Victorian iPods (formerly "illness fic"
originally posted to Watson's Woes on September 4, 2009
Title: Victorian iPod
Author: Pompey
words: about 1200
rating: G
warnings: very minor music lesson, PWP
weekend challenge: sick!Watson, comforting!Holmes
A/N: New title comes from my original footnote: From the way it’s written in SCARLET you’d think that “Lieder” was one song but actually it’s comprised of 48 songs (8 books of 6 pieces each.) “Lieder ohne Worder” is German for “Songs without Words.” Watson’s got his own personal Victorian ipod in Holmes.
I sat over my sheets of parchment, unable to formulate a clear thought though I had an appointment the following morning with a young doctor by the name of Doyle concerning the writing and perhaps publication of the Lauriston Garden mystery. He had heard of my involvement through a friend and of a friend and asked me to bring in an outline of the case. Foolishly, I had procrastinated until the last minute. A reschedule would undoubtedly be out of the question as a surprisingly late influenza strain had struck London and physicians were as rare as malachite. In addition, the balmy weather of April had also taken a turn for the worst, becoming stormy and downright chilly as the night progressed. My wounded shoulder throbbed at the meteorological change and I could feel a headache brewing at my temples.
Suddenly the pen was unceremoniously snatched from my hand and laid beside the papers. I looked up, startled, to see Holmes standing almost in front of me. “Watson, my dear fellow, go to bed,” he said simply.
This unprovoked command nettled me further. “I’m sorry, Holmes, I don’t recall hiring you as a personal physician,” I snapped and moved to take up my pen again.
Holmes pushed it out of my reach and spoke in gentler terms. “Then allow me to make a few observations as a detective. It is the middle of influenza season. Your health, as you say, has not yet quite recovered from Afghanistan. You hold your shoulder in such a way as to look as though it pains you. You have also massaged your temples no fewer than five times within the past half hour. You appear tired and haggard, your cheeks are flushed and your eyes have a glassy cast to them. Most convincingly, you have not written a single word in fifteen minutes. What other conclusion am I to reach, then, if not one stating you are unwell?” When I made no response, Holmes carefully collected my papers and stacked them neatly at the far end of my desk. “Go to bed, Watson,” he repeated.
I rose and went to my room, preserving as much dignity as I was able. The truth of the matter was I feared I was on the verge of succumbing to a common, if annoying, cold. My bed had never seemed more appealing nor sleep so welcoming. Even so, Holmes had no business ordering me about as though I were a mere schoolboy. “Physician, heal thyself,” I muttered rancorously. I began to disrobe when a sudden fit of chills took possession of my body. Still clad in trousers and shirt, I collapsed beneath the sheets and blanket. Within moments the chills had left and I found the pillow was wonderfully cool beneath my cheek. Soon I had drifted off into a light, troubled slumber.
My appointment with Doyle was fated to be missed until a much later date. Holmes had a single look at me, declared me to be as grey as paste and proposed that he possessed better medical skills than I if I thought I was in any condition to go out. I could not argue with that for if I looked anywhere near as poorly as I felt, I was a wretchedly miserable sight indeed.
Two days later it was clear the germ was that of common influenza, for no cold ever brought such achiness to one’s limbs nor such a fearsome headache or rampant nasal congestion. For half the day I quite literally could not go five minutes without sneezing, according to the clock, for all the good it did. I still could not sleep more than a few hours before I would wake, choking on secretions.
I tried to minimize Holmes’s exposure to my pathogens by limiting my trips outside my own bedroom and, very wisely, he kept his distance. He was also courteous enough to keep any chemical experiments noncombustible and to partake in fresher, milder tobacco.
He did, however, play his violin more frequently than I had ever known him to. Nor was it the weird, screeching solos he was wont to drift into if left to his own devices. He went through most, if not all, of the Bach pieces in his repertoire and Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worder in its entirety (1). Now and then he deigned to reproduce a few Gilbert and Sullivan pieces that could only have been for my benefit, knowing as I did his opinion of those collaborators.
I was immensely grateful for the diversion his music provided for I had little else to divert me from the misery of the influenza. I could read for only a short while before my watery eyes revolted. Yet closing my eyes did not automatically bring about sleep. Listening to Holmes’s interpretation of the classics saved me from untold tedium.
And then, three days later, the music stopped entirely. I could not understand it. Certainly I had not had a chance to express my gratitude but neither, I thought, had I implied that he had disturbed me. It was only two days until I deemed myself no longer contagious but two days spent in relative silence alone with one’s thoughts while ill can be utterly maddening.
After a hot bath and a hot cup of tea, I was ensconced on our couch and feeling far more like myself. I watched as Holmes went to work updating the “S” volume of his index, enjoying the sounds of the rustling paper and soft scrapes of the paste brush.
“Why did you stop playing the violin?”
My question surprised us both, sudden as it was. Holmes looked up at me, then calmed placed a clipping in its spot and smoothed it down. “I was under the impression I had been disturbing your rest.”
“What on earth gave you that impression?”
“I take it I was in error,” replied he, apparently amused by my bemusement. “Or rather, Mrs. Hudson was in error since it was she who told me I was causing a racket and keeping you from sleeping.”
“Mrs. Hudson could not have been more wrong!” I declared earnestly. “I cannot thank you enough for the diversion your music provided. I thought I should have gone mad from boredom when you stopped.”
“Ah. Well then.” Holmes bent his head, seemingly to better examine the positioning of a second clipping, but I saw the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile. “I am very glad to hear that. You see, I found myself at a loss as to how I might be of any assistance to you. The violin was my last resort. What say you, then, if I resume playing once I am finished removing this adhesive from my fingers?”
“I should like that.”
Title: Victorian iPod
Author: Pompey
words: about 1200
rating: G
warnings: very minor music lesson, PWP
weekend challenge: sick!Watson, comforting!Holmes
A/N: New title comes from my original footnote: From the way it’s written in SCARLET you’d think that “Lieder” was one song but actually it’s comprised of 48 songs (8 books of 6 pieces each.) “Lieder ohne Worder” is German for “Songs without Words.” Watson’s got his own personal Victorian ipod in Holmes.
I sat over my sheets of parchment, unable to formulate a clear thought though I had an appointment the following morning with a young doctor by the name of Doyle concerning the writing and perhaps publication of the Lauriston Garden mystery. He had heard of my involvement through a friend and of a friend and asked me to bring in an outline of the case. Foolishly, I had procrastinated until the last minute. A reschedule would undoubtedly be out of the question as a surprisingly late influenza strain had struck London and physicians were as rare as malachite. In addition, the balmy weather of April had also taken a turn for the worst, becoming stormy and downright chilly as the night progressed. My wounded shoulder throbbed at the meteorological change and I could feel a headache brewing at my temples.
Suddenly the pen was unceremoniously snatched from my hand and laid beside the papers. I looked up, startled, to see Holmes standing almost in front of me. “Watson, my dear fellow, go to bed,” he said simply.
This unprovoked command nettled me further. “I’m sorry, Holmes, I don’t recall hiring you as a personal physician,” I snapped and moved to take up my pen again.
Holmes pushed it out of my reach and spoke in gentler terms. “Then allow me to make a few observations as a detective. It is the middle of influenza season. Your health, as you say, has not yet quite recovered from Afghanistan. You hold your shoulder in such a way as to look as though it pains you. You have also massaged your temples no fewer than five times within the past half hour. You appear tired and haggard, your cheeks are flushed and your eyes have a glassy cast to them. Most convincingly, you have not written a single word in fifteen minutes. What other conclusion am I to reach, then, if not one stating you are unwell?” When I made no response, Holmes carefully collected my papers and stacked them neatly at the far end of my desk. “Go to bed, Watson,” he repeated.
I rose and went to my room, preserving as much dignity as I was able. The truth of the matter was I feared I was on the verge of succumbing to a common, if annoying, cold. My bed had never seemed more appealing nor sleep so welcoming. Even so, Holmes had no business ordering me about as though I were a mere schoolboy. “Physician, heal thyself,” I muttered rancorously. I began to disrobe when a sudden fit of chills took possession of my body. Still clad in trousers and shirt, I collapsed beneath the sheets and blanket. Within moments the chills had left and I found the pillow was wonderfully cool beneath my cheek. Soon I had drifted off into a light, troubled slumber.
My appointment with Doyle was fated to be missed until a much later date. Holmes had a single look at me, declared me to be as grey as paste and proposed that he possessed better medical skills than I if I thought I was in any condition to go out. I could not argue with that for if I looked anywhere near as poorly as I felt, I was a wretchedly miserable sight indeed.
Two days later it was clear the germ was that of common influenza, for no cold ever brought such achiness to one’s limbs nor such a fearsome headache or rampant nasal congestion. For half the day I quite literally could not go five minutes without sneezing, according to the clock, for all the good it did. I still could not sleep more than a few hours before I would wake, choking on secretions.
I tried to minimize Holmes’s exposure to my pathogens by limiting my trips outside my own bedroom and, very wisely, he kept his distance. He was also courteous enough to keep any chemical experiments noncombustible and to partake in fresher, milder tobacco.
He did, however, play his violin more frequently than I had ever known him to. Nor was it the weird, screeching solos he was wont to drift into if left to his own devices. He went through most, if not all, of the Bach pieces in his repertoire and Mendelssohn's Lieder ohne Worder in its entirety (1). Now and then he deigned to reproduce a few Gilbert and Sullivan pieces that could only have been for my benefit, knowing as I did his opinion of those collaborators.
I was immensely grateful for the diversion his music provided for I had little else to divert me from the misery of the influenza. I could read for only a short while before my watery eyes revolted. Yet closing my eyes did not automatically bring about sleep. Listening to Holmes’s interpretation of the classics saved me from untold tedium.
And then, three days later, the music stopped entirely. I could not understand it. Certainly I had not had a chance to express my gratitude but neither, I thought, had I implied that he had disturbed me. It was only two days until I deemed myself no longer contagious but two days spent in relative silence alone with one’s thoughts while ill can be utterly maddening.
After a hot bath and a hot cup of tea, I was ensconced on our couch and feeling far more like myself. I watched as Holmes went to work updating the “S” volume of his index, enjoying the sounds of the rustling paper and soft scrapes of the paste brush.
“Why did you stop playing the violin?”
My question surprised us both, sudden as it was. Holmes looked up at me, then calmed placed a clipping in its spot and smoothed it down. “I was under the impression I had been disturbing your rest.”
“What on earth gave you that impression?”
“I take it I was in error,” replied he, apparently amused by my bemusement. “Or rather, Mrs. Hudson was in error since it was she who told me I was causing a racket and keeping you from sleeping.”
“Mrs. Hudson could not have been more wrong!” I declared earnestly. “I cannot thank you enough for the diversion your music provided. I thought I should have gone mad from boredom when you stopped.”
“Ah. Well then.” Holmes bent his head, seemingly to better examine the positioning of a second clipping, but I saw the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile. “I am very glad to hear that. You see, I found myself at a loss as to how I might be of any assistance to you. The violin was my last resort. What say you, then, if I resume playing once I am finished removing this adhesive from my fingers?”
“I should like that.”