. Holmes deposited the errant cufflink in the box and hid it deep in the recesses of his wardrobe. He told himself it was in order to be able to purchase another set just like it for Christmas or Watson’s birthday, but in the smallest part of his heart, the part most hidden from the world, he knew it was to serve as a tangible reminder of his steadfast friend’s loyalty.
**************************
It continued with a plain white handkerchief that unexpectedly found its way into his pile of laundry. A sudden urge struck Holmes, and he brought the square of linen to his nose. His keen senses detected the unmistakable hints of camphor, mint, and sweat that were reminders of a three-day vigil over their ailing landlady.
Mrs. Hudson was advanced enough in years that she had ceased succumbing to simple diseases long ago. Any bug that managed to send her to her sickbed was a dangerous enemy, indeed. Especially one that lasted for so long. Holmes had been impressed with the lady as she matched a raging fever with inexhaustible stamina and faced severe chills and bodily aches with a stoutness that would have impressed Watson’s army comrades. Even more than that, he was impressed with Watson’s unflagging support and care of their landlady. The doctor had spent hours cooling her fevered brow, creating poultices and administering medicine with nary a thought to his own comfort and needs.
After the second day of no food and no rest, Holmes found himself in the unusual position of forcing his friend to take care of himself, bundling him off to bed with the assurance that he had been observing for long enough to understand the intricacies of the treatment regimen. Watson had stubbornly woken himself up a mere four hours later and forced Holmes to relinquish his position, albeit at the cost of eating two less-than-appetizing sandwiches Holmes concocted in the kitchen while Watson was arranging Mrs. Hudson into a more comfortable position and assessing her vital signs.
Their vigil lasted until the redoubtable woman declared her fitness for housework and subsequently dismissed them both from her rooms. Not before, however, heaping praise and promises of favorite dishes upon Watson as he gathered his supplies and left.
Although she had gathered enough strength to banish them from her sanctuaries, she was quite obviously still not up to par. One didn’t need to be the world’s greatest consulting detective to observe the rougher-than-normal meals and the layer of dust currently making itself home in the more out-of-the-way areas of the room. And the final piece of evidence: her mistaking Watson’s pristine handkerchief for Holmes’s somewhat more…well-used ones. However, Holmes was never one to miss an opportunity when one so graciously presented itself to him. Rather than return the errant cloth to his flatmate, he squirreled it away in the cigar box that held the cufflink. After all, it wasn’t often he was provided with such concrete evidence of Watson’s kindness and generosity of spirit and he was damned if he was going to let it slip through his fingers.
**************************
It grew slightly more complicated with a dented pocketwatch. Holmes returned from his “adventures” in Europe to a Watson he scarcely recognized. The silver hair at his temples and the lines on his face bespoke of the deepest sort of pain, the kind not tempered by time or distance. Holmes was mostly deeply saddened to see that Watson had not only taken to wearing the watch he received from his erstwhile brother despite its refusal to keep time properly, the timepiece fairly glowed with evidence of long hours spent being rubbed by hands restless in their perceived uselessness.
More shocking than Watson’s dead faint at the sight of Holmes’s transformation was how easy it was to pick him up and place him in the chair behind the desk. Watson had never fully regained his bulk after his misfortune in Afghanistan, but he had also never been so frail in all the time Holmes had known him.
Eventually Holmes coaxed out an admission of meals missed for days in a row, of nights spent in sleepless despair, of engagements and calls neglected until at last his friends dropped down to a mere handful: Lestrade, Stanford, Colonel Haytar, Anstruther.
That night, Moran captured and Lestrade’s questions answered, Holmes joined Watson in bed with arms that promised security and words that poured out his anguish at causing so much pain. The fact that Watson was sleeping the slumber of the deeply-tried while words tumbled over shame-frozen lips convinced Holmes only that his was the greatest kind of cowardice. He vowed that he would rather die than be the cause of such sorrow in his dearest companion again.
Thus, the next day Watson received a beautiful new watch with “Never Again” engraved inside, and Holmes found another item for his growing collection, a battered old watch, a symbol of his friend’s deepest pains, but of his resilience as well.
**************************
It ended with a bloody nightshirt. Holmes had absorbed his concentration into an intricate case, again, and done something extraordinarily stupid, also again. And Watson would have followed him again had he not been suffering the effects of a nasty cold. Instead, Holmes was forced to drag himself back to Baker Street, making it only as far as the front steps before collapsing. Luckily, it was right as Mrs. Hudson was going outside to light the porch lights. The ensuing flurry of activity to get Holmes inside woke up Watson, who dashed downstairs clad only in his nightgown.
The good doctor managed to get Holmes patched up, but the sheer number and depth of lacerations meant that his favorite nightshirt was sacrificed for bandages and dressings. Several hours later found Holmes lying as comfortably as could be arranged on the settee, with his head on Watson’s lap and the blanket from his bed draped comfortably over him.
The hand rubbing gently up and down his arm and the other that ran through his hair quickly lulled him into a deep slumber, content in the security Watson offered.
By the time he awoke late the next morning, Watson had fallen asleep with this head tilted back, snoring gently. Holmes at first thought he would have difficulty extracting himself from his partner’s grasp, but Watson’s exhaustion proved complete and he made it out unscathed. After attending to his needs, Holmes woke up Watson and gently suggested they move to a bed where they could both get some much-needed rest. Watson acquiesced with an alacrity that concerned Holmes. That concern only grew ten-fold when between them they managed to get Watson into one of Holmes’s nightshirts and he accidentally brushed his hands over Watson’s feverish face. Eventually, with much shuffling and repositioning, they found positions that managed not to exacerbate their various conditions.
Holmes waited until Watson was deeply asleep before sneaking out of the bed to place the bloodied, torn nightshirt in the box with his other mementos. It was another six hours of thought before the man with the most agile brain in London eventually came to realize that the items in the box represented more of his own love for Watson than any of Watson’s admirable traits, then so much the better.
Edited to eradicate the longest-running cold known to man.