Sherlock Holmes fic: Good for the Constitution
Thanks to jujubinha, shoshannagold, and a kind anon for my v-gifts - they make me smile every day!
Now, something that's been lacking here for a while, fan fic. Fair warning though - this is self-indulgent nonsense I wrote for myself, because I wanted to write my favourite cliche. Ah, huddling for warmth, always fun.
Title: Good for the Constitution
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Genre: First time, fluff, snark!
Word count: 5,081 words
Beta: Thanks to the lovely sparky77.
"I don't suppose I can change your mind." It's not so much a question as a statement. Watson does, after all, know Holmes rather well, and changing his mind once he's made it up would take something quite extraordinary.
"No," Holmes says. Watson imagines it's a distinct and resolute sort of no, because that is the general nature of Holmes' noes, but it's rather muffled by the undershirt Holmes is currently pulling over his head.
"So you are quite determined, despite everything I've said?" Watson asks nonetheless, because he has nothing better to do right now than at least attempt to make Holmes see sense, even if the futility of it is a foregone conclusion. He pushes his hands into his pocket, hunching his shoulders up against the wind and snow. He could be warm, indoors, reading the paper or catching up on the latest in medical breakthroughs, a glass of whisky at his side. He drops the thought - it only makes him feel colder and more irritable, and he is already quite sufficiently cold and irritable.
Holmes undoes his belt buckle and lets it drop to the ground. "Absolutely," he grins.
"And nothing I say can dissuade you-?"
"No, old bean."
"It really is-" Watson casts around for an appropriate word, but settles for, "beyond absurd, even for you. And do be careful with those trousers. They're mine, aren't they? I'm sure they're mine." He recognises the buttons, unusual square mother-of-pearl buttons that gleam in the glow from a nearby gas-light. They're definitely his trousers.
The trousers land on the growing pile of clothing with the same lack of care or consideration afforded to the jacket, shirt and tie. They are already coated in thick flakes of snow.
"I would have thought that, as a doctor, you would have been interested in my experiment," Holmes says, with the tone of a disappointed schoolmistress whose prize pupil has just made an utter hash of reciting his seven times table in front of the headmaster and school inspector.
If the truth be told, Watson is at least mildly intrigued by the whole idea. But, as a friend and doctor, he'd simply rather Holmes weren't experimenting on himself. Not that he'd wish this on poor old Gladstone either. "Sometimes, Holmes, you just go too far," he says, not because he has any expectations of Holmes suddenly listening to him, but he at least wants the satisfaction of knowing he made his point in advance.
Holmes grins at him, completely unabashed, as he unlaces his shoes and toes them off. He is now almost completely naked, nothing more than his underpants and socks between him and the elements. He's showing visible signs of cold - shaking slightly with goose bumps on his arms - but he doesn't seem in the least perturbed.
Watson settles for being thankful Holmes at least agreed to postpone his experiment until after midnight, even though it meant breaking into Hyde Park. He had considered having a word with Clarkie in advance - Watson is quite sure Clarkie would do anything for Holmes - but he's settled for keeping quiet and hoping no passing policemen happen to wander this way tonight. It would be embarrassing to have to admit that he stood by while Holmes stripped down to next to nothing, in Hyde Park, in something close to a blizzard.
"Hand me your cane," Holmes orders, arm out and hand beckoning.
Watson hands it over. Holmes jabs at the ice coating the Serpentine, then harder as it merely creaks under the impact of the first jab. The second jab creates a crack, the third a small hole, and a few more tenacious stabs produce a large enough hole for a man to jump into. A very foolish man. How lucky there's a prime example present.
Watson takes back the cane and tries one more time. "It's not too late to change your mind," he says. "The theory is all very well and fascinating, but in practise, well, it really is frightfully cold, old boy."
Holmes rubs his hands together. "Where's your spirit of adventure?" he asks, and surveys the hole in the ice and the murky water with the same sort of satisfaction he might give to a generous snifter after a long day.
He jumps in. The man is truly mad.
It would probably have been more effective if the pond were deep enough to reach over his thighs. As it is, he has to sit down and wriggle his legs under the ice to immerse himself. He looks ridiculous.
"I'm not coddling you through a case of pneumonia," Watson says, shoving his hands still further into his pockets. He has a hand warmer in each pocket, a very sensible precaution for a chilly January night in London.
Holmes sits in the water, looking bedraggled but happy. "I will be the very pinnacle of good health this winter, Watson, just you see. I've killed off anything and everything that might ail a m-man," he stutters, his teeth chattering.
"You'll be lucky if you haven't given yourself the influenza," Watson mutters, and holds out a towel.
*
Holmes sneezes. Then twice more in quick succession. He has a very loud, trumpet-like sneeze that makes a very effective foghorn as they cross Beak Street.
"I'm perfectly well," he announces, although Watson hasn't said a word. He could, of course, say I told you so, but that would be unbecoming. Watson has been extemely restrained in his lack of comments on that foolish experiment last week.
Holmes coughs next. A deep, chesty cough, hacking up phlegm into a handkerchief. He shivers visibly as he tucks the handkerchief away in his trouser pocket.
"Oh, for heavens sake," Watson says, unwraps his scarf - his beautifully warm, soft, cashmere scarf - and throws it to Holmes. Watson instantly feels the chill on his neck, as though tendrils of fog were waiting for this very moment and have crept down beneath his collar already. Holmes, the ungrateful wretch, just wraps the scarf around his own neck and carries on walking. "Don't blow your nose on it," Watson orders.
Holmes sets a fast pace. Faster than is comfortable for Watson, his leg aching more than usual in the cold, damp weather.
"Aha," Holmes says, and stops abruptly. Watson peers past him, his vision obscured by the wretched fog. The creaky sign above Holmes head reads 'Sutton and Mayh-', the paint peeled off the end, but the three gold balls above are well polished.
"Don't tell me you can't make the rent, Holmes?" Watson says.
Holmes does a twitchy thing with his eyebrows, as if to profess utter innocence of such an event ever happening, bows as a lady (hat brim pulled down over her face, but most definitely a lady) leaves the shop, and then enters.
"There's a rather tawdry little ring in the window that I'd like to see," he tells the proprietor, and Watson is none the wiser as to why Holmes is here. It appears to bear no relation to the case Holmes is currently dilly-dallying over taking (a series of break-ins in which nothing appears to have gone missing). Holmes has no particular fondness for rings that Watson is aware of. And if he's buying a gift, Watson hardly thinks this is the sort of establishment he would choose to favour with his business.
"Yes, that's the one," Holmes says, with lightly veiled satisfaction. Watson turns from his perusal of the trinkets on display (most would be well described as tawdry) to glance at the ring on the counter. And then stare at it in utter bemusement.
"That's-how did-but that's impossible," he stutters.
Holmes hands over several notes and pockets the ring (thankfully not in the same pocket containing his handkerchief), ushering Watson out of the shop ahead of him. Watson is so flabbergasted he doesn't even protest as Holmes practically man-handles him on the street and into a hackney cab.
"How-where?"
"221B Baker Street."
"I wasn't enquiring about our destination, as you well know." Watson does make an attempt not to snap - it rarely has any useful effect anyway - but his tone is unmistakably sharp.
Holmes chooses to answer without any further prodding. "It was obvious that it would turn up some time. The neighbourhood in which you lost the ring was less than salubrious, so it was certain to be found by someone with a greater need for cash than a ruby ring. A pawn shop was the likeliest bet, so I have had eyes and ears on pawn shops in that area ever since."
It's perfectly obvious and easy once Holmes explains. But then that often is the way with Holmes.
Oddly, it isn't until they're ensconced in Holmes' room, an empty pot of tea on the table between them, that Watson realises that Holmes still has the ring. Obviously Watson owes him the pawn fee, but he hardly thinks Holmes would hold back from asking for that.
"I say, about the ring. How much did it cost to retrieve it?"
Holmes sneezes. Which isn't unexpected - he has, after all, been sneezing at regular intervals for the last several days, in between coughing and sniffling and insisting that he doesn't have a cold - but this sneeze doesn't sound quite right. It sounds for all the world like a fake sneeze. Watson has heard fake sneezes and coughs on many occasions - mostly from patients whose illnesses are more convenient than real - and this isn't even a particularly convincing one. In fact, it sounds more like a distraction.
"Holmes?"
"I fear I might be coming down with something after all. A failed experiment, though no doubt you've been aware of that for some time and just waiting for the moment to announce that you told me so. Which you are perfectly entitled to do because you did in fact warn me many times."
Holmes admitting that he was wrong is beyond suspicious.
"Holmes!"
"I don't suppose you'd mind calling Mrs Hudson and asking her to bring us a fresh pot of tea, would you?"
"Holmes!"
"It would have been very satisfying to have been able to solve the problem of the common cold. But I do have another theory, and just as soon as I am sufficiently well, I shall begin work on that. I have high hopes for my newest idea. It will be much more profitable too, if it works as well as I expect."
"Holmes, stop trying to distract me. It is not working." It almost worked, because Watson is now intensely curious as to what exactly Holmes latest theory entails, but he resolutely puts it out of his mind and focuses on the matter at hand. The matter Holmes doesn't want to discuss. "What of the ring?"
Holmes, the appalling fraud, picks this moment to blow his nose, then sniffle, then sneeze, and then mutter, "Tea. I do beg of you to send for tea."
"You want nothing stronger than tea?" Watson mocks, making no move to call Mrs Hudson.
Holmes looks at him reproachfully. "Surely you must have calls to make. Sick people to taunt and abuse and then charge exorbitant amounts of money for the privilege."
"No, I am quite free for the rest of the day, barring some emergency." Watson leans forward, chin on his hands in contemplation of Holmes. "How strange it is that the ring should appear now, the very week I've moved back into my old rooms, just days after Mary and I agreed to part ways."
"Stranger things have happened."
"That sounds most unlike you, old friend. Such a casual disregard for the peculiarities of timing." Watson is beginning to enjoy this conversation. It's not often that he sees Holmes at a disadvantage. And, for all that Watson can be as obtuse as any man - he readily recognises the failings of his gender, not least because of having been reminded of them many times by the fairer sex - he does believe that for once he understands at least part of what is going on in Holmes' mind. Just because he welcomes it, though, and, he has come to realise, feel the same way, doesn't mean he can't take enjoyment in Holmes' visible discomfort.
"Yet very true," Holmes says. "I could name five stranger events in an instant, and I would swear you could with equal ease."
"And yet none of them would be as fascinating to me as this particular coincidence."
Watson grins at Holmes, and Holmes scowls at him in return.
"You do harp on about it, and all the while my throat grows more parched."
"I will call for tea," Watson says, kindly choosing not to point out that Holmes drank the majority of the previous pot.
When he returns, having waited for the tea to save Mrs Hudson the displeasure of having to enter Holmes' room, Holmes has an empty glass in his hand, and has discarded his jacket and waistcoat, a rather shabby purple silk dressing gown in their place.
"I believe you handed over five guineas for the ring," Watson says as he pours two cups of tea and adds a splash of milk to each. "And no doubt some coins to the boy you used to keep an eye on the pawn shops."
"I don't require payment." Holmes sounds huffy.
"So you will give me the ring?"
"Is that what you wish?"
Watson smiles and takes a sip of tea, although it's still a shade on the hot side. "It is," he replies.
Holmes reaches for his jacket and retrieves the ring. He examines it for a while, turning it from side to side, as if appraising its worth, and then hands it over to Watson.
Watson, in turn, examines it. He doesn't look up from it when he speaks. "What is the sign by which one can detect an engaged man?" he muses, as if merely thinking out loud.
"It is a state readily recognisable, by manner and expression. Though these are," Holmes allows, "observations that the average man would fail to perceive."
Watson puts the ring in his waistcoat pocket and allows himself to smile at Holmes. "Perhaps it is sufficient that both parties know of the mutual affection and agreement?"
"I think perhaps you're right."
They finish their tea in comfortable silence, uninterrupted by further fake coughs or sneezes, and make no further mention of the ring, though Watson himself is oddly aware of its presence in his pocket.
*
There's a light tap on his door. It wouldn't be enough to wake him, but his leg's playing up and he's loathe to take anything for it, so he's lying here awake. He ignores it, nonetheless. It's Holmes - it really could be no one else - and if it were a desperate situation Holmes wouldn't be tapping lightly. Although he is definitely persistent, alternating between taps and scratches.
Watson groans into his pillow and pulls the blankets up. He has hopes that he'll get some sleep tonight if Holmes will let up.
There's an almighty crash outside. Watson curses and throws the blankets back, finding his slippers with his bare feet. He doesn't light a candle - he lives in hope that whatever is going on in the hallway, it won't keep him out of bed many minutes.
Hope, Watson should already know, is for the naïve, and those who are not acquainted with Sherlock Holmes. When Watson opens his door, Holmes topples in from his half-seated position at the base of the door, and groans feebly.
"What have you been drinking?" Watson asks, though he can't detect alcohol fumes in the air. The soft light from the gas lamp outside and the faint flicker in his hearth is sufficient to show him that Holmes is shivering uncontrollably, and is, quite likely, genuinely in need of assistance.
"Aha," Holmes mutters, his attempt at punctuating his exclamation with a hand wave falling sadly flat. He looks up at Watson pitifully, and Watson can do nothing other than help him into his room.
Holmes manages to stand unaided, but he's visibly swaying on his feet by the time Watson has lit a lamp. There's nothing else for it: Watson frogmarches him over to his own bed, sits him down on it, and lifts his feet up and under the covers. All the while, Holmes is silent, apart from the harshness of his breathing, and most unusually docile. It ought to be a relief, but Watson finds himself wishing Holmes were complaining or resisting - at least then Watson would feel more justified in shouting at him. As it is, he simply fetches a brick from the hearth, still warm though the fire is little more than embers, wraps it up, places it carefully at Holmes feet, and climbs into bed beside him.
"I haven't been drinking," Holmes says.
"I'm perfectly capable of discerning that without your help."
"Well, you did ask."
"It was an initial question before I had sufficient data to come to an accurate conclusion."
"I didn't want to disturb you." Holmes sounds pathetic.
"Yes, well, you have." Watson feels a ridiculous urge to turn his back on Holmes to emphasise his annoyance, but Holmes is still shivering. "How on earth did you get so cold?" Watson asks.
"My fire went out."
"And I suppose it was too much effort to start another."
"Yes," Holmes replies, and it sounds like the most honest thing he's said all day.
"Damn it, I swore I wouldn't coddle you through pneumonia." He had indeed sworn that, in those very words, when Holmes had first proposed breaking the ice on the Serpentine and bathing in it, all for the crazy notion that it would prevent him from getting any winter ailments.
"I believe it's bronchitis, actually." Holmes ends the sentence on a hacking cough that nicely proves his point.
"You truly are an idiot at times, Holmes," Watson says, and turns on his side to face him. He shuffles closer and pushes Holmes over so that his back is resting against Watson's chest, and wraps his arms around him for good measure. Not his usual practice for warming up chilled patients, but then Holmes is anything but a typical patient.
"There are, in fact, my dear Watson, two possible alternatives." Holmes is still shivering, but it takes more than that to render him silent. "Either I am a complete idiot who had a foolish and failed plan to avert any form of colds for the duration of the winter, or I hatched a cunning plot to worm my way into your bed and your arms."
"As I said, you're an idiot," Watson says, though Holmes' outrageous statement ties in neatly with his odd behaviour over the ring, and other strange moments of closeness that they've shared in their many adventures.
"Are you quite certain of that?"
"Absolutely," Watson lies.
"You're lying," Holmes says. Apparently his deductive skills aren't any diminished by his illness or chill. "Your heart rate increased - just a fraction, but discernable - and your muscles all tensed. Classic signs of lying in one who is uncomfortable with lying, or who is lying to a dear friend, both of which apply in this case."
Sometimes it's wisest to rally with an attack of one's own. "The next absurdity you'll be pronouncing is your plan to propose with the recovered ring."
"A little gauche, maybe," Holmes acknowledges, as though that is the sole problem with the idea. "A different ring might be more tasteful."
Watson is tired. It's his only excuse for indulging Holmes so. "And a better fit."
"Oh, I am quite certain you'll find the ring is a perfect fit. I wouldn't have made such an elementary error as to get your ring size wrong."
Watson would be shocked by Holmes' audacity - clearly their joint visit wasn't Holmes' first visit to that particular pawn shop, or his sighting of the ring there his first one - but Watson vowed some years ago to give up being shocked by Holmes. He can't, however, resist sitting up, opening his bedside drawer, and picking up the ring. He twists it in his fingers, examining it carefully, the lamplight glinting off the stone. It does appear larger than it used to be, something he might have noticed if he'd actually looked at it after Holmes returned it. He hesitates a moment, as though his next action is of real import, then silently tuts at himself and slips the ring on his ring finger. It is, as Holmes had assured him, a perfect fit, though it looks more than a trifle ridiculous and distinctly out of place - a ring that dainty is designed for a pale, slender hand, not tanned, work-worn hands like his.
He slips it off, almost reluctantly, and returns it to the drawer.
"You're neglecting your self-imposed task," Holmes complains, shivering ostentatiously. It's a surprise he stayed quiet as long as he did, though not a surprise that he's chosen to change the subject.
"You won't die from the cold," Watson says, but nonetheless returns to his former position, wrapped around Holmes.
"You didn't leave it on," Holmes says quietly, and for a moment Watson struggles to determine what he is referring to. The ring, of course. He feels a moment's guilt, which is absurd as there was no proposal and no agreement, so he allows common sense to override the guilt, and makes no effort to avoid kicking Holmes in the shins as he makes himself as comfortable as possible considering there are two men in a bed designed for one. Holmes retaliates - of course - by pressing one very cold foot against Watson's calf, even though he has a perfectly serviceable hot brick on which he could warm his feet. But then it wouldn't be Holmes if he didn't choose the more irritating of any set of options.
"I don't seem to be any warmer," Holmes complains. "What would you suggest, doctor?"
It's true. Holmes' shivering hasn't subsided, and when Watson brushes against his hand, it's like ice. And while it is also true that Holmes is unlikely to die from this degree of chill, it certainly won't do his health any good.
There is one simple and practical method Watson could adopt to help Holmes warm up, but he is increasingly convinced that Holmes has set them up for this very scenario. However, Watson, as Holmes has so pointedly just reminded him, is a doctor, and Holmes is his friend and currently his patient, so he really has no choice in the matter.
"Strip off your shirt," he orders.
Holmes chuckles, though his amusement is muted by another coughing fit and continued shivering. He really does sound quite pitiful, even while he's being incredibly annoying. "I thought you'd never ask. Or rather, order," he says. "I think I like it better that it's an order."
Watson ignores him and pulls his own nightshirt over his head. He feels warmer than he should given the temperature in the room, and can but hope that the heat he's feeling doesn't display itself in any unfortunate or inappropriate manner.
He pulls Holmes back into what he'd be hard-pressed to pretend is anything but an embrace, and startles when he realizes the way Holmes has interpreted his order. "I said nightshirt, not everything," he protests.
"But I'm cold. Terribly cold. I need to warm up all over," Holmes insists. He takes Watson's hand and places it on his thigh, which Watson can't deny is icy. Watson should retrieve his hand - is just about to - when Holmes moves it up and, oh-
"At least I'm not cold absolutely everywhere," Holmes says.
"That's good," Watson says, his hand still in place.
"Merely good?" Holmes queries. "I had hoped it merited more than a rather neutral sort of compliment."
"My comment wasn't meant as a compliment of your manhood," Watson retorts.
"I have an idea as to what would warm me up. Not an entirely traditional method-"
"When do you ever employ traditional methods?" Watson mutters.
"Exactly," Holmes says, as though Watson has just praised him. "And I do have cause to suspect you might not be entirely averse to the suggestion, old chap."
Watson, if he is to be truly honest with himself, has no doubts about what exactly it is Holmes is suggesting, and is not at all averse to the idea, however untraditional or frankly improper it might be.
He makes his decision, wraps his hand around Holmes member, and gives it an experimental tug. It seems churlish, now, to disguise his own reaction to the treatment he is rendering to Holmes, so he presses firmly up against Holmes bare buttocks, just the thin cotton of Watson's underpants between them. Holmes, naturally, can't keep quiet. He sets up a constant stream of instructions regarding the degree of pressure he likes (more), his preferred speed (slower), and then has the audacity to complain that Watson's hand is too dry.
Watson by all rights should kick him out of the bed unsatisfied. It would serve the infernal nag right. But the heat in Watson's belly hasn't subsided one whit despite all the complaining, and Holmes is still shivering slightly, so Watson chooses a different option. He brings them face to face and shuts Holmes up.
Kissing Holmes is as much of a battle as Watson might have expected, if he'd ever paid any serious consideration to the idea in advance. Even silent, Holmes is demanding, shouldering Watson into the position he wants him, thrusting up into Watson's hand, grunting deep in his throat as Watson nips at his lip. The bed creaks loudly under their motion, but Watson doesn't think he could stop now even if it were to collapse underneath them. When Holmes finally spills into Watson's hand, he does so with the same sort of enthusiasm he approaches anything that doesn't bore him. Watson is by now quite shamelessly rutting against Holmes' thigh, and the heat and eagerness of Holmes' reaction is enough to make him shudder through his own release.
"A wet cloth and a towel would be most welcome," Holmes says, some minutes later. He is only coughing intermittently now, and is no longer shivering. Watson can attest to the fact that Holmes is pleasantly warm all over, as they are still plastered against each other from head to toe. There is no excuse for it any longer, but Watson doesn't think they need one now.
"Fetch it yourself." Watson would benefit from a wet cloth too, and a change of underpants, but it's the principle of the matter. He's not moving.
"But I might catch a chill again," Holmes protests.
Watson shrugs and wriggles himself into a more comfortable position. "Then don't fetch one."
Watson doesn't bother to repress his smile when Holmes begrudgingly gets up, even though he throws the bedding deliberately far enough to leave Watson uncovered too. He also allows himself to admire Holmes' fine muscle structure, and doesn't look away when Holmes turns back to his bed and catches him staring.
Holmes does, at least, share the cloth. And Watson foregoes decency - it seems a little late for that - and removes his underpants.
"How, exactly, did you manage to get so very cold?" Watson asks when the covers are pulled up snugly around them. He's fully aware that he sounds as though he's questioning a suspect. It's intentional. Holmes is suspect.
Holmes heaves a weary, put-upon sigh, and then goes into a long explanation of why his fire went out, in the process blaming Mrs Hudson, Gladstone, Watson, Yorkshire coal miners, the delivery boy, and the architect who designed their residence.
"Did you bank up the fire for the night? Or," Watson asks, with the surety of a man who has hit on the truth, "did you deliberately rake it out and let it die?"
"Aren't you going to roll over and fall asleep in the afterglow sometime soon?" Holmes asks, as though Watson's questions are a deliberate affront to his sexual prowess.
"Stop trying to change the subject. You're not even the least bit subtle about it. Just answer the question, and then maybe we can both get some sleep."
"I must confess-" Holmes pauses, clearly in order to allow Watson time to anticipate what it is he's about to confess. Watson is not about to play that game however. Instead, he pointedly yawns; the hour is late, after all, and Holmes has kept him up. In more ways than one.
"I must confess," Holmes repeats eventually, "I'm very disappointed that you're not better tempered afterwards. I would have thought that if anything could have improved your temper-" He leaves the thought hanging.
"Normally, you would be correct. However, I made an exception for you."
"I feel decidedly special."
"This evening's events will, I feel, be a singular occurrence, however, unless you stop changing the subject and answer a simple question or two."
Holmes replies instantly. "My intentions are honourable, and my finances comfortable. I can provide character references and bank statements, should they be required."
"Not answers to the questions I had in mind." The tone might have been slightly flippant, as is Holmes' want, but Watson knows when Holmes is disguising honesty beneath a casual tone. Watson, however, resolutely ignores the warm feeling inside him at the unusual sincerity of Holmes' words and presses on with his interrogation. "Did you, or did you not, deliberately allow the fire to go out in your room?"
"I did."
"And did you also open your window and stand by it, in order to more speedily lower your body temperature?"
"Very observant, my dear Watson. You make me proud."
"And you, my dear Holmes-" Watson stops mid-sentence and chuckles. Holmes infuriates him, drives him half mad, and is the most obstinate, ridiculous, wonderful man Watson has ever, and is ever likely to know. And if he's used absurdly childish methods to get into Watson's bed, well, Watson really doesn't mind. If truth be told, he can't think of anywhere he'd rather be, other than a little closer to Holmes. That is easily remedied, and if Holmes complains a little, Watson has a very practical reason on his side: he is a doctor, and it's his duty to coddle Holmes through his bronchitis.
//
Now, something that's been lacking here for a while, fan fic. Fair warning though - this is self-indulgent nonsense I wrote for myself, because I wanted to write my favourite cliche. Ah, huddling for warmth, always fun.
Title: Good for the Constitution
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Genre: First time, fluff, snark!
Word count: 5,081 words
Beta: Thanks to the lovely sparky77.
"I don't suppose I can change your mind." It's not so much a question as a statement. Watson does, after all, know Holmes rather well, and changing his mind once he's made it up would take something quite extraordinary.
"No," Holmes says. Watson imagines it's a distinct and resolute sort of no, because that is the general nature of Holmes' noes, but it's rather muffled by the undershirt Holmes is currently pulling over his head.
"So you are quite determined, despite everything I've said?" Watson asks nonetheless, because he has nothing better to do right now than at least attempt to make Holmes see sense, even if the futility of it is a foregone conclusion. He pushes his hands into his pocket, hunching his shoulders up against the wind and snow. He could be warm, indoors, reading the paper or catching up on the latest in medical breakthroughs, a glass of whisky at his side. He drops the thought - it only makes him feel colder and more irritable, and he is already quite sufficiently cold and irritable.
Holmes undoes his belt buckle and lets it drop to the ground. "Absolutely," he grins.
"And nothing I say can dissuade you-?"
"No, old bean."
"It really is-" Watson casts around for an appropriate word, but settles for, "beyond absurd, even for you. And do be careful with those trousers. They're mine, aren't they? I'm sure they're mine." He recognises the buttons, unusual square mother-of-pearl buttons that gleam in the glow from a nearby gas-light. They're definitely his trousers.
The trousers land on the growing pile of clothing with the same lack of care or consideration afforded to the jacket, shirt and tie. They are already coated in thick flakes of snow.
"I would have thought that, as a doctor, you would have been interested in my experiment," Holmes says, with the tone of a disappointed schoolmistress whose prize pupil has just made an utter hash of reciting his seven times table in front of the headmaster and school inspector.
If the truth be told, Watson is at least mildly intrigued by the whole idea. But, as a friend and doctor, he'd simply rather Holmes weren't experimenting on himself. Not that he'd wish this on poor old Gladstone either. "Sometimes, Holmes, you just go too far," he says, not because he has any expectations of Holmes suddenly listening to him, but he at least wants the satisfaction of knowing he made his point in advance.
Holmes grins at him, completely unabashed, as he unlaces his shoes and toes them off. He is now almost completely naked, nothing more than his underpants and socks between him and the elements. He's showing visible signs of cold - shaking slightly with goose bumps on his arms - but he doesn't seem in the least perturbed.
Watson settles for being thankful Holmes at least agreed to postpone his experiment until after midnight, even though it meant breaking into Hyde Park. He had considered having a word with Clarkie in advance - Watson is quite sure Clarkie would do anything for Holmes - but he's settled for keeping quiet and hoping no passing policemen happen to wander this way tonight. It would be embarrassing to have to admit that he stood by while Holmes stripped down to next to nothing, in Hyde Park, in something close to a blizzard.
"Hand me your cane," Holmes orders, arm out and hand beckoning.
Watson hands it over. Holmes jabs at the ice coating the Serpentine, then harder as it merely creaks under the impact of the first jab. The second jab creates a crack, the third a small hole, and a few more tenacious stabs produce a large enough hole for a man to jump into. A very foolish man. How lucky there's a prime example present.
Watson takes back the cane and tries one more time. "It's not too late to change your mind," he says. "The theory is all very well and fascinating, but in practise, well, it really is frightfully cold, old boy."
Holmes rubs his hands together. "Where's your spirit of adventure?" he asks, and surveys the hole in the ice and the murky water with the same sort of satisfaction he might give to a generous snifter after a long day.
He jumps in. The man is truly mad.
It would probably have been more effective if the pond were deep enough to reach over his thighs. As it is, he has to sit down and wriggle his legs under the ice to immerse himself. He looks ridiculous.
"I'm not coddling you through a case of pneumonia," Watson says, shoving his hands still further into his pockets. He has a hand warmer in each pocket, a very sensible precaution for a chilly January night in London.
Holmes sits in the water, looking bedraggled but happy. "I will be the very pinnacle of good health this winter, Watson, just you see. I've killed off anything and everything that might ail a m-man," he stutters, his teeth chattering.
"You'll be lucky if you haven't given yourself the influenza," Watson mutters, and holds out a towel.
*
Holmes sneezes. Then twice more in quick succession. He has a very loud, trumpet-like sneeze that makes a very effective foghorn as they cross Beak Street.
"I'm perfectly well," he announces, although Watson hasn't said a word. He could, of course, say I told you so, but that would be unbecoming. Watson has been extemely restrained in his lack of comments on that foolish experiment last week.
Holmes coughs next. A deep, chesty cough, hacking up phlegm into a handkerchief. He shivers visibly as he tucks the handkerchief away in his trouser pocket.
"Oh, for heavens sake," Watson says, unwraps his scarf - his beautifully warm, soft, cashmere scarf - and throws it to Holmes. Watson instantly feels the chill on his neck, as though tendrils of fog were waiting for this very moment and have crept down beneath his collar already. Holmes, the ungrateful wretch, just wraps the scarf around his own neck and carries on walking. "Don't blow your nose on it," Watson orders.
Holmes sets a fast pace. Faster than is comfortable for Watson, his leg aching more than usual in the cold, damp weather.
"Aha," Holmes says, and stops abruptly. Watson peers past him, his vision obscured by the wretched fog. The creaky sign above Holmes head reads 'Sutton and Mayh-', the paint peeled off the end, but the three gold balls above are well polished.
"Don't tell me you can't make the rent, Holmes?" Watson says.
Holmes does a twitchy thing with his eyebrows, as if to profess utter innocence of such an event ever happening, bows as a lady (hat brim pulled down over her face, but most definitely a lady) leaves the shop, and then enters.
"There's a rather tawdry little ring in the window that I'd like to see," he tells the proprietor, and Watson is none the wiser as to why Holmes is here. It appears to bear no relation to the case Holmes is currently dilly-dallying over taking (a series of break-ins in which nothing appears to have gone missing). Holmes has no particular fondness for rings that Watson is aware of. And if he's buying a gift, Watson hardly thinks this is the sort of establishment he would choose to favour with his business.
"Yes, that's the one," Holmes says, with lightly veiled satisfaction. Watson turns from his perusal of the trinkets on display (most would be well described as tawdry) to glance at the ring on the counter. And then stare at it in utter bemusement.
"That's-how did-but that's impossible," he stutters.
Holmes hands over several notes and pockets the ring (thankfully not in the same pocket containing his handkerchief), ushering Watson out of the shop ahead of him. Watson is so flabbergasted he doesn't even protest as Holmes practically man-handles him on the street and into a hackney cab.
"How-where?"
"221B Baker Street."
"I wasn't enquiring about our destination, as you well know." Watson does make an attempt not to snap - it rarely has any useful effect anyway - but his tone is unmistakably sharp.
Holmes chooses to answer without any further prodding. "It was obvious that it would turn up some time. The neighbourhood in which you lost the ring was less than salubrious, so it was certain to be found by someone with a greater need for cash than a ruby ring. A pawn shop was the likeliest bet, so I have had eyes and ears on pawn shops in that area ever since."
It's perfectly obvious and easy once Holmes explains. But then that often is the way with Holmes.
Oddly, it isn't until they're ensconced in Holmes' room, an empty pot of tea on the table between them, that Watson realises that Holmes still has the ring. Obviously Watson owes him the pawn fee, but he hardly thinks Holmes would hold back from asking for that.
"I say, about the ring. How much did it cost to retrieve it?"
Holmes sneezes. Which isn't unexpected - he has, after all, been sneezing at regular intervals for the last several days, in between coughing and sniffling and insisting that he doesn't have a cold - but this sneeze doesn't sound quite right. It sounds for all the world like a fake sneeze. Watson has heard fake sneezes and coughs on many occasions - mostly from patients whose illnesses are more convenient than real - and this isn't even a particularly convincing one. In fact, it sounds more like a distraction.
"Holmes?"
"I fear I might be coming down with something after all. A failed experiment, though no doubt you've been aware of that for some time and just waiting for the moment to announce that you told me so. Which you are perfectly entitled to do because you did in fact warn me many times."
Holmes admitting that he was wrong is beyond suspicious.
"Holmes!"
"I don't suppose you'd mind calling Mrs Hudson and asking her to bring us a fresh pot of tea, would you?"
"Holmes!"
"It would have been very satisfying to have been able to solve the problem of the common cold. But I do have another theory, and just as soon as I am sufficiently well, I shall begin work on that. I have high hopes for my newest idea. It will be much more profitable too, if it works as well as I expect."
"Holmes, stop trying to distract me. It is not working." It almost worked, because Watson is now intensely curious as to what exactly Holmes latest theory entails, but he resolutely puts it out of his mind and focuses on the matter at hand. The matter Holmes doesn't want to discuss. "What of the ring?"
Holmes, the appalling fraud, picks this moment to blow his nose, then sniffle, then sneeze, and then mutter, "Tea. I do beg of you to send for tea."
"You want nothing stronger than tea?" Watson mocks, making no move to call Mrs Hudson.
Holmes looks at him reproachfully. "Surely you must have calls to make. Sick people to taunt and abuse and then charge exorbitant amounts of money for the privilege."
"No, I am quite free for the rest of the day, barring some emergency." Watson leans forward, chin on his hands in contemplation of Holmes. "How strange it is that the ring should appear now, the very week I've moved back into my old rooms, just days after Mary and I agreed to part ways."
"Stranger things have happened."
"That sounds most unlike you, old friend. Such a casual disregard for the peculiarities of timing." Watson is beginning to enjoy this conversation. It's not often that he sees Holmes at a disadvantage. And, for all that Watson can be as obtuse as any man - he readily recognises the failings of his gender, not least because of having been reminded of them many times by the fairer sex - he does believe that for once he understands at least part of what is going on in Holmes' mind. Just because he welcomes it, though, and, he has come to realise, feel the same way, doesn't mean he can't take enjoyment in Holmes' visible discomfort.
"Yet very true," Holmes says. "I could name five stranger events in an instant, and I would swear you could with equal ease."
"And yet none of them would be as fascinating to me as this particular coincidence."
Watson grins at Holmes, and Holmes scowls at him in return.
"You do harp on about it, and all the while my throat grows more parched."
"I will call for tea," Watson says, kindly choosing not to point out that Holmes drank the majority of the previous pot.
When he returns, having waited for the tea to save Mrs Hudson the displeasure of having to enter Holmes' room, Holmes has an empty glass in his hand, and has discarded his jacket and waistcoat, a rather shabby purple silk dressing gown in their place.
"I believe you handed over five guineas for the ring," Watson says as he pours two cups of tea and adds a splash of milk to each. "And no doubt some coins to the boy you used to keep an eye on the pawn shops."
"I don't require payment." Holmes sounds huffy.
"So you will give me the ring?"
"Is that what you wish?"
Watson smiles and takes a sip of tea, although it's still a shade on the hot side. "It is," he replies.
Holmes reaches for his jacket and retrieves the ring. He examines it for a while, turning it from side to side, as if appraising its worth, and then hands it over to Watson.
Watson, in turn, examines it. He doesn't look up from it when he speaks. "What is the sign by which one can detect an engaged man?" he muses, as if merely thinking out loud.
"It is a state readily recognisable, by manner and expression. Though these are," Holmes allows, "observations that the average man would fail to perceive."
Watson puts the ring in his waistcoat pocket and allows himself to smile at Holmes. "Perhaps it is sufficient that both parties know of the mutual affection and agreement?"
"I think perhaps you're right."
They finish their tea in comfortable silence, uninterrupted by further fake coughs or sneezes, and make no further mention of the ring, though Watson himself is oddly aware of its presence in his pocket.
*
There's a light tap on his door. It wouldn't be enough to wake him, but his leg's playing up and he's loathe to take anything for it, so he's lying here awake. He ignores it, nonetheless. It's Holmes - it really could be no one else - and if it were a desperate situation Holmes wouldn't be tapping lightly. Although he is definitely persistent, alternating between taps and scratches.
Watson groans into his pillow and pulls the blankets up. He has hopes that he'll get some sleep tonight if Holmes will let up.
There's an almighty crash outside. Watson curses and throws the blankets back, finding his slippers with his bare feet. He doesn't light a candle - he lives in hope that whatever is going on in the hallway, it won't keep him out of bed many minutes.
Hope, Watson should already know, is for the naïve, and those who are not acquainted with Sherlock Holmes. When Watson opens his door, Holmes topples in from his half-seated position at the base of the door, and groans feebly.
"What have you been drinking?" Watson asks, though he can't detect alcohol fumes in the air. The soft light from the gas lamp outside and the faint flicker in his hearth is sufficient to show him that Holmes is shivering uncontrollably, and is, quite likely, genuinely in need of assistance.
"Aha," Holmes mutters, his attempt at punctuating his exclamation with a hand wave falling sadly flat. He looks up at Watson pitifully, and Watson can do nothing other than help him into his room.
Holmes manages to stand unaided, but he's visibly swaying on his feet by the time Watson has lit a lamp. There's nothing else for it: Watson frogmarches him over to his own bed, sits him down on it, and lifts his feet up and under the covers. All the while, Holmes is silent, apart from the harshness of his breathing, and most unusually docile. It ought to be a relief, but Watson finds himself wishing Holmes were complaining or resisting - at least then Watson would feel more justified in shouting at him. As it is, he simply fetches a brick from the hearth, still warm though the fire is little more than embers, wraps it up, places it carefully at Holmes feet, and climbs into bed beside him.
"I haven't been drinking," Holmes says.
"I'm perfectly capable of discerning that without your help."
"Well, you did ask."
"It was an initial question before I had sufficient data to come to an accurate conclusion."
"I didn't want to disturb you." Holmes sounds pathetic.
"Yes, well, you have." Watson feels a ridiculous urge to turn his back on Holmes to emphasise his annoyance, but Holmes is still shivering. "How on earth did you get so cold?" Watson asks.
"My fire went out."
"And I suppose it was too much effort to start another."
"Yes," Holmes replies, and it sounds like the most honest thing he's said all day.
"Damn it, I swore I wouldn't coddle you through pneumonia." He had indeed sworn that, in those very words, when Holmes had first proposed breaking the ice on the Serpentine and bathing in it, all for the crazy notion that it would prevent him from getting any winter ailments.
"I believe it's bronchitis, actually." Holmes ends the sentence on a hacking cough that nicely proves his point.
"You truly are an idiot at times, Holmes," Watson says, and turns on his side to face him. He shuffles closer and pushes Holmes over so that his back is resting against Watson's chest, and wraps his arms around him for good measure. Not his usual practice for warming up chilled patients, but then Holmes is anything but a typical patient.
"There are, in fact, my dear Watson, two possible alternatives." Holmes is still shivering, but it takes more than that to render him silent. "Either I am a complete idiot who had a foolish and failed plan to avert any form of colds for the duration of the winter, or I hatched a cunning plot to worm my way into your bed and your arms."
"As I said, you're an idiot," Watson says, though Holmes' outrageous statement ties in neatly with his odd behaviour over the ring, and other strange moments of closeness that they've shared in their many adventures.
"Are you quite certain of that?"
"Absolutely," Watson lies.
"You're lying," Holmes says. Apparently his deductive skills aren't any diminished by his illness or chill. "Your heart rate increased - just a fraction, but discernable - and your muscles all tensed. Classic signs of lying in one who is uncomfortable with lying, or who is lying to a dear friend, both of which apply in this case."
Sometimes it's wisest to rally with an attack of one's own. "The next absurdity you'll be pronouncing is your plan to propose with the recovered ring."
"A little gauche, maybe," Holmes acknowledges, as though that is the sole problem with the idea. "A different ring might be more tasteful."
Watson is tired. It's his only excuse for indulging Holmes so. "And a better fit."
"Oh, I am quite certain you'll find the ring is a perfect fit. I wouldn't have made such an elementary error as to get your ring size wrong."
Watson would be shocked by Holmes' audacity - clearly their joint visit wasn't Holmes' first visit to that particular pawn shop, or his sighting of the ring there his first one - but Watson vowed some years ago to give up being shocked by Holmes. He can't, however, resist sitting up, opening his bedside drawer, and picking up the ring. He twists it in his fingers, examining it carefully, the lamplight glinting off the stone. It does appear larger than it used to be, something he might have noticed if he'd actually looked at it after Holmes returned it. He hesitates a moment, as though his next action is of real import, then silently tuts at himself and slips the ring on his ring finger. It is, as Holmes had assured him, a perfect fit, though it looks more than a trifle ridiculous and distinctly out of place - a ring that dainty is designed for a pale, slender hand, not tanned, work-worn hands like his.
He slips it off, almost reluctantly, and returns it to the drawer.
"You're neglecting your self-imposed task," Holmes complains, shivering ostentatiously. It's a surprise he stayed quiet as long as he did, though not a surprise that he's chosen to change the subject.
"You won't die from the cold," Watson says, but nonetheless returns to his former position, wrapped around Holmes.
"You didn't leave it on," Holmes says quietly, and for a moment Watson struggles to determine what he is referring to. The ring, of course. He feels a moment's guilt, which is absurd as there was no proposal and no agreement, so he allows common sense to override the guilt, and makes no effort to avoid kicking Holmes in the shins as he makes himself as comfortable as possible considering there are two men in a bed designed for one. Holmes retaliates - of course - by pressing one very cold foot against Watson's calf, even though he has a perfectly serviceable hot brick on which he could warm his feet. But then it wouldn't be Holmes if he didn't choose the more irritating of any set of options.
"I don't seem to be any warmer," Holmes complains. "What would you suggest, doctor?"
It's true. Holmes' shivering hasn't subsided, and when Watson brushes against his hand, it's like ice. And while it is also true that Holmes is unlikely to die from this degree of chill, it certainly won't do his health any good.
There is one simple and practical method Watson could adopt to help Holmes warm up, but he is increasingly convinced that Holmes has set them up for this very scenario. However, Watson, as Holmes has so pointedly just reminded him, is a doctor, and Holmes is his friend and currently his patient, so he really has no choice in the matter.
"Strip off your shirt," he orders.
Holmes chuckles, though his amusement is muted by another coughing fit and continued shivering. He really does sound quite pitiful, even while he's being incredibly annoying. "I thought you'd never ask. Or rather, order," he says. "I think I like it better that it's an order."
Watson ignores him and pulls his own nightshirt over his head. He feels warmer than he should given the temperature in the room, and can but hope that the heat he's feeling doesn't display itself in any unfortunate or inappropriate manner.
He pulls Holmes back into what he'd be hard-pressed to pretend is anything but an embrace, and startles when he realizes the way Holmes has interpreted his order. "I said nightshirt, not everything," he protests.
"But I'm cold. Terribly cold. I need to warm up all over," Holmes insists. He takes Watson's hand and places it on his thigh, which Watson can't deny is icy. Watson should retrieve his hand - is just about to - when Holmes moves it up and, oh-
"At least I'm not cold absolutely everywhere," Holmes says.
"That's good," Watson says, his hand still in place.
"Merely good?" Holmes queries. "I had hoped it merited more than a rather neutral sort of compliment."
"My comment wasn't meant as a compliment of your manhood," Watson retorts.
"I have an idea as to what would warm me up. Not an entirely traditional method-"
"When do you ever employ traditional methods?" Watson mutters.
"Exactly," Holmes says, as though Watson has just praised him. "And I do have cause to suspect you might not be entirely averse to the suggestion, old chap."
Watson, if he is to be truly honest with himself, has no doubts about what exactly it is Holmes is suggesting, and is not at all averse to the idea, however untraditional or frankly improper it might be.
He makes his decision, wraps his hand around Holmes member, and gives it an experimental tug. It seems churlish, now, to disguise his own reaction to the treatment he is rendering to Holmes, so he presses firmly up against Holmes bare buttocks, just the thin cotton of Watson's underpants between them. Holmes, naturally, can't keep quiet. He sets up a constant stream of instructions regarding the degree of pressure he likes (more), his preferred speed (slower), and then has the audacity to complain that Watson's hand is too dry.
Watson by all rights should kick him out of the bed unsatisfied. It would serve the infernal nag right. But the heat in Watson's belly hasn't subsided one whit despite all the complaining, and Holmes is still shivering slightly, so Watson chooses a different option. He brings them face to face and shuts Holmes up.
Kissing Holmes is as much of a battle as Watson might have expected, if he'd ever paid any serious consideration to the idea in advance. Even silent, Holmes is demanding, shouldering Watson into the position he wants him, thrusting up into Watson's hand, grunting deep in his throat as Watson nips at his lip. The bed creaks loudly under their motion, but Watson doesn't think he could stop now even if it were to collapse underneath them. When Holmes finally spills into Watson's hand, he does so with the same sort of enthusiasm he approaches anything that doesn't bore him. Watson is by now quite shamelessly rutting against Holmes' thigh, and the heat and eagerness of Holmes' reaction is enough to make him shudder through his own release.
"A wet cloth and a towel would be most welcome," Holmes says, some minutes later. He is only coughing intermittently now, and is no longer shivering. Watson can attest to the fact that Holmes is pleasantly warm all over, as they are still plastered against each other from head to toe. There is no excuse for it any longer, but Watson doesn't think they need one now.
"Fetch it yourself." Watson would benefit from a wet cloth too, and a change of underpants, but it's the principle of the matter. He's not moving.
"But I might catch a chill again," Holmes protests.
Watson shrugs and wriggles himself into a more comfortable position. "Then don't fetch one."
Watson doesn't bother to repress his smile when Holmes begrudgingly gets up, even though he throws the bedding deliberately far enough to leave Watson uncovered too. He also allows himself to admire Holmes' fine muscle structure, and doesn't look away when Holmes turns back to his bed and catches him staring.
Holmes does, at least, share the cloth. And Watson foregoes decency - it seems a little late for that - and removes his underpants.
"How, exactly, did you manage to get so very cold?" Watson asks when the covers are pulled up snugly around them. He's fully aware that he sounds as though he's questioning a suspect. It's intentional. Holmes is suspect.
Holmes heaves a weary, put-upon sigh, and then goes into a long explanation of why his fire went out, in the process blaming Mrs Hudson, Gladstone, Watson, Yorkshire coal miners, the delivery boy, and the architect who designed their residence.
"Did you bank up the fire for the night? Or," Watson asks, with the surety of a man who has hit on the truth, "did you deliberately rake it out and let it die?"
"Aren't you going to roll over and fall asleep in the afterglow sometime soon?" Holmes asks, as though Watson's questions are a deliberate affront to his sexual prowess.
"Stop trying to change the subject. You're not even the least bit subtle about it. Just answer the question, and then maybe we can both get some sleep."
"I must confess-" Holmes pauses, clearly in order to allow Watson time to anticipate what it is he's about to confess. Watson is not about to play that game however. Instead, he pointedly yawns; the hour is late, after all, and Holmes has kept him up. In more ways than one.
"I must confess," Holmes repeats eventually, "I'm very disappointed that you're not better tempered afterwards. I would have thought that if anything could have improved your temper-" He leaves the thought hanging.
"Normally, you would be correct. However, I made an exception for you."
"I feel decidedly special."
"This evening's events will, I feel, be a singular occurrence, however, unless you stop changing the subject and answer a simple question or two."
Holmes replies instantly. "My intentions are honourable, and my finances comfortable. I can provide character references and bank statements, should they be required."
"Not answers to the questions I had in mind." The tone might have been slightly flippant, as is Holmes' want, but Watson knows when Holmes is disguising honesty beneath a casual tone. Watson, however, resolutely ignores the warm feeling inside him at the unusual sincerity of Holmes' words and presses on with his interrogation. "Did you, or did you not, deliberately allow the fire to go out in your room?"
"I did."
"And did you also open your window and stand by it, in order to more speedily lower your body temperature?"
"Very observant, my dear Watson. You make me proud."
"And you, my dear Holmes-" Watson stops mid-sentence and chuckles. Holmes infuriates him, drives him half mad, and is the most obstinate, ridiculous, wonderful man Watson has ever, and is ever likely to know. And if he's used absurdly childish methods to get into Watson's bed, well, Watson really doesn't mind. If truth be told, he can't think of anywhere he'd rather be, other than a little closer to Holmes. That is easily remedied, and if Holmes complains a little, Watson has a very practical reason on his side: he is a doctor, and it's his duty to coddle Holmes through his bronchitis.
//