Fields of Play [3/?]
title: Fields of Play [3/?]
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (pre-slash in this chapter)
rating: PG-13
words: 5,620
summary: Holmes and Watson lie to each other, and end up boring themselves. Holmes decides to take Watson out, which, unfortunately, results in less than favorable circumstances. Still, Watson gets what he wants in the end, and more.
note: Thanks to taconaco, avalonauggie and paperclipbitch for the HAAALP and support I needed with this. I find it hard to imagine that only 6 days have gone by since I posted chapter 2. It feels like months.
(Chapter 1)
(Chapter 2)
Any time I stiffen or brace myself against some error or problem, the very act of bracing would cause the problem to occur. The only road to strength is vulnerability.
Stephen Nachmanovitch, ‘Free Play: Improvisation in life and art'
Holmes, as Watson eventually came to understand, was very strange about his violin. He was very strange about a lot of things, from his bizarre habits to his even more perplexing areas of study. But of all the things about him that confused Watson, the way he was about his violin was, by far, the most confusing.
Watson could only ever hear him actually playing it when he was either in his bedroom or coming up the stairway. In the latter of these instances, Holmes would abruptly cease playing whatever song he had been working on before Watson even made it inside; he would then either make a great show of returning his instrument to its case or, a more recent development in strange behaviors, abandon the bow entirely and pluck at the violin with his fingers.
In those first weeks of living together, Watson was still under the impression that he possessed the ability to outsmart his flat-mate. (He would eventually learn from experience that he did not.) While still under the delusion that he did, he decided to bring up the subject of their first meeting on one particular afternoon where Holmes, putting away his violin, slammed the case with what Watson hoped was only accidental intensity, for he jumped, and his heart skipped a beat.
“If I remember correctly,” which he did - with explicit clarity - even though he tried to affect his voice in such a way as to appear to be searching his memory for details of their very meeting, “didn’t you seem slightly concerned about being able to play your violin, when we first met?”
“Not concerned,” Holmes remarked, his hands lingering over the snaps that held the case together, “nothing nearly as extreme as to have been concerned. Why do you ask?”
“Seeing how quite some time has passed since our moving in, I feel the need to remind you of that first conversation we had in the chemical lab.”
“My memory of that conversation is perfect,” Holmes said, slightly aggravated. “You would honestly think me incapable of remembering something that has happened so recently?”
“I only thought you had forgotten the part where I told you that violin playing would be perfectly acceptable,” Watson remarked.
“A well-played violin, yes,” said Holmes, as if to further prove how accurate his memory was, “you did say that.”
Watson proceeded carefully, not wanting to come off as too forward. Neither did he want to come off as an annoyance, so he took it upon himself to mask his message, disguising it as flattery. “From what I have heard of your playing thus far, I must declare that your skill deserves a fare more complimentary term than ‘well’.”
“Come now,” Holmes said distractedly. “You needn’t praise my ability to produce music from a disgustingly commonplace instrument. If you have a point you’re skirting around, I suggest you make it.”
There was no smile on his face, no sign on his features that any of this was enjoyable. He could infer in the span of a second what someone was meaning to say based on something as irrelevant as whether their hands were in their pockets or not. Watson realized that Holmes probably already knew exactly what it was that he was not saying.
The fact that he still asked to hear it from Watson, however, was a comfort. But it was still business, and Holmes waited quietly for the confession with the same manner of anticipation he had exhibited in the chemical lab, after he had quite literally bled himself for his cause.
“Might I persuade you, into holding a proper performance?” Watson had been caught, after all. There was no use dragging it out any further.
“You may certainly not,” Holmes declared immediately. “That is the most ridiculous request you could possibly make. The answer is no.”
“I should very much like to hear more of your playing,” Watson persisted.
Holmes put his hands on his hips, turning squarely to face Watson. “I will not put my base set of skills on display for you to judge.” You are being both cruel and ridiculous, he seemed to say, and I will not stand for it.
“But I am merely saying that I enjoy your playing and would like to hear more,” Watson said. “I would not be judging you.”
“Doctor,” Holmes snapped, “can you not hear my playing from your own room?”
“Of course,” said Watson, and then he fell silent, finally seeing exactly where the conversation was going to end. Holmes, he considered with the briefest spark of envy, had probably known from the beginning.
“So there you have it,” Holmes said, drumming his fingers on his violin case.
Watson bowed his head, acknowledging his defeat. It really did feel as if he had been beaten instead of just denied. As it were, a thought then dawned on him: Holmes certainly wasn’t exaggerating when he had said, after their last argument, how careful he was consciously being. He had kept his experiments and busy work quiet, so as not to disturb the sensitive Watson, who, though very appreciative of such accommodations, never voiced such gratitudes.
But this refusal, it was new. By nature, since his current state of weakness proved otherwise, Watson had, up until recently, been a man of rather easygoing temperament. Rarely did he make a request, thus proof that the requests he did make were never in vain or without careful thought. As he came to terms with the fact that he was actually disappointed about Holmes denying him this, it became clear to him that this was the first time Holmes had denied him anything. Whatever he had asked, whether it was to open the window or turn on a light, Holmes had never refused.
This refusal was confusing, though, not only in that it was the only one of its kind, but also because Watson couldn’t be sure whether it was Holmes not wanting to disturb him or Holmes actually being so self-conscious about his playing that he could only do so when he was alone.
Watson stood up from the sofa, but then decided that he had no intention of going anywhere. After all, he had already voiced his resolution that he would no longer retreat into his room when he got agitated or stressed. Leaving now would only set back his progress. However, having already risen to his feet, he knew he heeded to re-direct his energy into giving the action a purpose.
After what was much too long of a pause to really convince Holmes of his intent, Watson walked deliberately to the mantle, where he picked up the first book his eyes fell on. He made sure to smile pleasantly at Holmes before returning to the sofa. Holmes returned the smile, although not very convincing either, before turning his back on Watson completely and setting to work at his desk at the far end of the room.
Watson had definitely chosen the wrong book. For the next hour, he sat on the couch and read about blood transfusions. Why on earth Holmes would have a book on that particular subject, Watson could not be sure. But he feigned total interest, so as not to give away how badly he was lying.
Holmes remained at his desk, scribbling in silence. His pen scratched, the clock ticked, and Watson’s leg was jiggling with boredom; he didn’t dare give in, though, lest his hour of dedication go to waste.
Finally, when the clock struck eight, Holmes threw down his pen and twisted around in his seat. His face was alight with amusement, with something resembling hunger burning behind his eyes. “Let’s not lie to ourselves anymore. I simply cannot continue like this. I have been writing nothing but gibberish since I set to work, and I’m afraid my brain is on the verge of melting out of my ears.”
“Very well,” said Watson, pretending to look back down at the book he had so unfortunately selected, pretending to finish whatever sentence he had been in the middle of when Holmes spoke. After what felt like enough time, Watson shut the book in his lap. “What shall we do, then?”
He had hoped that Holmes would finally give in and play his violin for him. Instead, Holmes walked right past the violin case, missing it entirely, and stopped at the door. “Get your cane. We’re going out.”
--
The sheer noise of the place could be heard from nearly three blocks away. In an effort to distract himself from the growing sense of dread as to where Holmes was taking him, Watson took the time to thank the merciful god who had deemed him worthy of a house in a residential neighborhood rather than... wherever he happened to be. When the noise was at its peak, the carriage stopped.
“Is this the place?” he said, because with a yes or no question, there was always the chance, however slight, that the answer could have been ‘no.’
Holmes wasn’t even looking at him, his attention somewhere past the carriage door and down the block already. “Indeed. You should probably pay for the ride. I’ll cover the return trip.”
Watson was about to suggest that they make the return trip right then and there, thus getting rid of the possibility of... whatever might happen. Possibility intimidated Watson, and he felt as if he were powerless to stop it. But then he got a look at Holmes’ face, saw that the man was actually beaming, and simply said, “that seems fair.” The next thing he knew, he had paid the driver and was being led along a sidewalk, and into a building where all the noise was coming from.
The first thing he noticed were the men. He was immediately aware of hundreds of men, all in various states of undress. Watson was about to suspect some kind of underground sexual deviant... club, or whatever this place claimed to be, until he followed the focus of the room and saw, at its center, the ring. In it, two men were pitted in struggle, throwing flailing punches at any part of the other they could reach.
It took less time for Watson to notice all of this than it took for the door to close behind him, and he was so caught up in the sight that the slamming door startled him, and he stumbled. Unconsciously, he flailed out an arm to balance himself, and accidently knocked Holmes’ hat clean off his head.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, knowing his voice was too quiet for even Holmes to hear him, but he had already focused all of his concentration on searching for Holmes’ hat amid the sea of bodies and legs that had, in seconds, filled in the empty space. Find the hat, he told himself, focus on the hat, find the hat.
But then there was a hand on his elbow, and another voice in his ear: “Breathe. Relax. Look at your shoes if it starts to feel too crowded.”
He snapped his attention up from the filthy floor to see Holmes at his side, a cheshire grin on his face. Then he reached down, as if to scratch his leg, and when he straightened, his arm came up and placed his hat back atop his head.
Watson realized, considerably impressed, that Holmes must have picked the hat up with his foot. He considered giving some form of vocal congratulation, but didn’t trust his voice to be heard over the crowd. Holmes gave his elbow, which he was still holding, a quick jerk, to make sure he had his attention, and then led him deeper into the room.
The crowd was dense, and at times all Watson could see of his companion was his hat. It was filthy, bent at an odd angle, having surely sustained some damage during its brief time spent on the floor and underfoot, but Watson followed it all the same. Focus on the hat.
Perhaps he had been focusing a little too hard on the hat, because he couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before his focus was snapped back into reality again, this time by Holmes’ hand across the side of his face. It was a light cuff, not meant to cause pain, but Watson clung to the feel of it.
Holmes stood below him, looking considerably less amused than he had been. In fact, he looked quite concerned. “Shall I give you the money for your return trip now?”
“No,” said Watson, clearing his throat and trying again with a little more strength, “no, there’s no need for that.”
That was enough for Holmes. “Alright,” he said, suddenly bright and excited as if he had never been bothered by Watson’s distress. He gave Watson a quick pat on the arm before pushing past him and disappearing into the crowd. Watson tried to focus on the hat, but he lost sight of it.
What he did find, towards the back of the crowded room, was a bar, which he managed to reach with relative ease. The majority of the people surrounding him were moving towards the ring rather than away from it. Watson found himself a stool to sit on, and then found a drink being pushed towards him before he had even ordered one. He took it, handing over a few coins to the barman, and decided that he’d better drink it and run the risk of letting his body relax a little.
Whatever the drink was, though, it wasn’t nearly strong enough, and Watson only found himself growing more anxious with every minute that Holmes delayed. He had begun to notice individual things that men were screaming apart from from the general roar of the crowd. Kill him, a man cried. Tear his arms off, said another, voice cracking from the sheer force of the scream. And every cry sounded like they were meant for Watson. Thus he sat alert, scanning the room, glancing over his shoulder every time he heard anything above the crowd.
Each shout was like a blow, every threat a promise, and he could barely bring himself to look at the actual fight at the center of the room for more than a few seconds. When he did, his mind immediately set forth to catalogue what sort of damage each man was suffering. Broken ribs, bruising, internal bleeding, muscle tears, fractured and broken bones. Watson shuddered. He knew how to treat all of these ailments.
“Get him!” a man cried, and Watson started so hard that he nearly fell off the stool. But aside from the man seated in the next stool, blinking at him through a haze of alcohol, no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. It was the fight, he had to keep reminding himself, nothing at all to do with him. Just another war, and one that, this time, he wasn’t involved in.
“Doctor!” came the jovial cry, and Watson caught sight of Holmes, pushing his way through the crowd. He seemed to have been relieved of his jacket in his travels, because he was stripped down to his bracers and shirt, which he strangely was in the process of unbuttoning. His hat was also gone. “I see you found yourself a drink. Good man.”
Watson leaned close, so that he wouldn’t have to shout over the crowd. “What exactly are you doing?”
“I,” said Holmes, undoing the last button with a flick of his wrist, the shirt falling open to reveal a remarkably muscled chest, “am challenging a man who refused to pay me my winnings on my last visit, and you are going to keep my shirt safe for me.”
“Challenge?” Which was a daft thing to say, considering the location. Still, the thought of his companion taking a challenger in the boxing ring was all the more ridiculous. Holmes had a strong handshake, no doubt, but Watson could not see how that would lend itself to taking on another in a boxing ring. “Holmes, don’t be a fool.”
“Nonsense. I was a fool to make a bet with him in the first place. He is about to learn what it truly means to cross me,” Holmes said, stripping off his shirt and balling it up in his hands. His body was taut, already glazed with sweat, and practically vibrating with anticipation. “You would probably get a better view if you moved a little closer to the ring,” he added. Then he tossed the balled up shirt to Watson.
“I must protest,” said Watson. In trying to imagine Holmes fighting anyone (for he was then still motivated by the hope of being able to convince his flat-mate to not), his mind supplied him with an image of the man beating up corpses in the chemical lab, just like his friend Stamford had told him. While he did not approve of such immoral treatment of the dead, corpses were considerably easy to win fights with. While this did nothing to improve upon Watson’s confidence, the thought managed to distract him from the shouting.
“There is no need. And besides,” Holmes said, rather coyly, “doctor, if anything were to happen, I have your expertise to see me through.”
“Am I supposed to take that as a comfort?”
“If you like.” He added, “But please, try not to destroy my shirt.”
Watson looked down at the shirt, which he had been unconsciously wringing and twisting around his fingers, which were starting to prickle and lose feeling. When he looked back up, Holmes was gone.
Anxiety be damned, with Holmes’ shirt balled up in his own hands, Watson went after him, mumbling half-hearted apologies as he pushed past other onlookers. When we finally found him, it was too late; Holmes was standing in the ring, face to face with a man twice his size.
His heart beat so hard that Watson was half-convinced that it was about to burst out of his chest and land in the center of the ring, perhaps then stopping the fight from taking place. But he didn’t belong here, and this wasn’t his fight, so he watched. Holmes had been right, after all, about the view.
At least he tried to watch. It happened very fast, and was over before Watson would have expected. One moment he had shut his eyes, feeling sick from the heat of the room and the yells and that first punch that struck the side of Holmes’ head, and the next moment the crowd was cheering. Watson opened his eyes just in time to see the larger man tumble to the ground, where he curled his knees into his chest and did not move again. Holmes looked relatively unscathed, his nose and knuckles bloody, but his smile bright, and Watson found his own mouth mirroring it as he watched his companion stumble out of the ring. Then he was lost to the crowd again.
Watson lingered at the edge of the group, watching Holmes, who smiled as he collected money, smiling as men in various states of inebriation voiced their disappointment, fueled by too much drink and poor decisions on who they bet against. Then again, up until the conclusion of the fight, Watson had been one of them, not nearly as drunk or angry, but neither was he confident that Holmes could hold his own. Holmes must like that, he realized, catching people off guard, surprising them. Watson was definitely surprised.
Finally, Holmes noticed him, or pretended to (since he always seemed to be aware of absolutely everything); his smile brightened, and he crossed to him to take hold of his shoulders. “Time to go?” It seemed a strange thing to say, considering that Watson was only really there because Holmes had brought him. And yet there he was, his face smeared with blood still oozing from his nose, the left side of his face already beginning to swell, asking if Watson was ready to leave after dragging him there practically against his will in the first place.
Had Holmes not been bleeding, perhaps Watson would have lied and offered to stay. But despite how completely exhilarated Holmes seemed, and despite how depressingly out of action Watson’s skills were, he was still a doctor, and his companions bloody nose was enough for him. “Here’s your shirt.”
“Yes, yes,” Holmes said distractedly, though it took him a little longer to actually notice the shirt as Watson pushed it into his hands and waited for him to take it, probably due to the noise and the rush of adrenaline he was most likely feeling from the win. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He slipped his arms through the crumpled sleeves, and then slipped his handful of bills into Watson’s trouser pocket. “Now,” he said, “I think some fresh air is in order,” and, shirt still open, jacket completely forgotten, he took hold of Watson’s arm and led him back out into the street.
Since the street outside the club was nearly as loud as inside the club, Watson allowed himself to sigh, quietly, only because he knew Holmes would not hear it. The cool night air was doing wonders for his nerves, which had been so tightly wound that his body ached as he began to relax. He and Holmes walked on.
Watson got rather caught up in the joy of hearing the screams fade into the distance, so he didn’t immediately notice that he and Holmes were still walking until they were already 5 blocks away, farther than necessary to make it to a street where cabs routinely drove by. He also didn’t quite notice that Holmes still had him firmly by the arm until it occurred to him that he didn’t feel like he was being led anymore.
“Shall I hail us a cab?” he prompted.
After a moment’s pause, Holmes glanced up at him, a line drawn between his eyebrows. “Did you say something just now?”
They had walked so far that the noise of the club could only be heard if you strained to listen for it. The street was otherwise quiet. Watson pushed his voice louder. “I asked if you planned on walking home or taking a cab.”
Holmes bobbed his head, a lazy nod, but otherwise showed no other signs of response. Since they were passing beneath a streetlight, Watson slowed their pace and then stopped where the light was at its brightest.
“Your leg bothering you?” Holmes asked, turning to face him.
“No,” Watson said, even though it was. It wasn’t why he stopped, though, and Holmes already facing him made his task all the more easier. He was too distracted by Holmes’ eyes to worry about his own troubles; they were glassy, the lids drooping sleepily, but most concerning of all was how the grey irises were almost completely swallowed by the pupils. And Holmes was still holding on to Watson’s arm. “I just want to get a better look at you.”
With the eyes already taken into account, all that remained to be addressed was the bump on Holmes’ left temple, which was already looking much too dark to be a result of the poor evening light.
Holmes blinked his eyes into a sort of focus and regarded Watson. “Well, Doctor?”
“You have a concussion,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”
“A most intuitive deduction,” Holmes said vaguely, his eyes having drifted so that they were no longer looking at Watson, or anything at all.
“Alright,” Watson decided, detangling his arm from Holmes’ grip as he saw a cab a little ways up the street. “Wait here.”
As he strode to the curb to wave down the cab, Watson could hear Holmes behind him, mumbling a little to himself, and turned to see that he was now clinging to the street lamp in the same manner as he had been clinging to Watson only moments before. He turned back until the cab slowed as it pulled in to the curb, and then he went back to get Holmes, convinced that the concussion was making him dizzy, therefore making walking difficult.
Holmes, though his arms were still wrapped around the light, was slumped halfway to the curb, where he was presently vomiting. “Watson?” he coughed, blinked rapidly in an effort to get his bearings as Watson wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him upright.
“Right here,” he said.
“Can’t quite hear you,” Holmes reminded him, his voice worn and raspy from the vomiting, which Watson hoped with all his heart the driver of the cab hadn’t seen.
“I merely said that I was here.”
“So is a cab,” he said, regarding the thing with an expression similar to the one he wore when he stood facing his opponent in the boxing ring. “Is this for us?”
Without warning, he pitched forward, his legs going out from under him. “We are but a few feet away from the cab. I’ll warrant you have it in you to make it that far.”
Watson’s jacket was inevitably ruined that night. To say he offered it to Holmes during the cab ride would have been polite. What actually happened was more like a sacrifice, when the rocking and jostling of the cab led to Holmes being violently sick instead of just mildly so. Watson quite liked that jacket. By the time they finally reached Baker Street, Watson balled up the soiled fabric and left it in the street. “Terribly sorry again for the inconvenience,” he said to the driver for what must have been the fifth time.
“You apologize a lot,” Holmes remarked as he staggered onto the sidewalk, as Watson stayed behind to pay the driver, which he should not have had to do. “Are we home?”
“Indeed we are.”
“Thank god.”
Together they managed to make it up the first flight of stairs. Holmes pulled away from Watson and went into the study. Watson did the same. It seemed that neither of them were up to tackle a second flight of stairs at the moment, with his leg aching fiercely and Holmes already clutching his stomach again, as he scrambled for the day’s newspaper. Much to Watson’s, and what would tomorrow be Mrs. Hudson’s, chagrin, he didn’t quite make it in time.
Later, after Holmes had stopped vomiting and was now sprawled across the couch, clutching his head in his hands, he tried speaking. “Did you,” he stopped, coughing around the phlegm and sick still caught in his throat.
Watson looked up from where he had been dozing in the armchair. “What was that?”
“Did you have a pleasant night?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t tell me your ears are ringing as well,” Holmes said, miserably. “Did you enjoy yourself? Was the night particularly enjoyable for you?”
Watson took the time to consider the events that had come to pass; then he decided that Holmes’ question was not worth answering. He asked instead, “Did you do this for me? Deliberately, for the sake of distracting me?”
“Submit myself to blinding headaches, crippling nausea and this ringing in my ears to keep you from your precious nightmares?” Holmes said, incredulous. “Not a chance.” He sighed, setting his head back down on the pillow. “You’re incredibly selfish, Doctor.”
“Please refrain from calling me that.”
“Selfish?”
“Call me selfish if you like,” Watson said. “I will not protest.”
Holmes lifted his head to regard him right side up instead of tilted on his side. “Doctor, then?” He pushed himself upright, so he could watch Watson while he sat. Watch him, and study his reactions. “By your silence, I can see that I’m correct, though I can’t see why. Are you no longer fit to practice?”
“My health is such that I should not subject myself to any great strain,” he said. “Thus, though I am unfit for war, I can do myself no further damage by seeing patients.”
“And yet, you don’t.”
“No,” he said, hiding a smile behind his hand at how puzzled Holmes seemed with this turn of conversation. While Watson had no interest in speaking of his own troubles, it pleased him greatly to see his companion regard him as if her were a puzzle rather than a man.
Holmes frowned. “Well then. I’ll leave you to your own decisions, enigmatic as they are. I hope your looking after me doesn’t tamper with your newfound constitution.” With that, he let his head fall back against the couch, and he fell silent.
Later, mostly to make sure that Holmes had not fallen unconscious, but also in an effort to ease his friend’s troubles, Watson spoke again. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “it worked. You have successfully distracted me.”
Holmes remained motionless, save for his mouth. “Did I just hear you say that I make for an excellent distraction? For your voice tends to trail off at the end of sentences, and I cannot be sure.”
“Yes,” said Watson. “I am happy to admit that my concern for you tonight has overshadowed my concern for myself.”
“My dear fellow,” Holmes said, suddenly sitting forward to face him, “I never meant for you to be concerned.”
“These things happen,” Watson said, trying to brush it aside.
“Nonsense!”
With that, Holmes was on his feet, already striding across the room. “Let’s see if I can’t distract you again, this time from that nasty habit of yours that makes you speak of yourself with such a lack of regard.”
“Perhaps you should be resting,” Watson said, when Holmes stopped only to open his violin case.
Holmes took up the bow and waved it dismissively at Watson. “I assure you, I am fine. Now...”
He didn’t speak again for a long time. Rather, he didn’t speak with any words in the English language. Instead, he spoke through his violin, and Watson finally got the chance to watch him play instead of merely listening.
Holmes was clearly the master of his instrument. At times, he played with his eyes closed, his body swaying gently with the music of his own creation. It was evident to Watson that there was no part of this instrument that Holmes did not have within his grasp, no note in the entire sphere of music that he did not have perfectly ingrained into his very soul.
Every so often, he would quickly glance up at Watson, perhaps to see if he had fallen asleep, or if he looked bored or disinterested. In those moments, Watson did not feel the need to smile, or nod, or even acknowledge his companion; he knew that Holmes would be able to deduce how much he was enjoying this, not having to sleep, not having to do anything but watch and listen without any hope of feedback.
As he watched, it dawned on him that he had been wrong in thinking what he had come to discover the last time he’d asked Holmes to play for him, in thinking that Holmes was denying him.
In reality, Holmes had done no such thing. He had simply prolonged Watson’s request until his foresight of incomparable measure saw it fit to appease. That seemed like a proper way to think about it. Thus, Watson came to know that despite how poor his health was, and how ill-adjusted he was to living with another man, and especially his temper, among his other shortcomings, Holmes had not denied him yet.
And Holmes continued to play well into the morning, well after Watson had drifted off to sleep.
The following morning, Watson woke to the sunlight on his face. He blinked, disoriented for a few moments, before his eyes could adjust to the brightness. He remembered the previous night instantly, having no afterimages of nightmares to deal with. This was a completely new sensation, the act of waking up when one’s own body willed it, rather than when one’s own body was terrified into wakefulness by images in one’s head.
A quick glance at the clock informed Watson that he had slept until almost noon (seven minutes shy of it). A quick glance at where he remembered Holmes’ violin case rested (on Holmes’ desk by the window) told him that the instrument had been properly put away, either by Holmes’ or, improbable but not impossible, Mrs. Hudson.
Watson reminded himself to apologize to his landlady if his sleeping in, and in the study no less, had hindered her in any way. Then his eyes fell on the book about blood transfusions, which he had left on the low table in the middle of the room. It had not been returned to the mantle, where it most likely did not belong in the first place.
Suddenly, Watson was reminded of something, and he stretched his achy limbs, trying to get his blood flowing again. Once sufficiently alert, his body a bit less sore, he rose and made his way over to Holmes’ desk. When he saw what he had been looking for, he laughed.
There were papers scattered all over the desk, papers which Holmes had been scribbling on while Watson had been reading that ridiculous book. But now, Watson could see that Holmes had truly been scribbling, filling his papers with random drawings of stars, landscapes, faces, bizarre shapes, intersecting lines, buildings, windows, small trinkets, and many, many spirals. In that moment, upon realizing that he and Holmes had both been mutually trying to prove to the other that they were actually very, very busy people, Watson felt very happy.
He couldn’t quite figure out why this discovery came with such elation. But considering his current state of existence, he was in no position to deny himself a bit of irrational joy.
(Next Chapter)
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (pre-slash in this chapter)
rating: PG-13
words: 5,620
summary: Holmes and Watson lie to each other, and end up boring themselves. Holmes decides to take Watson out, which, unfortunately, results in less than favorable circumstances. Still, Watson gets what he wants in the end, and more.
note: Thanks to taconaco, avalonauggie and paperclipbitch for the HAAALP and support I needed with this. I find it hard to imagine that only 6 days have gone by since I posted chapter 2. It feels like months.
(Chapter 1)
(Chapter 2)
Any time I stiffen or brace myself against some error or problem, the very act of bracing would cause the problem to occur. The only road to strength is vulnerability.
Stephen Nachmanovitch, ‘Free Play: Improvisation in life and art'
Holmes, as Watson eventually came to understand, was very strange about his violin. He was very strange about a lot of things, from his bizarre habits to his even more perplexing areas of study. But of all the things about him that confused Watson, the way he was about his violin was, by far, the most confusing.
Watson could only ever hear him actually playing it when he was either in his bedroom or coming up the stairway. In the latter of these instances, Holmes would abruptly cease playing whatever song he had been working on before Watson even made it inside; he would then either make a great show of returning his instrument to its case or, a more recent development in strange behaviors, abandon the bow entirely and pluck at the violin with his fingers.
In those first weeks of living together, Watson was still under the impression that he possessed the ability to outsmart his flat-mate. (He would eventually learn from experience that he did not.) While still under the delusion that he did, he decided to bring up the subject of their first meeting on one particular afternoon where Holmes, putting away his violin, slammed the case with what Watson hoped was only accidental intensity, for he jumped, and his heart skipped a beat.
“If I remember correctly,” which he did - with explicit clarity - even though he tried to affect his voice in such a way as to appear to be searching his memory for details of their very meeting, “didn’t you seem slightly concerned about being able to play your violin, when we first met?”
“Not concerned,” Holmes remarked, his hands lingering over the snaps that held the case together, “nothing nearly as extreme as to have been concerned. Why do you ask?”
“Seeing how quite some time has passed since our moving in, I feel the need to remind you of that first conversation we had in the chemical lab.”
“My memory of that conversation is perfect,” Holmes said, slightly aggravated. “You would honestly think me incapable of remembering something that has happened so recently?”
“I only thought you had forgotten the part where I told you that violin playing would be perfectly acceptable,” Watson remarked.
“A well-played violin, yes,” said Holmes, as if to further prove how accurate his memory was, “you did say that.”
Watson proceeded carefully, not wanting to come off as too forward. Neither did he want to come off as an annoyance, so he took it upon himself to mask his message, disguising it as flattery. “From what I have heard of your playing thus far, I must declare that your skill deserves a fare more complimentary term than ‘well’.”
“Come now,” Holmes said distractedly. “You needn’t praise my ability to produce music from a disgustingly commonplace instrument. If you have a point you’re skirting around, I suggest you make it.”
There was no smile on his face, no sign on his features that any of this was enjoyable. He could infer in the span of a second what someone was meaning to say based on something as irrelevant as whether their hands were in their pockets or not. Watson realized that Holmes probably already knew exactly what it was that he was not saying.
The fact that he still asked to hear it from Watson, however, was a comfort. But it was still business, and Holmes waited quietly for the confession with the same manner of anticipation he had exhibited in the chemical lab, after he had quite literally bled himself for his cause.
“Might I persuade you, into holding a proper performance?” Watson had been caught, after all. There was no use dragging it out any further.
“You may certainly not,” Holmes declared immediately. “That is the most ridiculous request you could possibly make. The answer is no.”
“I should very much like to hear more of your playing,” Watson persisted.
Holmes put his hands on his hips, turning squarely to face Watson. “I will not put my base set of skills on display for you to judge.” You are being both cruel and ridiculous, he seemed to say, and I will not stand for it.
“But I am merely saying that I enjoy your playing and would like to hear more,” Watson said. “I would not be judging you.”
“Doctor,” Holmes snapped, “can you not hear my playing from your own room?”
“Of course,” said Watson, and then he fell silent, finally seeing exactly where the conversation was going to end. Holmes, he considered with the briefest spark of envy, had probably known from the beginning.
“So there you have it,” Holmes said, drumming his fingers on his violin case.
Watson bowed his head, acknowledging his defeat. It really did feel as if he had been beaten instead of just denied. As it were, a thought then dawned on him: Holmes certainly wasn’t exaggerating when he had said, after their last argument, how careful he was consciously being. He had kept his experiments and busy work quiet, so as not to disturb the sensitive Watson, who, though very appreciative of such accommodations, never voiced such gratitudes.
But this refusal, it was new. By nature, since his current state of weakness proved otherwise, Watson had, up until recently, been a man of rather easygoing temperament. Rarely did he make a request, thus proof that the requests he did make were never in vain or without careful thought. As he came to terms with the fact that he was actually disappointed about Holmes denying him this, it became clear to him that this was the first time Holmes had denied him anything. Whatever he had asked, whether it was to open the window or turn on a light, Holmes had never refused.
This refusal was confusing, though, not only in that it was the only one of its kind, but also because Watson couldn’t be sure whether it was Holmes not wanting to disturb him or Holmes actually being so self-conscious about his playing that he could only do so when he was alone.
Watson stood up from the sofa, but then decided that he had no intention of going anywhere. After all, he had already voiced his resolution that he would no longer retreat into his room when he got agitated or stressed. Leaving now would only set back his progress. However, having already risen to his feet, he knew he heeded to re-direct his energy into giving the action a purpose.
After what was much too long of a pause to really convince Holmes of his intent, Watson walked deliberately to the mantle, where he picked up the first book his eyes fell on. He made sure to smile pleasantly at Holmes before returning to the sofa. Holmes returned the smile, although not very convincing either, before turning his back on Watson completely and setting to work at his desk at the far end of the room.
Watson had definitely chosen the wrong book. For the next hour, he sat on the couch and read about blood transfusions. Why on earth Holmes would have a book on that particular subject, Watson could not be sure. But he feigned total interest, so as not to give away how badly he was lying.
Holmes remained at his desk, scribbling in silence. His pen scratched, the clock ticked, and Watson’s leg was jiggling with boredom; he didn’t dare give in, though, lest his hour of dedication go to waste.
Finally, when the clock struck eight, Holmes threw down his pen and twisted around in his seat. His face was alight with amusement, with something resembling hunger burning behind his eyes. “Let’s not lie to ourselves anymore. I simply cannot continue like this. I have been writing nothing but gibberish since I set to work, and I’m afraid my brain is on the verge of melting out of my ears.”
“Very well,” said Watson, pretending to look back down at the book he had so unfortunately selected, pretending to finish whatever sentence he had been in the middle of when Holmes spoke. After what felt like enough time, Watson shut the book in his lap. “What shall we do, then?”
He had hoped that Holmes would finally give in and play his violin for him. Instead, Holmes walked right past the violin case, missing it entirely, and stopped at the door. “Get your cane. We’re going out.”
--
The sheer noise of the place could be heard from nearly three blocks away. In an effort to distract himself from the growing sense of dread as to where Holmes was taking him, Watson took the time to thank the merciful god who had deemed him worthy of a house in a residential neighborhood rather than... wherever he happened to be. When the noise was at its peak, the carriage stopped.
“Is this the place?” he said, because with a yes or no question, there was always the chance, however slight, that the answer could have been ‘no.’
Holmes wasn’t even looking at him, his attention somewhere past the carriage door and down the block already. “Indeed. You should probably pay for the ride. I’ll cover the return trip.”
Watson was about to suggest that they make the return trip right then and there, thus getting rid of the possibility of... whatever might happen. Possibility intimidated Watson, and he felt as if he were powerless to stop it. But then he got a look at Holmes’ face, saw that the man was actually beaming, and simply said, “that seems fair.” The next thing he knew, he had paid the driver and was being led along a sidewalk, and into a building where all the noise was coming from.
The first thing he noticed were the men. He was immediately aware of hundreds of men, all in various states of undress. Watson was about to suspect some kind of underground sexual deviant... club, or whatever this place claimed to be, until he followed the focus of the room and saw, at its center, the ring. In it, two men were pitted in struggle, throwing flailing punches at any part of the other they could reach.
It took less time for Watson to notice all of this than it took for the door to close behind him, and he was so caught up in the sight that the slamming door startled him, and he stumbled. Unconsciously, he flailed out an arm to balance himself, and accidently knocked Holmes’ hat clean off his head.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, knowing his voice was too quiet for even Holmes to hear him, but he had already focused all of his concentration on searching for Holmes’ hat amid the sea of bodies and legs that had, in seconds, filled in the empty space. Find the hat, he told himself, focus on the hat, find the hat.
But then there was a hand on his elbow, and another voice in his ear: “Breathe. Relax. Look at your shoes if it starts to feel too crowded.”
He snapped his attention up from the filthy floor to see Holmes at his side, a cheshire grin on his face. Then he reached down, as if to scratch his leg, and when he straightened, his arm came up and placed his hat back atop his head.
Watson realized, considerably impressed, that Holmes must have picked the hat up with his foot. He considered giving some form of vocal congratulation, but didn’t trust his voice to be heard over the crowd. Holmes gave his elbow, which he was still holding, a quick jerk, to make sure he had his attention, and then led him deeper into the room.
The crowd was dense, and at times all Watson could see of his companion was his hat. It was filthy, bent at an odd angle, having surely sustained some damage during its brief time spent on the floor and underfoot, but Watson followed it all the same. Focus on the hat.
Perhaps he had been focusing a little too hard on the hat, because he couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before his focus was snapped back into reality again, this time by Holmes’ hand across the side of his face. It was a light cuff, not meant to cause pain, but Watson clung to the feel of it.
Holmes stood below him, looking considerably less amused than he had been. In fact, he looked quite concerned. “Shall I give you the money for your return trip now?”
“No,” said Watson, clearing his throat and trying again with a little more strength, “no, there’s no need for that.”
That was enough for Holmes. “Alright,” he said, suddenly bright and excited as if he had never been bothered by Watson’s distress. He gave Watson a quick pat on the arm before pushing past him and disappearing into the crowd. Watson tried to focus on the hat, but he lost sight of it.
What he did find, towards the back of the crowded room, was a bar, which he managed to reach with relative ease. The majority of the people surrounding him were moving towards the ring rather than away from it. Watson found himself a stool to sit on, and then found a drink being pushed towards him before he had even ordered one. He took it, handing over a few coins to the barman, and decided that he’d better drink it and run the risk of letting his body relax a little.
Whatever the drink was, though, it wasn’t nearly strong enough, and Watson only found himself growing more anxious with every minute that Holmes delayed. He had begun to notice individual things that men were screaming apart from from the general roar of the crowd. Kill him, a man cried. Tear his arms off, said another, voice cracking from the sheer force of the scream. And every cry sounded like they were meant for Watson. Thus he sat alert, scanning the room, glancing over his shoulder every time he heard anything above the crowd.
Each shout was like a blow, every threat a promise, and he could barely bring himself to look at the actual fight at the center of the room for more than a few seconds. When he did, his mind immediately set forth to catalogue what sort of damage each man was suffering. Broken ribs, bruising, internal bleeding, muscle tears, fractured and broken bones. Watson shuddered. He knew how to treat all of these ailments.
“Get him!” a man cried, and Watson started so hard that he nearly fell off the stool. But aside from the man seated in the next stool, blinking at him through a haze of alcohol, no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. It was the fight, he had to keep reminding himself, nothing at all to do with him. Just another war, and one that, this time, he wasn’t involved in.
“Doctor!” came the jovial cry, and Watson caught sight of Holmes, pushing his way through the crowd. He seemed to have been relieved of his jacket in his travels, because he was stripped down to his bracers and shirt, which he strangely was in the process of unbuttoning. His hat was also gone. “I see you found yourself a drink. Good man.”
Watson leaned close, so that he wouldn’t have to shout over the crowd. “What exactly are you doing?”
“I,” said Holmes, undoing the last button with a flick of his wrist, the shirt falling open to reveal a remarkably muscled chest, “am challenging a man who refused to pay me my winnings on my last visit, and you are going to keep my shirt safe for me.”
“Challenge?” Which was a daft thing to say, considering the location. Still, the thought of his companion taking a challenger in the boxing ring was all the more ridiculous. Holmes had a strong handshake, no doubt, but Watson could not see how that would lend itself to taking on another in a boxing ring. “Holmes, don’t be a fool.”
“Nonsense. I was a fool to make a bet with him in the first place. He is about to learn what it truly means to cross me,” Holmes said, stripping off his shirt and balling it up in his hands. His body was taut, already glazed with sweat, and practically vibrating with anticipation. “You would probably get a better view if you moved a little closer to the ring,” he added. Then he tossed the balled up shirt to Watson.
“I must protest,” said Watson. In trying to imagine Holmes fighting anyone (for he was then still motivated by the hope of being able to convince his flat-mate to not), his mind supplied him with an image of the man beating up corpses in the chemical lab, just like his friend Stamford had told him. While he did not approve of such immoral treatment of the dead, corpses were considerably easy to win fights with. While this did nothing to improve upon Watson’s confidence, the thought managed to distract him from the shouting.
“There is no need. And besides,” Holmes said, rather coyly, “doctor, if anything were to happen, I have your expertise to see me through.”
“Am I supposed to take that as a comfort?”
“If you like.” He added, “But please, try not to destroy my shirt.”
Watson looked down at the shirt, which he had been unconsciously wringing and twisting around his fingers, which were starting to prickle and lose feeling. When he looked back up, Holmes was gone.
Anxiety be damned, with Holmes’ shirt balled up in his own hands, Watson went after him, mumbling half-hearted apologies as he pushed past other onlookers. When we finally found him, it was too late; Holmes was standing in the ring, face to face with a man twice his size.
His heart beat so hard that Watson was half-convinced that it was about to burst out of his chest and land in the center of the ring, perhaps then stopping the fight from taking place. But he didn’t belong here, and this wasn’t his fight, so he watched. Holmes had been right, after all, about the view.
At least he tried to watch. It happened very fast, and was over before Watson would have expected. One moment he had shut his eyes, feeling sick from the heat of the room and the yells and that first punch that struck the side of Holmes’ head, and the next moment the crowd was cheering. Watson opened his eyes just in time to see the larger man tumble to the ground, where he curled his knees into his chest and did not move again. Holmes looked relatively unscathed, his nose and knuckles bloody, but his smile bright, and Watson found his own mouth mirroring it as he watched his companion stumble out of the ring. Then he was lost to the crowd again.
Watson lingered at the edge of the group, watching Holmes, who smiled as he collected money, smiling as men in various states of inebriation voiced their disappointment, fueled by too much drink and poor decisions on who they bet against. Then again, up until the conclusion of the fight, Watson had been one of them, not nearly as drunk or angry, but neither was he confident that Holmes could hold his own. Holmes must like that, he realized, catching people off guard, surprising them. Watson was definitely surprised.
Finally, Holmes noticed him, or pretended to (since he always seemed to be aware of absolutely everything); his smile brightened, and he crossed to him to take hold of his shoulders. “Time to go?” It seemed a strange thing to say, considering that Watson was only really there because Holmes had brought him. And yet there he was, his face smeared with blood still oozing from his nose, the left side of his face already beginning to swell, asking if Watson was ready to leave after dragging him there practically against his will in the first place.
Had Holmes not been bleeding, perhaps Watson would have lied and offered to stay. But despite how completely exhilarated Holmes seemed, and despite how depressingly out of action Watson’s skills were, he was still a doctor, and his companions bloody nose was enough for him. “Here’s your shirt.”
“Yes, yes,” Holmes said distractedly, though it took him a little longer to actually notice the shirt as Watson pushed it into his hands and waited for him to take it, probably due to the noise and the rush of adrenaline he was most likely feeling from the win. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He slipped his arms through the crumpled sleeves, and then slipped his handful of bills into Watson’s trouser pocket. “Now,” he said, “I think some fresh air is in order,” and, shirt still open, jacket completely forgotten, he took hold of Watson’s arm and led him back out into the street.
Since the street outside the club was nearly as loud as inside the club, Watson allowed himself to sigh, quietly, only because he knew Holmes would not hear it. The cool night air was doing wonders for his nerves, which had been so tightly wound that his body ached as he began to relax. He and Holmes walked on.
Watson got rather caught up in the joy of hearing the screams fade into the distance, so he didn’t immediately notice that he and Holmes were still walking until they were already 5 blocks away, farther than necessary to make it to a street where cabs routinely drove by. He also didn’t quite notice that Holmes still had him firmly by the arm until it occurred to him that he didn’t feel like he was being led anymore.
“Shall I hail us a cab?” he prompted.
After a moment’s pause, Holmes glanced up at him, a line drawn between his eyebrows. “Did you say something just now?”
They had walked so far that the noise of the club could only be heard if you strained to listen for it. The street was otherwise quiet. Watson pushed his voice louder. “I asked if you planned on walking home or taking a cab.”
Holmes bobbed his head, a lazy nod, but otherwise showed no other signs of response. Since they were passing beneath a streetlight, Watson slowed their pace and then stopped where the light was at its brightest.
“Your leg bothering you?” Holmes asked, turning to face him.
“No,” Watson said, even though it was. It wasn’t why he stopped, though, and Holmes already facing him made his task all the more easier. He was too distracted by Holmes’ eyes to worry about his own troubles; they were glassy, the lids drooping sleepily, but most concerning of all was how the grey irises were almost completely swallowed by the pupils. And Holmes was still holding on to Watson’s arm. “I just want to get a better look at you.”
With the eyes already taken into account, all that remained to be addressed was the bump on Holmes’ left temple, which was already looking much too dark to be a result of the poor evening light.
Holmes blinked his eyes into a sort of focus and regarded Watson. “Well, Doctor?”
“You have a concussion,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”
“A most intuitive deduction,” Holmes said vaguely, his eyes having drifted so that they were no longer looking at Watson, or anything at all.
“Alright,” Watson decided, detangling his arm from Holmes’ grip as he saw a cab a little ways up the street. “Wait here.”
As he strode to the curb to wave down the cab, Watson could hear Holmes behind him, mumbling a little to himself, and turned to see that he was now clinging to the street lamp in the same manner as he had been clinging to Watson only moments before. He turned back until the cab slowed as it pulled in to the curb, and then he went back to get Holmes, convinced that the concussion was making him dizzy, therefore making walking difficult.
Holmes, though his arms were still wrapped around the light, was slumped halfway to the curb, where he was presently vomiting. “Watson?” he coughed, blinked rapidly in an effort to get his bearings as Watson wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him upright.
“Right here,” he said.
“Can’t quite hear you,” Holmes reminded him, his voice worn and raspy from the vomiting, which Watson hoped with all his heart the driver of the cab hadn’t seen.
“I merely said that I was here.”
“So is a cab,” he said, regarding the thing with an expression similar to the one he wore when he stood facing his opponent in the boxing ring. “Is this for us?”
Without warning, he pitched forward, his legs going out from under him. “We are but a few feet away from the cab. I’ll warrant you have it in you to make it that far.”
Watson’s jacket was inevitably ruined that night. To say he offered it to Holmes during the cab ride would have been polite. What actually happened was more like a sacrifice, when the rocking and jostling of the cab led to Holmes being violently sick instead of just mildly so. Watson quite liked that jacket. By the time they finally reached Baker Street, Watson balled up the soiled fabric and left it in the street. “Terribly sorry again for the inconvenience,” he said to the driver for what must have been the fifth time.
“You apologize a lot,” Holmes remarked as he staggered onto the sidewalk, as Watson stayed behind to pay the driver, which he should not have had to do. “Are we home?”
“Indeed we are.”
“Thank god.”
Together they managed to make it up the first flight of stairs. Holmes pulled away from Watson and went into the study. Watson did the same. It seemed that neither of them were up to tackle a second flight of stairs at the moment, with his leg aching fiercely and Holmes already clutching his stomach again, as he scrambled for the day’s newspaper. Much to Watson’s, and what would tomorrow be Mrs. Hudson’s, chagrin, he didn’t quite make it in time.
Later, after Holmes had stopped vomiting and was now sprawled across the couch, clutching his head in his hands, he tried speaking. “Did you,” he stopped, coughing around the phlegm and sick still caught in his throat.
Watson looked up from where he had been dozing in the armchair. “What was that?”
“Did you have a pleasant night?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t tell me your ears are ringing as well,” Holmes said, miserably. “Did you enjoy yourself? Was the night particularly enjoyable for you?”
Watson took the time to consider the events that had come to pass; then he decided that Holmes’ question was not worth answering. He asked instead, “Did you do this for me? Deliberately, for the sake of distracting me?”
“Submit myself to blinding headaches, crippling nausea and this ringing in my ears to keep you from your precious nightmares?” Holmes said, incredulous. “Not a chance.” He sighed, setting his head back down on the pillow. “You’re incredibly selfish, Doctor.”
“Please refrain from calling me that.”
“Selfish?”
“Call me selfish if you like,” Watson said. “I will not protest.”
Holmes lifted his head to regard him right side up instead of tilted on his side. “Doctor, then?” He pushed himself upright, so he could watch Watson while he sat. Watch him, and study his reactions. “By your silence, I can see that I’m correct, though I can’t see why. Are you no longer fit to practice?”
“My health is such that I should not subject myself to any great strain,” he said. “Thus, though I am unfit for war, I can do myself no further damage by seeing patients.”
“And yet, you don’t.”
“No,” he said, hiding a smile behind his hand at how puzzled Holmes seemed with this turn of conversation. While Watson had no interest in speaking of his own troubles, it pleased him greatly to see his companion regard him as if her were a puzzle rather than a man.
Holmes frowned. “Well then. I’ll leave you to your own decisions, enigmatic as they are. I hope your looking after me doesn’t tamper with your newfound constitution.” With that, he let his head fall back against the couch, and he fell silent.
Later, mostly to make sure that Holmes had not fallen unconscious, but also in an effort to ease his friend’s troubles, Watson spoke again. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “it worked. You have successfully distracted me.”
Holmes remained motionless, save for his mouth. “Did I just hear you say that I make for an excellent distraction? For your voice tends to trail off at the end of sentences, and I cannot be sure.”
“Yes,” said Watson. “I am happy to admit that my concern for you tonight has overshadowed my concern for myself.”
“My dear fellow,” Holmes said, suddenly sitting forward to face him, “I never meant for you to be concerned.”
“These things happen,” Watson said, trying to brush it aside.
“Nonsense!”
With that, Holmes was on his feet, already striding across the room. “Let’s see if I can’t distract you again, this time from that nasty habit of yours that makes you speak of yourself with such a lack of regard.”
“Perhaps you should be resting,” Watson said, when Holmes stopped only to open his violin case.
Holmes took up the bow and waved it dismissively at Watson. “I assure you, I am fine. Now...”
He didn’t speak again for a long time. Rather, he didn’t speak with any words in the English language. Instead, he spoke through his violin, and Watson finally got the chance to watch him play instead of merely listening.
Holmes was clearly the master of his instrument. At times, he played with his eyes closed, his body swaying gently with the music of his own creation. It was evident to Watson that there was no part of this instrument that Holmes did not have within his grasp, no note in the entire sphere of music that he did not have perfectly ingrained into his very soul.
Every so often, he would quickly glance up at Watson, perhaps to see if he had fallen asleep, or if he looked bored or disinterested. In those moments, Watson did not feel the need to smile, or nod, or even acknowledge his companion; he knew that Holmes would be able to deduce how much he was enjoying this, not having to sleep, not having to do anything but watch and listen without any hope of feedback.
As he watched, it dawned on him that he had been wrong in thinking what he had come to discover the last time he’d asked Holmes to play for him, in thinking that Holmes was denying him.
In reality, Holmes had done no such thing. He had simply prolonged Watson’s request until his foresight of incomparable measure saw it fit to appease. That seemed like a proper way to think about it. Thus, Watson came to know that despite how poor his health was, and how ill-adjusted he was to living with another man, and especially his temper, among his other shortcomings, Holmes had not denied him yet.
And Holmes continued to play well into the morning, well after Watson had drifted off to sleep.
The following morning, Watson woke to the sunlight on his face. He blinked, disoriented for a few moments, before his eyes could adjust to the brightness. He remembered the previous night instantly, having no afterimages of nightmares to deal with. This was a completely new sensation, the act of waking up when one’s own body willed it, rather than when one’s own body was terrified into wakefulness by images in one’s head.
A quick glance at the clock informed Watson that he had slept until almost noon (seven minutes shy of it). A quick glance at where he remembered Holmes’ violin case rested (on Holmes’ desk by the window) told him that the instrument had been properly put away, either by Holmes’ or, improbable but not impossible, Mrs. Hudson.
Watson reminded himself to apologize to his landlady if his sleeping in, and in the study no less, had hindered her in any way. Then his eyes fell on the book about blood transfusions, which he had left on the low table in the middle of the room. It had not been returned to the mantle, where it most likely did not belong in the first place.
Suddenly, Watson was reminded of something, and he stretched his achy limbs, trying to get his blood flowing again. Once sufficiently alert, his body a bit less sore, he rose and made his way over to Holmes’ desk. When he saw what he had been looking for, he laughed.
There were papers scattered all over the desk, papers which Holmes had been scribbling on while Watson had been reading that ridiculous book. But now, Watson could see that Holmes had truly been scribbling, filling his papers with random drawings of stars, landscapes, faces, bizarre shapes, intersecting lines, buildings, windows, small trinkets, and many, many spirals. In that moment, upon realizing that he and Holmes had both been mutually trying to prove to the other that they were actually very, very busy people, Watson felt very happy.
He couldn’t quite figure out why this discovery came with such elation. But considering his current state of existence, he was in no position to deny himself a bit of irrational joy.
(Next Chapter)