drabble: The Resurrectionist
title: The Resurrection
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
rating: pg-13
warnings: description of injury
words: 1,035
summary: Reichbach falls was not the first time Holmes came back from the dead.
Reichbach falls was not the first time Holmes came back from the dead.
After an investigation turned all-out brawl, he goes missing. He comes back appearing unscathed and grinning after being gone for nearly six days, during which Watson transitioned through denial, anxiety, worry, anger and fear, eventually giving in to rather womanish anxieties that make him feel almost as if he deserves to have lost Holmes. But then he comes back from the dead.
It occurs to Watson that, had Holmes come back any earlier than he did, he might not have been so unscathed. Perhaps he had thought that licking his wounds in hiding would have caused Watson to worry less.
That is, of course, not the case. However, Watson is content enough to have Holmes back, to not have to see him off in a casket, and can presently ignore the problem with ease. At least, he can ignore the real problem of the matter, until Holmes shuts the lavatory door behind him.
Doors were never closed in Baker street without cause. Holmes knows nothing of privacy or personal space, and only by repetition and conditioning did Watson become accustom to being walked in on during some of the more intimate moments of his life. Holmes never said a word on the subject, and thus it became part of his and Watson’s everyday existence.
The lavatory door being shut is something new entirely, and something that Watson is not entirely comfortable with, although it therefore frees him from being surprised to find the door locked as well.
“A moment, Watson,” Holmes calls from within. “Nearly finished.”
He sounds at ease, relaxed, completely normal; Watson cannot help but ask, “are you quite alright in there?”
“Completely. Let me just finish in here and then the lavatory is all yours.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Watson says. “I don’t need anything. Take all the time you need.”
Holmes doesn’t answer, so Watson walks down to the end of the hallway before pausing for a moment, and then creeping back to the door on his tip toes. Holding his breath, he gently presses his ear to the door with hopes that he may hear something inside to better acquaint him with whatever has caused Holmes to close the door in the first place. All is quiet. Then,
“You are sure, then, that there is nothing in here that you need?”
Watson presses his lips together, tight, to keep from releasing his held breath in some sort of frustrated exclamation. Perhaps if he remained silent, he might convince Holmes that he was merely hearing things, and would then get on with whatever he needed to do. But that isn’t right at all; if Holmes spoke, then it meant that he had indefinitely heard something to convince him that Watson was there. He never did anything without being completely sure that it would yield the expected results. Watson is well and truly caught and trapped.
So he gives up up. For the moment. “No, Holmes. I do not need a thing.”
“I did not hear you go up the stairs,” Holmes says, adding further insult to injury. “You might as well have declared verbally to me your intention of finding out what I am up to.”
Watson lets out a short bark of laughter. “Would you have answered?” He hears a quick exhalation, and imagines that he has made Holmes smile. This time, he makes sure to stamp his feet all the way up the stairs: a warning.
He waits in his room until nightfall, until he can hear the sounds Holmes’ pipe makes when he taps it against the mantle.
“You’re going to break your pipe,” Watson warns him as he lets himself in.
Holmes, as if surprised, which he very well might have been, jumps back away from the mantle and, with his hand not holding the pipe, holds the nervously tapping arm still at his side, as if it is not to be trusted to remain so on its own. “Dear man, I thought you would have been asleep by now.”
“You mean to tell me that you did not hear, by the patterns of my breathing, that I was awake?”
“After your course of action this afternoon, I feared you would have heard me had I come to listen at your door.” Holmes plucks and fidgets at the fabric of his sleeve while he talks, shifting from foot to foot, methodically clenching and unclenching his hand around his pipe. It isn’t lit.
“Let me see it, then,” Watson says, straightforward, no nonsense, like a professional doctor and not a worried mother.
That stops Holmes’ fidgeting, the hand remaining clenched around the pipe. “See what?”
“Remove your shirt,” says Watson, and speaks over Holmes’ immediate protestation. “If you fail to do so, I will remove it for you.”
Obviously, Holmes realizes that Watson is not joking or teasing or understating his intention, and he must not be in good enough shape to fight or escape, she he sets his pipe down and unbuttons his shirt.
The wound just below his ribs has been stitched, but poorly; the wire pulls the skin an unnatural way that verifies Holmes as the one who treated it, for he would have had to twist to the side to be able to use both his hands.
“Could you truly not have gone to a physician?” Watson says tiredly, as he takes notice of how red and inflamed the area around the wound is, a sure sign of infection.
Holmes is quite stoic about the whole thing, does not raise his voice or bat Watson’s hands away. “Do you not think I would have, if I could have?”
“No,” says Watson. “I do not.”
Holmes bows his head in acknowledgement. “Alright then, Doctor. Do your worst.”
That evening, Watson is more careful than he has ever been with a patient, being extra gentle and extra slow as he cleans and re-stitches the gash. As punishment for making him worry, he kills Holmes with kindness, hoping to raise some semblance of guilt within him. He kills Holmes with kindness, and the next morning, Holmes, once again, comes back from the dead.
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
rating: pg-13
warnings: description of injury
words: 1,035
summary: Reichbach falls was not the first time Holmes came back from the dead.
Reichbach falls was not the first time Holmes came back from the dead.
After an investigation turned all-out brawl, he goes missing. He comes back appearing unscathed and grinning after being gone for nearly six days, during which Watson transitioned through denial, anxiety, worry, anger and fear, eventually giving in to rather womanish anxieties that make him feel almost as if he deserves to have lost Holmes. But then he comes back from the dead.
It occurs to Watson that, had Holmes come back any earlier than he did, he might not have been so unscathed. Perhaps he had thought that licking his wounds in hiding would have caused Watson to worry less.
That is, of course, not the case. However, Watson is content enough to have Holmes back, to not have to see him off in a casket, and can presently ignore the problem with ease. At least, he can ignore the real problem of the matter, until Holmes shuts the lavatory door behind him.
Doors were never closed in Baker street without cause. Holmes knows nothing of privacy or personal space, and only by repetition and conditioning did Watson become accustom to being walked in on during some of the more intimate moments of his life. Holmes never said a word on the subject, and thus it became part of his and Watson’s everyday existence.
The lavatory door being shut is something new entirely, and something that Watson is not entirely comfortable with, although it therefore frees him from being surprised to find the door locked as well.
“A moment, Watson,” Holmes calls from within. “Nearly finished.”
He sounds at ease, relaxed, completely normal; Watson cannot help but ask, “are you quite alright in there?”
“Completely. Let me just finish in here and then the lavatory is all yours.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Watson says. “I don’t need anything. Take all the time you need.”
Holmes doesn’t answer, so Watson walks down to the end of the hallway before pausing for a moment, and then creeping back to the door on his tip toes. Holding his breath, he gently presses his ear to the door with hopes that he may hear something inside to better acquaint him with whatever has caused Holmes to close the door in the first place. All is quiet. Then,
“You are sure, then, that there is nothing in here that you need?”
Watson presses his lips together, tight, to keep from releasing his held breath in some sort of frustrated exclamation. Perhaps if he remained silent, he might convince Holmes that he was merely hearing things, and would then get on with whatever he needed to do. But that isn’t right at all; if Holmes spoke, then it meant that he had indefinitely heard something to convince him that Watson was there. He never did anything without being completely sure that it would yield the expected results. Watson is well and truly caught and trapped.
So he gives up up. For the moment. “No, Holmes. I do not need a thing.”
“I did not hear you go up the stairs,” Holmes says, adding further insult to injury. “You might as well have declared verbally to me your intention of finding out what I am up to.”
Watson lets out a short bark of laughter. “Would you have answered?” He hears a quick exhalation, and imagines that he has made Holmes smile. This time, he makes sure to stamp his feet all the way up the stairs: a warning.
He waits in his room until nightfall, until he can hear the sounds Holmes’ pipe makes when he taps it against the mantle.
“You’re going to break your pipe,” Watson warns him as he lets himself in.
Holmes, as if surprised, which he very well might have been, jumps back away from the mantle and, with his hand not holding the pipe, holds the nervously tapping arm still at his side, as if it is not to be trusted to remain so on its own. “Dear man, I thought you would have been asleep by now.”
“You mean to tell me that you did not hear, by the patterns of my breathing, that I was awake?”
“After your course of action this afternoon, I feared you would have heard me had I come to listen at your door.” Holmes plucks and fidgets at the fabric of his sleeve while he talks, shifting from foot to foot, methodically clenching and unclenching his hand around his pipe. It isn’t lit.
“Let me see it, then,” Watson says, straightforward, no nonsense, like a professional doctor and not a worried mother.
That stops Holmes’ fidgeting, the hand remaining clenched around the pipe. “See what?”
“Remove your shirt,” says Watson, and speaks over Holmes’ immediate protestation. “If you fail to do so, I will remove it for you.”
Obviously, Holmes realizes that Watson is not joking or teasing or understating his intention, and he must not be in good enough shape to fight or escape, she he sets his pipe down and unbuttons his shirt.
The wound just below his ribs has been stitched, but poorly; the wire pulls the skin an unnatural way that verifies Holmes as the one who treated it, for he would have had to twist to the side to be able to use both his hands.
“Could you truly not have gone to a physician?” Watson says tiredly, as he takes notice of how red and inflamed the area around the wound is, a sure sign of infection.
Holmes is quite stoic about the whole thing, does not raise his voice or bat Watson’s hands away. “Do you not think I would have, if I could have?”
“No,” says Watson. “I do not.”
Holmes bows his head in acknowledgement. “Alright then, Doctor. Do your worst.”
That evening, Watson is more careful than he has ever been with a patient, being extra gentle and extra slow as he cleans and re-stitches the gash. As punishment for making him worry, he kills Holmes with kindness, hoping to raise some semblance of guilt within him. He kills Holmes with kindness, and the next morning, Holmes, once again, comes back from the dead.