Fill: Bound in Gold 4apennin_inkFebruary 27 2011, 00:21:48 UTC
John didn’t jerk at the sudden cacophony outside, but it was a near thing. He did, however, turn his head very slightly toward the door and ask, “What was that?”
Antanas only shrugged and pulled a pin out of his mouth, fixing it securely at John’s ankle. The man’s hands were deft and sure, and John hadn’t received so much as a pinprick in any of his fittings. “That is only Mr Sherlock I think.” The man’s voice was heavily accented, but precise. John had no trouble understanding Antanas’ English, and the accent was soothing somehow. “He is trying to sneak a peek at you probably.”
“Really?” It was an awful lot of noise coming from the hall. John had to fight to suppress the urge to hop down from the platform and yank the door open so he could finally see Sherlock for himself. He didn’t, and Antanas grinned at him.
“He is not so good at standing still as you.” The man confided. John put a little extra warmth in his return smile. He could imagine the frustrations Antanas had to endure, working for spoiled aristocrats all the time. He was determined to give the capable tailor a well earned respite from all the headache.
“Yes, well. The army and everything. At least you don’t have me at attention for three hours straight.”
Antanas chuckled, but his hands remained perfectly steady as they worked at the cuffs of John’s absurdly expensive trousers.
“You know, I’ve got another suit for the reception. My other tailor isn’t half as skilled as you.”
Antanas beamed. “You could not afford me, Dr Watson.”
John snorted. “No, I suppose not. Not yet, anyway.” He bit his lip. “What’s he like?” He asked tentatively.
Antanas shrugged. “Nervous. He has too much energy, your husband. He is always moving, and he looks too much. Always to see everything, that man. And he talks. Not to you, but at you. Like you are not able to speak. Or you should not speak. He does not look down on you, because he does not see you. He is like that.”
John sighed. “Anything good I should know about?”
Another shrug. “He loves his mother. That, I think, is good.”
“How...I mean, what does he look like?”
At that, Antanas smiled slyly. “Like someone you will see in one month.”
John didn’t even try to smother his smile. He rather liked Antanas. He was a thoroughly charming old man. The man rested a thick, work-worn hand on John’s arm. “You will be good for him. I can see this. Maybe he will be good for you as well.”
John tried to believe that. Really. But what could he possibly offer a man who already had so much? It was obvious John would only ever be a burden to this Sherlock character. He should opt out, cancel the wedding and go back to his dull, ordinary life.
But Harry was counting on this. And refusing, especially at this stage, would be a gross insult to the Holmes family, to the young prince whose life he’d managed not to snuff out, probably even to the queen herself somewhere along the line.
Face it, John. He said to himself. There’s no way out of this, any more than there was when you got that bloody letter. He still had it, tucked away in his foot locker. He’d spent several minutes just staring at the royal seal on the envelope before opening it. It had changed everything, that letter. And now it was tucked away under his army boots and medals.
Fill: Bound in Gold 4bpennin_inkFebruary 27 2011, 00:22:16 UTC
Later, when Antanas had wandered off with a sheet of notes and promises of “One more fitting, Dr Watson, and we are done.” John meandered through the halls of the Holmes estate. The place was huge and daunting, and John sometimes thought of it as a minor palace. He wondered if he’d be living there, after the wedding. Surely Sherlock would want to stay in his childhood home. Somehow, the idea of living in the middle of all this opulence made John uneasy, a bit like that time he, Harry and their parents had taken that boat along the Thames, and John hadn’t been able to adjust to the constant rocking under his feet.
Voices drifted along the corridor, and John found himself moving closer out of curiosity. Two voices, both deep and cultured, both so low he couldn’t hear the words properly, were coming through the closed door of one of the rooms in the hall. He saw the door handle turning, and just managed to dive behind a massive potted fern before Mycroft Holmes emerged from the room.
“Very well, Sherlock. If you insist on behaving like a child, I have no hesitation in treating you as one. Consider yourself ‘grounded’ to this room until you’re ready to take these proceedings seriously.” A sudden flurry of motion, the sharp click of the door closing, and the unmistakable crash of something breakable being thrown against the wood. John peered around the leaves just enough to see Mycroft shaking his head sadly before striding off, an umbrella in his hand. John waited for Mycroft to disappear around a corner, then waited a while longer.
He shouldn’t do this. This was a really, really bad idea. He should just turn around, and walk away.
Only...John Watson had never been the sort of man to turn and walk away. Instead, he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and approached the firmly closed door.
He’d barely put a hand on the thing when something heavy thudded against it, making the heavy wood shake and vibrate.
“Piss off!” Came a ragged, angry voice. It was hard to tell from the scream, but it sounded very deep. He wondered what Sherlock sounded like when he wasn’t shrieking in fury, and spared a moment to regret that this was his first memory of the man’s voice.
He cleared his throat. Oh, brilliant start John. He licked his lips and forced himself to speak. “It’s..it’s me.”
An unmistakable stillness fell on the other side of the door, and John brought his other hand up to press it flat against the wood, until he was as close to Sherlock Holmes as was physically possible considering the circumstances.
“It’s...I’m John...er, Watson I mean. I’m--well, you know. Obviously, I mean...I’m uh...him. I guess.” Footsteps, slow and cautious and accompanied by the tell-tale jingling, silence.
He licked his lips again. “Look I’m...I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t--but here I am and...well.” He let out a breath. His chest felt too tight. “I’m so sorry. I know I can’t be what you hoped for. I’m not...I’m no one, really. Just...look, Mist--uh, Sherlock. I just want you to know that...I don’t expect anything. I won’t--I mean, I’m not out to intrude on your life or anything. I understand if you don’t...want, er...oh Christ, what am I doing? Look, please don’t tell them I did this, okay? Oh, Harry’ll kill me if I screw this up. I’m sorry. I’m--” noises, along the corridor. “Oh fuck! Someone’s coming. Don’t say anything. Please? I was never here.” And he turned on his heel and hurried off, forcing himself not to run.
Antanas only shrugged and pulled a pin out of his mouth, fixing it securely at John’s ankle. The man’s hands were deft and sure, and John hadn’t received so much as a pinprick in any of his fittings. “That is only Mr Sherlock I think.” The man’s voice was heavily accented, but precise. John had no trouble understanding Antanas’ English, and the accent was soothing somehow. “He is trying to sneak a peek at you probably.”
“Really?” It was an awful lot of noise coming from the hall. John had to fight to suppress the urge to hop down from the platform and yank the door open so he could finally see Sherlock for himself. He didn’t, and Antanas grinned at him.
“He is not so good at standing still as you.” The man confided. John put a little extra warmth in his return smile. He could imagine the frustrations Antanas had to endure, working for spoiled aristocrats all the time. He was determined to give the capable tailor a well earned respite from all the headache.
“Yes, well. The army and everything. At least you don’t have me at attention for three hours straight.”
Antanas chuckled, but his hands remained perfectly steady as they worked at the cuffs of John’s absurdly expensive trousers.
“You know, I’ve got another suit for the reception. My other tailor isn’t half as skilled as you.”
Antanas beamed. “You could not afford me, Dr Watson.”
John snorted. “No, I suppose not. Not yet, anyway.” He bit his lip. “What’s he like?” He asked tentatively.
Antanas shrugged. “Nervous. He has too much energy, your husband. He is always moving, and he looks too much. Always to see everything, that man. And he talks. Not to you, but at you. Like you are not able to speak. Or you should not speak. He does not look down on you, because he does not see you. He is like that.”
John sighed. “Anything good I should know about?”
Another shrug. “He loves his mother. That, I think, is good.”
“How...I mean, what does he look like?”
At that, Antanas smiled slyly. “Like someone you will see in one month.”
John didn’t even try to smother his smile. He rather liked Antanas. He was a thoroughly charming old man. The man rested a thick, work-worn hand on John’s arm. “You will be good for him. I can see this. Maybe he will be good for you as well.”
John tried to believe that. Really. But what could he possibly offer a man who already had so much? It was obvious John would only ever be a burden to this Sherlock character. He should opt out, cancel the wedding and go back to his dull, ordinary life.
But Harry was counting on this. And refusing, especially at this stage, would be a gross insult to the Holmes family, to the young prince whose life he’d managed not to snuff out, probably even to the queen herself somewhere along the line.
Face it, John. He said to himself. There’s no way out of this, any more than there was when you got that bloody letter. He still had it, tucked away in his foot locker. He’d spent several minutes just staring at the royal seal on the envelope before opening it. It had changed everything, that letter. And now it was tucked away under his army boots and medals.
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Voices drifted along the corridor, and John found himself moving closer out of curiosity. Two voices, both deep and cultured, both so low he couldn’t hear the words properly, were coming through the closed door of one of the rooms in the hall. He saw the door handle turning, and just managed to dive behind a massive potted fern before Mycroft Holmes emerged from the room.
“Very well, Sherlock. If you insist on behaving like a child, I have no hesitation in treating you as one. Consider yourself ‘grounded’ to this room until you’re ready to take these proceedings seriously.” A sudden flurry of motion, the sharp click of the door closing, and the unmistakable crash of something breakable being thrown against the wood. John peered around the leaves just enough to see Mycroft shaking his head sadly before striding off, an umbrella in his hand. John waited for Mycroft to disappear around a corner, then waited a while longer.
He shouldn’t do this. This was a really, really bad idea. He should just turn around, and walk away.
Only...John Watson had never been the sort of man to turn and walk away. Instead, he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and approached the firmly closed door.
He’d barely put a hand on the thing when something heavy thudded against it, making the heavy wood shake and vibrate.
“Piss off!” Came a ragged, angry voice. It was hard to tell from the scream, but it sounded very deep. He wondered what Sherlock sounded like when he wasn’t shrieking in fury, and spared a moment to regret that this was his first memory of the man’s voice.
He cleared his throat. Oh, brilliant start John. He licked his lips and forced himself to speak. “It’s..it’s me.”
An unmistakable stillness fell on the other side of the door, and John brought his other hand up to press it flat against the wood, until he was as close to Sherlock Holmes as was physically possible considering the circumstances.
“It’s...I’m John...er, Watson I mean. I’m--well, you know. Obviously, I mean...I’m uh...him. I guess.” Footsteps, slow and cautious and accompanied by the tell-tale jingling, silence.
He licked his lips again. “Look I’m...I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t--but here I am and...well.” He let out a breath. His chest felt too tight. “I’m so sorry. I know I can’t be what you hoped for. I’m not...I’m no one, really. Just...look, Mist--uh, Sherlock. I just want you to know that...I don’t expect anything. I won’t--I mean, I’m not out to intrude on your life or anything. I understand if you don’t...want, er...oh Christ, what am I doing? Look, please don’t tell them I did this, okay? Oh, Harry’ll kill me if I screw this up. I’m sorry. I’m--” noises, along the corridor. “Oh fuck! Someone’s coming. Don’t say anything. Please? I was never here.” And he turned on his heel and hurried off, forcing himself not to run.
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