Fic: You Better Stop And Rebuild All Your Ruins - Prologue
Title: You Better Stop And Rebuild All Your Ruins - Prologue
Author: RubyChan05
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Word Count: 1528
Rating: PG-13
Summary: With their relationship already strained to breaking point by Watson's upcoming nuptials, a drunken kiss seems to be the final straw. As Holmes' behaviour makes things go from bad to worse, it takes losing Watson to make him realise what's been in front of him all along.
Notes: Written for holmes_big_bang . Mission: to write 20,000+ words by 1 July 2010. Yes, well...between my computer crashing (and taking my fic with it) and my poor beta's router blowing up, I was doomed. I'm quite pleased with this though, considering it's my first piece of proper writing in well over a year.
Prologue
Like most epic romances, it started with a kiss.
It wasn’t a very romantic kiss: more a mashing together of lips than the gentle caressing movements novelists were so fond of writing about. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t the culmination of a grand quest that had brought them together, or the reaction to a near-death experience.
Perhaps less an epic romance than the whiskey fuelled fumbles of two drunkards, then.
The night had begun as any other might have for Holmes and Watson. Upon hearing the details of Lestrade’s latest uncatchable killer, it had taken Holmes precisely three hours and forty two minutes to deduce, locate, and apprehend said murderer. Once Lestrade had grudgingly given his thanks and led the villain away, Watson had suggested that they follow through with their original plan of going to see The Magic Flute at the opera house. After all, curtain up wasn’t for another hour and a half: plenty of time to don evening wear and make themselves presentable. There was also the added incentive of seeing Maria La Belle in the role of Pamina, something that Watson knew Holmes had been looking forward to for quite some time.
It had taken only one glance at Holmes’ distracted manner, however, to realise that they wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight except for the boxing ring. It was a depressingly frequent occurrence after a case - the mixture of high speed chases and proving his superior intellect often combined to give Holmes an irrepressible adrenaline high - and one that never failed to test the very limits of Watson’s willpower. For a gambler such as himself, the crowded ringside area was an intoxicating experience that often left him breathless with the effort to resist making his own bets. Holmes may have kept his cheque book and notes locked in his drawer, but that didn’t mean that Watson’s loose change never attempted to burn a hole through his pocket. And regardless of the miniscule size of any bet he would be able to place, Watson was very much aware of the dangers of a slippery slope.
True, he could have simply returned to Baker Street alone and left Holmes to it. Indeed, at the beginning of their acquaintance he had usually done so, only to find himself restless and anxious, unable to sleep until he knew that Holmes had returned safely, if not in one piece. Over the years the concern had deepened, from both his own increasingly strong friendship with Holmes and Holmes’ decreasing care for his own wellbeing. Watson had eventually been forced to accept that the temptation of the betting pool was far less stressful than waiting up in the sitting room, medical bag ready for whatever wound Holmes returned with.
So he gritted his teeth instead and went to watch Holmes work out his urges on anyone foolish enough to accept his challenge. He found it strangely exciting to watch Holmes dancing round the ring, taunting his opponent before landing the devastating set of blows that would put him out of action for a month. For a man who spent the majority of the time inside his own head, Holmes made a riveting sight to behold when he actually decided to get physical, and Watson often found himself oddly captivated.
The night had proven successful for Holmes who, as well as winning all his matches, had somehow managed to escape without any injury worse than a bruised knee. He’d tumbled out of the ring and straight into Watson’s waiting arms, laughing jovially and clapping the doctor about the shoulders, loudly remarking about his last opponent’s poor skill and pretending he didn’t know the man was right behind him. Watson had reprimanded him, but been unable to stop the damn smirk that so frequently gave him away as Holmes’ partner in crime.
Not that you could really hide anything from Holmes anyway.
At Holmes’ insistence they had found their way into the nearest dive of a bar to celebrate his victory, and from that point on things had begun to blur. One whiskey had turned into two, which had turned into two doubles, and before Watson fully realised it he was in the middle of a competition with Holmes to see who could drink the most. Logically, he knew that the winner would always be Holmes - the man had far too much experience in imbibing alcohol to lose, after all - but in all honesty he didn’t really care that much.
On some level he had been aware that this was perhaps the last night that he and Holmes would share a night at the ring and nearest pub. He had already moved most of his possessions into his new lodgings, and was slowly decreasing the amount of cases he worked on with Holmes. And it would be unlikely that he could continue to frequent such low places once married to Mary, for fear of worrying her. So it hadn’t seemed such a bad thing to invest himself in a competition he already knew he would lose.
They’d been kicked out at closing time, giggling and stumbling about and generally making complete asses out of themselves. The pub owner had merely snorted and rolled his eyes, slamming the door perhaps a little harder than necessary after them. It was possible that Holmes’ attempt to dance an Irish jig on the bar, and the subsequent smashed glasses his inevitable fall had caused, hadn’t gone over well.
Slinging arms round shoulders in a precarious attempt to hold each other up, they’d staggered their way down the street, pausing at the corner to allow Watson to blink blearily at the sign on the corner.
“Mul…Mul…Mulready Street?” He’d guessed hesitantly, unable to quite work out the words with his blurry vision. Holmes had snorted, burying his head in Watson’s shoulder and laughing.
“Don’t you know where we are, Watson?” Holmes’ voice had been mocking but not cutting, and Watson had smiled vaguely in his direction, steering them to the right.
“You don’t either. We’ll have an adventure!” He’d decided, and Holmes had clearly liked that idea judging from the amount of excited cheering his words had produced.
“Why Holmes, I do believe you’re drunk.” Watson had said with the extreme care of one who knows they themselves have drunk too much, only to let out an oof of surprise as Holmes swung them both into an alley and pinned Watson up against the wall. Holmes had leaned in close, lips mere inches away from Watson’s - inappropriately close, even for them - and stared into his eyes before letting out a crow of triumph.
“Aha, dilated eyes! My dear Watson, it’s a case of the kettle calling the pot black.” A pause. “I mean the pottle calling the kot black. I mean…you know what I mean.”
Watson has smiled at Holmes’ muddled attempts, and for a moment it had just been the two of them, alone in their own world and grinning like the idiots Mrs Hudson occasionally thought they were. Holmes had shivered in the cold night air and Watson had automatically pulled him closer, blinking as the change in positions brought their mouths so near to each other that they could feel the others’ breath. Their noses had brushed and Watson had giggled, staring deep into Holmes’ eyes because he was suddenly sure that in this moment he’d finally be able to see what made the Great Detective tick. Holmes had shifted absently, and they’d both stilled as they slowly became aware of exactly what was in contact.
Then suddenly lips were pressed against lips, mouths moving hungrily as if trying to consume the other, hands moving to grab, grope, knead and everything else that a drink-soaked, lust clouded brain wants to do. Watson had been dimly aware of someone groaning and having no idea who had done so, hadn’t particularly cared as long as Holmes’ tongue kept moving against his own like that.
A dog had barked in the distance and they’d started apart, Holmes overbalancing and falling to the ground. Watson had leant against the wall, panting for breath, grinning as Holmes sat up and blinked dazedly around, clearly unsure what had exactly happened. After quite a few attempts that nearly had them both over, Watson had finally managed to pull Holmes to his feet, at which point they’d just paused, trying to remember what they’d been doing.
“Home, Holmes?” Watson had suggested, laughing at how funny the phrase sounded, and Holmes had chuckled and shrugged.
“We march onwards then!” He’d proclaimed, and they’d gamely set off down the road, oblivious to the fact that they were now walking in the opposite direction to before.
It had taken Holmes precisely three hours and forty two minutes to deduce, locate, and apprehend the murderer.
It took them roughly four hours and ten minutes to get back to Baker Street, where after making enough noise to wake the dead (or at least poor Mrs Hudson, who’d promptly emerged onto the landing to reprimand them most severely), they’d parted company and made for their separate bedrooms as if nothing had happened.
Things were slightly more strained in the morning.
Chapter 1
Master Post
Author: RubyChan05
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Word Count: 1528
Rating: PG-13
Summary: With their relationship already strained to breaking point by Watson's upcoming nuptials, a drunken kiss seems to be the final straw. As Holmes' behaviour makes things go from bad to worse, it takes losing Watson to make him realise what's been in front of him all along.
Notes: Written for holmes_big_bang . Mission: to write 20,000+ words by 1 July 2010. Yes, well...between my computer crashing (and taking my fic with it) and my poor beta's router blowing up, I was doomed. I'm quite pleased with this though, considering it's my first piece of proper writing in well over a year.
Prologue
Like most epic romances, it started with a kiss.
It wasn’t a very romantic kiss: more a mashing together of lips than the gentle caressing movements novelists were so fond of writing about. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t the culmination of a grand quest that had brought them together, or the reaction to a near-death experience.
Perhaps less an epic romance than the whiskey fuelled fumbles of two drunkards, then.
The night had begun as any other might have for Holmes and Watson. Upon hearing the details of Lestrade’s latest uncatchable killer, it had taken Holmes precisely three hours and forty two minutes to deduce, locate, and apprehend said murderer. Once Lestrade had grudgingly given his thanks and led the villain away, Watson had suggested that they follow through with their original plan of going to see The Magic Flute at the opera house. After all, curtain up wasn’t for another hour and a half: plenty of time to don evening wear and make themselves presentable. There was also the added incentive of seeing Maria La Belle in the role of Pamina, something that Watson knew Holmes had been looking forward to for quite some time.
It had taken only one glance at Holmes’ distracted manner, however, to realise that they wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight except for the boxing ring. It was a depressingly frequent occurrence after a case - the mixture of high speed chases and proving his superior intellect often combined to give Holmes an irrepressible adrenaline high - and one that never failed to test the very limits of Watson’s willpower. For a gambler such as himself, the crowded ringside area was an intoxicating experience that often left him breathless with the effort to resist making his own bets. Holmes may have kept his cheque book and notes locked in his drawer, but that didn’t mean that Watson’s loose change never attempted to burn a hole through his pocket. And regardless of the miniscule size of any bet he would be able to place, Watson was very much aware of the dangers of a slippery slope.
True, he could have simply returned to Baker Street alone and left Holmes to it. Indeed, at the beginning of their acquaintance he had usually done so, only to find himself restless and anxious, unable to sleep until he knew that Holmes had returned safely, if not in one piece. Over the years the concern had deepened, from both his own increasingly strong friendship with Holmes and Holmes’ decreasing care for his own wellbeing. Watson had eventually been forced to accept that the temptation of the betting pool was far less stressful than waiting up in the sitting room, medical bag ready for whatever wound Holmes returned with.
So he gritted his teeth instead and went to watch Holmes work out his urges on anyone foolish enough to accept his challenge. He found it strangely exciting to watch Holmes dancing round the ring, taunting his opponent before landing the devastating set of blows that would put him out of action for a month. For a man who spent the majority of the time inside his own head, Holmes made a riveting sight to behold when he actually decided to get physical, and Watson often found himself oddly captivated.
The night had proven successful for Holmes who, as well as winning all his matches, had somehow managed to escape without any injury worse than a bruised knee. He’d tumbled out of the ring and straight into Watson’s waiting arms, laughing jovially and clapping the doctor about the shoulders, loudly remarking about his last opponent’s poor skill and pretending he didn’t know the man was right behind him. Watson had reprimanded him, but been unable to stop the damn smirk that so frequently gave him away as Holmes’ partner in crime.
Not that you could really hide anything from Holmes anyway.
At Holmes’ insistence they had found their way into the nearest dive of a bar to celebrate his victory, and from that point on things had begun to blur. One whiskey had turned into two, which had turned into two doubles, and before Watson fully realised it he was in the middle of a competition with Holmes to see who could drink the most. Logically, he knew that the winner would always be Holmes - the man had far too much experience in imbibing alcohol to lose, after all - but in all honesty he didn’t really care that much.
On some level he had been aware that this was perhaps the last night that he and Holmes would share a night at the ring and nearest pub. He had already moved most of his possessions into his new lodgings, and was slowly decreasing the amount of cases he worked on with Holmes. And it would be unlikely that he could continue to frequent such low places once married to Mary, for fear of worrying her. So it hadn’t seemed such a bad thing to invest himself in a competition he already knew he would lose.
They’d been kicked out at closing time, giggling and stumbling about and generally making complete asses out of themselves. The pub owner had merely snorted and rolled his eyes, slamming the door perhaps a little harder than necessary after them. It was possible that Holmes’ attempt to dance an Irish jig on the bar, and the subsequent smashed glasses his inevitable fall had caused, hadn’t gone over well.
Slinging arms round shoulders in a precarious attempt to hold each other up, they’d staggered their way down the street, pausing at the corner to allow Watson to blink blearily at the sign on the corner.
“Mul…Mul…Mulready Street?” He’d guessed hesitantly, unable to quite work out the words with his blurry vision. Holmes had snorted, burying his head in Watson’s shoulder and laughing.
“Don’t you know where we are, Watson?” Holmes’ voice had been mocking but not cutting, and Watson had smiled vaguely in his direction, steering them to the right.
“You don’t either. We’ll have an adventure!” He’d decided, and Holmes had clearly liked that idea judging from the amount of excited cheering his words had produced.
“Why Holmes, I do believe you’re drunk.” Watson had said with the extreme care of one who knows they themselves have drunk too much, only to let out an oof of surprise as Holmes swung them both into an alley and pinned Watson up against the wall. Holmes had leaned in close, lips mere inches away from Watson’s - inappropriately close, even for them - and stared into his eyes before letting out a crow of triumph.
“Aha, dilated eyes! My dear Watson, it’s a case of the kettle calling the pot black.” A pause. “I mean the pottle calling the kot black. I mean…you know what I mean.”
Watson has smiled at Holmes’ muddled attempts, and for a moment it had just been the two of them, alone in their own world and grinning like the idiots Mrs Hudson occasionally thought they were. Holmes had shivered in the cold night air and Watson had automatically pulled him closer, blinking as the change in positions brought their mouths so near to each other that they could feel the others’ breath. Their noses had brushed and Watson had giggled, staring deep into Holmes’ eyes because he was suddenly sure that in this moment he’d finally be able to see what made the Great Detective tick. Holmes had shifted absently, and they’d both stilled as they slowly became aware of exactly what was in contact.
Then suddenly lips were pressed against lips, mouths moving hungrily as if trying to consume the other, hands moving to grab, grope, knead and everything else that a drink-soaked, lust clouded brain wants to do. Watson had been dimly aware of someone groaning and having no idea who had done so, hadn’t particularly cared as long as Holmes’ tongue kept moving against his own like that.
A dog had barked in the distance and they’d started apart, Holmes overbalancing and falling to the ground. Watson had leant against the wall, panting for breath, grinning as Holmes sat up and blinked dazedly around, clearly unsure what had exactly happened. After quite a few attempts that nearly had them both over, Watson had finally managed to pull Holmes to his feet, at which point they’d just paused, trying to remember what they’d been doing.
“Home, Holmes?” Watson had suggested, laughing at how funny the phrase sounded, and Holmes had chuckled and shrugged.
“We march onwards then!” He’d proclaimed, and they’d gamely set off down the road, oblivious to the fact that they were now walking in the opposite direction to before.
It had taken Holmes precisely three hours and forty two minutes to deduce, locate, and apprehend the murderer.
It took them roughly four hours and ten minutes to get back to Baker Street, where after making enough noise to wake the dead (or at least poor Mrs Hudson, who’d promptly emerged onto the landing to reprimand them most severely), they’d parted company and made for their separate bedrooms as if nothing had happened.
Things were slightly more strained in the morning.
Chapter 1
Master Post