Anniversary fic, part 2
Watson reassessed his logic and about six months later, came up with another plan, though it was foiled rather neatly when Watson ended up nearly drowning in the Thames, trussed up and sunk down with a rock by thugs hired by the mistress of the villain Holmes and he had put behind bars just a few weeks before. Even though Holmes had suffered a broken arm from the same thugs, it had done nothing to deter him from plunging down into the icy depths and retrieve him.
Holmes brought him up to the surface and dragged him to shore with the help of Lestrade and a few other policemen, but by that time, Watson had stopped breathing, laying on the sand like a corpse. Lestrade would later tell him that Holmes shook him for a whole three minutes, calling his name until he collapsed over his body with a sound like the keening wail of a dying animal. It took five minutes for Watson to finally cough, hacking up dirty river water as an officer turned him on his side.
After a visit to the hospital, with Holmes’ arm in a sling and a warning about pneumonia for Watson, the two of them returned to Baker Street. Holmes was exceptionally quiet, though his hand lingered on Watson the entire time, steadying him at the elbow, laying atop his knee on the cab ride there, clutching his hand on the cab ride back. When they arrived back to 221B, Holmes said not a word when he deposited Watson on the settee, stoking the fire and going about to prepare a tub of hot water for Watson to put his feet in since Mrs. Hudson had been away for the better part of the month to visit her daughter who had been expecting the birth of her third child.
He performed it all with an admirable amount of competency given his recent handicap and refused help from Watson with an insistent shake of his head and an adamant hand on his chest for him to stay seated. He only accepted aid with putting on his night shirt and only after he had already helped Watson put on his. Watson let it transpire without comment. Watson didn’t need to imagine what it had been like for Holmes to think he had died in the perilous depths of the river as he had experienced it once himself.
The silence continued as Holmes retrieved an extra comforter from the cupboard and positioned himself behind Watson, tucking his arm closely by his side, and covering the both of them with the heavy blanket.
“Watson, what is this? I found it hidden in the cupboard.”
Holmes held out a package covered with rather garish looking gold wrapping paper and tied up with a scarlet ribbon.
“Oh,” Watson had completely forgotten about it, “happy anniversary, my dear Holmes.”
“For what?” Holmes asked numbly.
“Today marks the day of our first case together.”
Watson didn’t try to make it sound as celebratory as he had meant it to be. He had thought it would be the perfect thing, having tried both the romantic and carnal, he had decided on something more tangible, the event which had sealed them together as more than just flatmates. However, with how the day had gone, the sentiment was more maudlin than anything else.
“And could have been our last,” Holmes said, voicing what they had both been thinking.
“The world is not without its ironies,” Watson said, trying to lighten the mood. “Perhaps there is some justice in us perishing while solving one, final case.”
Holmes closed his eyes, breathing slowly along Watson’s neck. “If it should happen like that, whoever ends us better shoot both of us through the heart at the same time or else there is no such thing as mercy on this Earth.” Holmes groaned and suddenly buried his face in Watson’s shoulder. “Damn your romantic streak, Watson. I don’t want to hear of it. I intend to retire with you in some humdrum little town in the country and die of old age, bored and fat.”
Watson smiled softly to himself and nudged Holmes with the back of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes, I don’t think you will ever become fat.”
“I meant you, dear fellow. I was the one to be bored.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Watson replied, sincere though sounding very tired. “Are you going to open your gift?”
“It is a book and given the occasion, I would hazard a guess to say it is probably a bound copy of that romantic drivel you wrote over lost loves and Mormons.”
“You’re right, you do deserve to die of boredom with a fat ex-army doctor. Just open the damn thing for my sake and employ some of those acting skills you’re so fond of bragging about.”
“Very well, help me out then, would you? I haven’t got much in the way of leverage.”
With three good limbs between the two of them, they managed to open the package and amazingly enough, Holmes didn’t have to fully feign his surprise.
“Une Étude en Rouge, vraiment?”
“Oui, Mr. Doyle thought we should branch out. Will you read it to me?”
Holmes did, though he took creative license with his own character, saying all the lines he wished to say to Watson now under the guise of reading past words to him.
But Watson knew in his own way and before he drifted off in his lover’s one armed, though still strong embrace, he sought to reassure him, searching for something to say that was still in his capability of forming with a mind hazy with sleep.
Ears full of Holmes’ mother tongue, he reached for something more breathlessness than words and was blessedly only two syllables in length.
“J’adore.”
It healed much of the pain the day had wrought and the two of them slept more peacefully than either imagined.
~*~
Almost another year passed and Watson had given up on the notion of an anniversary between the two of them. He had run out of ideas for dates and frankly had already assumed Holmes would be against the convention of the thing anyways. It hadn’t really mattered to Watson in the first place, but he had been married once and his relationship with Holmes felt just as valid as the one he had with Mary, so he felt as if he should make an effort to show him that, but if Holmes was content with the way things were between the two of them, then Watson was as well…
Even when Holmes deemed it necessary to rouse Watson from a particularly deep, afternoon nap brought on by sitting up with an ill patient the night before.
Watson trailed along obediently after the energetic detective, winding his way through the bustling London crowd with what seemed like his eighty-second yawn.
“Holmes, does this have to do with your forgery case?”
“No, it is for something even more imperative.” Holmes looked back to flash him a particularly vibrant grin. “I trust you are up for it?”
Watson rubbed his eye and reached up to half muss, half smooth down his sleep tousled hair. “Of course, dear fellow, always.”
There was a moment where Holmes looked at him with unabashed affection before he turned around again to hail a cab.
They ended up in front of the Grand Hotel, an establishment Watson knew to be fairly prestigious, though he saw no sign of policemen on the premises which would preclude something of monumental importance. Perhaps Holmes had already accepted the case and was merely doing a follow up.
They took the lift to the fourth floor and Holmes led him to the far end of the hall where the penthouse suites would have been kept and knocked.
A woman answered, wearing a scandalous amount of clothing, but then as she opened her mouth to address Holmes, it was in a quick and rapid French, indicating she was most definitely a native Parisian and as they were ushered into the room, passing various canvasses, paints, and equipments, it soon became clear she was an artist of some sort, thus explaining her various quirks.
She and Holmes exchanged some words and then Watson was being briskly taken by the arm into a furnished living area and practically jostled onto something that would have been a settee if it hadn’t been so opulent and did not quite feel like a divan.
“Holmes, what on earth is going on?” Watson asked, looking over towards his friend and for the first time noticing the camera equipment set up a few feet in front of the sofa where the French woman was beginning to tinker with its parts, a long cigarette holder clamped between her teeth.
Holmes circled around one side of the settee and sat beside him, leaning forward to gauge his reactions while he spoke. “Happy anniversary, dearest.”
“What?” Watson squawked, thoroughly taken aback.
“I thought you would like to celebrate by having our portrait taken. I haven’t very much knowledge on the subject, as it is not something I should like to store in my brain attic, but isn’t it the thing to do when married, taking pictures alongside their spouses?”
“I-well, yes I suppose,” Watson stammered, his brain quite derailed by Holmes’ mention of marriage in reference to the two of them and more still, the use of the word spouse. “But Holmes, is this not…unwise, to say the least?”
Holmes shrugged. “Why? We will not be posing nude, nor in any way indecently. We will merely be sitting here on this settee.”
Watson frowned. “But together,” he pointed out.
Holmes’ eyes gleamed strangely for a moment. “Exactly, a perfect copy of a moment in time, nothing more or less than what it is. Not a fairy tale, nor a parody, or an act. It will be truth. No matter what people will think if they see it, what they see will be truth.”
Watson briefly felt his eyes mist with tears for the gift Holmes offered him and they shared a short, but tender kiss.
They broke away when they heard the French woman clear her throat loudly, tapping one black slippered foot against the carpet. Watson blushed and Holmes scowled.
“J'ai pensé que tu ne veux pas cette sorte de photographie,” she simpered mockingly, though without any real derision, a puff of smoke trailing out her lips as she spoke.
“No, I do not want that type of photograph. I simply happen to know how long it takes before the thing is ready to operate,” Holmes replied. He gave Watson’s hand a squeeze for reassurance. “Jeanne is a friend. It is of no consequence. She offered this as a favor before she leaves again for Paris with her ‘husband’.”
“I would not let Irenah ‘ear you say that,” she quipped in clipped, accented English.
“Irenah,” Watson repeated the pronunciation quizzically and then coming to a sudden conclusion, “Irene?”
“Enough,” Jeanne snapped. “Sherlock, Jean, sit now and be quiet. It will be ready dans dix minutes.”
“Get comfortable then,” Holmes said, crossing his legs and shifting to gain a good position on the seat. “These things take a deuced long time to do.”
Watson followed suit, fidgeting slightly as he thought about where he should put his hands. “Incidentally Holmes, what exactly are we celebrating the anniversary of? It’s January, almost February. I cannot recall any cases or-”
“This was the day we first met at St. Bart’s when I made my hemoglobin discovery.”
Watson blinked. “And you accuse me of being a romantic?”
“Incurably so and even still, is it so hard for you to imagine love at first sight?”
Watson smiled, hand straying to the space between them. “Happy anniversary, dearest.”
The camera snapped with a flash of smoke and light and even though most Victorian photographs never depicted its subjects as smiling due to the wait, this one managed to capture it and seal it forever more, never diminishing, never tarnishing, and forever true.
~*~
A century later, I held that photo in my hand and with bated breath, I turned it over.
‘Bon anniversaire!’ was written on it with a signature of the photographer. The date in the corner read 1897.
I didn’t even need to employ my paltry skills of sleight of hand (despite its usefulness in palming poker chips) to smuggle it out. Dan wouldn’t notice and the security guards weren’t allowed to frisk me.
I got to my dorm, carefully placed the photo in a Ziploc and hurriedly shoved it into my scanner, cursing to high heaven for the slow upload.
I pulled up my lj, opened up my various comms, and posted it.
And all I was doing was spreading the truth.
I was arrested for theft, the media went wild and scholars were in a frenzy, but for the rest of us, we only saw what we already knew.
They loved each other.
Duh.
------------
A/N: By 1891, one guy was recorded to use chest compressions as a human and by 1903, one other guy was able to use it to successfully revive someone. Two guys do not make a known form of CPR make, so Holmes, no matter how smart he is, would not have known about the procedure. Elevators/Lifts were in over 2,000 hotels, department stores, and office buildings by 1873.
Happy sorry-it-took-forever-to-complete-this-but-here-you-go-nearly-three-weeks-late 24th Anniversary, random_nexus . I am in much of awe of you as I am of Holmes and Watson’s three or more decades together. Bravo.
Holmes brought him up to the surface and dragged him to shore with the help of Lestrade and a few other policemen, but by that time, Watson had stopped breathing, laying on the sand like a corpse. Lestrade would later tell him that Holmes shook him for a whole three minutes, calling his name until he collapsed over his body with a sound like the keening wail of a dying animal. It took five minutes for Watson to finally cough, hacking up dirty river water as an officer turned him on his side.
After a visit to the hospital, with Holmes’ arm in a sling and a warning about pneumonia for Watson, the two of them returned to Baker Street. Holmes was exceptionally quiet, though his hand lingered on Watson the entire time, steadying him at the elbow, laying atop his knee on the cab ride there, clutching his hand on the cab ride back. When they arrived back to 221B, Holmes said not a word when he deposited Watson on the settee, stoking the fire and going about to prepare a tub of hot water for Watson to put his feet in since Mrs. Hudson had been away for the better part of the month to visit her daughter who had been expecting the birth of her third child.
He performed it all with an admirable amount of competency given his recent handicap and refused help from Watson with an insistent shake of his head and an adamant hand on his chest for him to stay seated. He only accepted aid with putting on his night shirt and only after he had already helped Watson put on his. Watson let it transpire without comment. Watson didn’t need to imagine what it had been like for Holmes to think he had died in the perilous depths of the river as he had experienced it once himself.
The silence continued as Holmes retrieved an extra comforter from the cupboard and positioned himself behind Watson, tucking his arm closely by his side, and covering the both of them with the heavy blanket.
“Watson, what is this? I found it hidden in the cupboard.”
Holmes held out a package covered with rather garish looking gold wrapping paper and tied up with a scarlet ribbon.
“Oh,” Watson had completely forgotten about it, “happy anniversary, my dear Holmes.”
“For what?” Holmes asked numbly.
“Today marks the day of our first case together.”
Watson didn’t try to make it sound as celebratory as he had meant it to be. He had thought it would be the perfect thing, having tried both the romantic and carnal, he had decided on something more tangible, the event which had sealed them together as more than just flatmates. However, with how the day had gone, the sentiment was more maudlin than anything else.
“And could have been our last,” Holmes said, voicing what they had both been thinking.
“The world is not without its ironies,” Watson said, trying to lighten the mood. “Perhaps there is some justice in us perishing while solving one, final case.”
Holmes closed his eyes, breathing slowly along Watson’s neck. “If it should happen like that, whoever ends us better shoot both of us through the heart at the same time or else there is no such thing as mercy on this Earth.” Holmes groaned and suddenly buried his face in Watson’s shoulder. “Damn your romantic streak, Watson. I don’t want to hear of it. I intend to retire with you in some humdrum little town in the country and die of old age, bored and fat.”
Watson smiled softly to himself and nudged Holmes with the back of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes, I don’t think you will ever become fat.”
“I meant you, dear fellow. I was the one to be bored.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Watson replied, sincere though sounding very tired. “Are you going to open your gift?”
“It is a book and given the occasion, I would hazard a guess to say it is probably a bound copy of that romantic drivel you wrote over lost loves and Mormons.”
“You’re right, you do deserve to die of boredom with a fat ex-army doctor. Just open the damn thing for my sake and employ some of those acting skills you’re so fond of bragging about.”
“Very well, help me out then, would you? I haven’t got much in the way of leverage.”
With three good limbs between the two of them, they managed to open the package and amazingly enough, Holmes didn’t have to fully feign his surprise.
“Une Étude en Rouge, vraiment?”
“Oui, Mr. Doyle thought we should branch out. Will you read it to me?”
Holmes did, though he took creative license with his own character, saying all the lines he wished to say to Watson now under the guise of reading past words to him.
But Watson knew in his own way and before he drifted off in his lover’s one armed, though still strong embrace, he sought to reassure him, searching for something to say that was still in his capability of forming with a mind hazy with sleep.
Ears full of Holmes’ mother tongue, he reached for something more breathlessness than words and was blessedly only two syllables in length.
“J’adore.”
It healed much of the pain the day had wrought and the two of them slept more peacefully than either imagined.
~*~
Almost another year passed and Watson had given up on the notion of an anniversary between the two of them. He had run out of ideas for dates and frankly had already assumed Holmes would be against the convention of the thing anyways. It hadn’t really mattered to Watson in the first place, but he had been married once and his relationship with Holmes felt just as valid as the one he had with Mary, so he felt as if he should make an effort to show him that, but if Holmes was content with the way things were between the two of them, then Watson was as well…
Even when Holmes deemed it necessary to rouse Watson from a particularly deep, afternoon nap brought on by sitting up with an ill patient the night before.
Watson trailed along obediently after the energetic detective, winding his way through the bustling London crowd with what seemed like his eighty-second yawn.
“Holmes, does this have to do with your forgery case?”
“No, it is for something even more imperative.” Holmes looked back to flash him a particularly vibrant grin. “I trust you are up for it?”
Watson rubbed his eye and reached up to half muss, half smooth down his sleep tousled hair. “Of course, dear fellow, always.”
There was a moment where Holmes looked at him with unabashed affection before he turned around again to hail a cab.
They ended up in front of the Grand Hotel, an establishment Watson knew to be fairly prestigious, though he saw no sign of policemen on the premises which would preclude something of monumental importance. Perhaps Holmes had already accepted the case and was merely doing a follow up.
They took the lift to the fourth floor and Holmes led him to the far end of the hall where the penthouse suites would have been kept and knocked.
A woman answered, wearing a scandalous amount of clothing, but then as she opened her mouth to address Holmes, it was in a quick and rapid French, indicating she was most definitely a native Parisian and as they were ushered into the room, passing various canvasses, paints, and equipments, it soon became clear she was an artist of some sort, thus explaining her various quirks.
She and Holmes exchanged some words and then Watson was being briskly taken by the arm into a furnished living area and practically jostled onto something that would have been a settee if it hadn’t been so opulent and did not quite feel like a divan.
“Holmes, what on earth is going on?” Watson asked, looking over towards his friend and for the first time noticing the camera equipment set up a few feet in front of the sofa where the French woman was beginning to tinker with its parts, a long cigarette holder clamped between her teeth.
Holmes circled around one side of the settee and sat beside him, leaning forward to gauge his reactions while he spoke. “Happy anniversary, dearest.”
“What?” Watson squawked, thoroughly taken aback.
“I thought you would like to celebrate by having our portrait taken. I haven’t very much knowledge on the subject, as it is not something I should like to store in my brain attic, but isn’t it the thing to do when married, taking pictures alongside their spouses?”
“I-well, yes I suppose,” Watson stammered, his brain quite derailed by Holmes’ mention of marriage in reference to the two of them and more still, the use of the word spouse. “But Holmes, is this not…unwise, to say the least?”
Holmes shrugged. “Why? We will not be posing nude, nor in any way indecently. We will merely be sitting here on this settee.”
Watson frowned. “But together,” he pointed out.
Holmes’ eyes gleamed strangely for a moment. “Exactly, a perfect copy of a moment in time, nothing more or less than what it is. Not a fairy tale, nor a parody, or an act. It will be truth. No matter what people will think if they see it, what they see will be truth.”
Watson briefly felt his eyes mist with tears for the gift Holmes offered him and they shared a short, but tender kiss.
They broke away when they heard the French woman clear her throat loudly, tapping one black slippered foot against the carpet. Watson blushed and Holmes scowled.
“J'ai pensé que tu ne veux pas cette sorte de photographie,” she simpered mockingly, though without any real derision, a puff of smoke trailing out her lips as she spoke.
“No, I do not want that type of photograph. I simply happen to know how long it takes before the thing is ready to operate,” Holmes replied. He gave Watson’s hand a squeeze for reassurance. “Jeanne is a friend. It is of no consequence. She offered this as a favor before she leaves again for Paris with her ‘husband’.”
“I would not let Irenah ‘ear you say that,” she quipped in clipped, accented English.
“Irenah,” Watson repeated the pronunciation quizzically and then coming to a sudden conclusion, “Irene?”
“Enough,” Jeanne snapped. “Sherlock, Jean, sit now and be quiet. It will be ready dans dix minutes.”
“Get comfortable then,” Holmes said, crossing his legs and shifting to gain a good position on the seat. “These things take a deuced long time to do.”
Watson followed suit, fidgeting slightly as he thought about where he should put his hands. “Incidentally Holmes, what exactly are we celebrating the anniversary of? It’s January, almost February. I cannot recall any cases or-”
“This was the day we first met at St. Bart’s when I made my hemoglobin discovery.”
Watson blinked. “And you accuse me of being a romantic?”
“Incurably so and even still, is it so hard for you to imagine love at first sight?”
Watson smiled, hand straying to the space between them. “Happy anniversary, dearest.”
The camera snapped with a flash of smoke and light and even though most Victorian photographs never depicted its subjects as smiling due to the wait, this one managed to capture it and seal it forever more, never diminishing, never tarnishing, and forever true.
~*~
A century later, I held that photo in my hand and with bated breath, I turned it over.
‘Bon anniversaire!’ was written on it with a signature of the photographer. The date in the corner read 1897.
I didn’t even need to employ my paltry skills of sleight of hand (despite its usefulness in palming poker chips) to smuggle it out. Dan wouldn’t notice and the security guards weren’t allowed to frisk me.
I got to my dorm, carefully placed the photo in a Ziploc and hurriedly shoved it into my scanner, cursing to high heaven for the slow upload.
I pulled up my lj, opened up my various comms, and posted it.
And all I was doing was spreading the truth.
I was arrested for theft, the media went wild and scholars were in a frenzy, but for the rest of us, we only saw what we already knew.
They loved each other.
Duh.
------------
A/N: By 1891, one guy was recorded to use chest compressions as a human and by 1903, one other guy was able to use it to successfully revive someone. Two guys do not make a known form of CPR make, so Holmes, no matter how smart he is, would not have known about the procedure. Elevators/Lifts were in over 2,000 hotels, department stores, and office buildings by 1873.
Happy sorry-it-took-forever-to-complete-this-but-here-you-go-nearly-three-weeks-late 24th Anniversary, random_nexus . I am in much of awe of you as I am of Holmes and Watson’s three or more decades together. Bravo.