Fields of Play [5/6]
title: Fields of Play [5/6]
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
rating: PG-13 for angst, serious angst, panic attack, SLASH! (FINALLY!!!)
words: 2,628
summary: “I assure you, my motives have nothing to do with it.”
note: This chapter took me two months to write. How bizarre is that? My apologies for the delay, if anyone was following this story. I hope you've not all completely forgotten it! It's coming to a close, only one more chapter coming after this. This story is finally getting down to what it was originally supposed to be, to what my original ideas of this concept were. It's... going to be interesting, to say the least.
(Chapter 1)
(Chapter 2)
(Chapter 3)
(Chapter 4)
Holmes with a broken hand was, in a word, sloppy. That was not to say that he was not sloppy on most every other occasion he could think to take, to the point where the study floor was always littered with papers and pillows and blankets and ash and shoes and whatever else had the misfortune of being in Holmes’ way. But with a broken hand, he was even sloppier. This was diligently observed by Watson, under the guise of a caring and concerned physician.
Objects that would otherwise have been moved aside were now kicked aside, which resulted in plenty of shattered inkwells and glass and so on and so forth. Bending down and using his one good hand to clear a path for his restless feet seemed far too great an effort for the great Sherlock Holmes.
When Holmes wasn’t anxious and restless and agitated, he fell victim to a terrible lethargy. Much like how he was sloppier, it was not to say that he was not lethargic before breaking his hand, only that he was slightly less so than when his hand was broken.
In truth, Watson could not quite grasp why Holmes had become so despondent. It was his left hand that he had broken, and the man was right-handed, so he could have easily picked up a pen, for example, and seen to some of his many correspondences, many of which were strewn across the floor looking as if they had been, true to Holmes, kicked carelessly aside.
Rather than risk aggravating him, Watson treated Holmes if he had just fallen victim to one of his regular black moods, mostly ignoring him but never actively trying to affect any change in his behavior. He went about with his usual day-to-day routine, which was, to say, not very much of anything. He made a point to go out for a walk every day, for it has been said that the more one walks, the farther one can walk; Watson very much wanted to be able to walk again without succumbing to exhaustion and his traitorous body’s weakness.
Upon his return, he always found Holmes in exactly the same position that he left him in, either curled up on the sofa, slouching in an armchair, or sprawled out on the floor.
“Afternoon,” Watson would say, and Holmes would say nothing at all.
Watson took full advantage of these moments and used them to check on Holmes’ broken hand. In these moments, Holmes was practically comatose with lethargy, and therefore less likely to yank his hand away and do further damage to it. Watson would unwrap the tape and bandages, poke carefully at the very gradually fading bruises and puncture, feel along the bones and joint where the break had occurred. If his eyes were open, Holmes would occasionally watch Watson work. But that was not usual. More than likely, he would stare off into space, of not even open his eyes at all.
This lethargy, Watson had decided, was not actually a bad thing. After all, the only way that Holmes was going to heal was by resting and taking time, which he was far more likely to do if he were not out chasing criminals through the streets. Therefore, the more despondent he was, the longer he would go before, as Watson knew to be both eventual and painfully inevitable, he would rip off his splint and decide that he had healed enough.
This happened after two weeks, and probably because only then because Holmes’ hand no longer caused him any pain. Watson assumed so, anyway, for when he came home from his walk, he found Holmes crouched on the floor of the study, sitting up on his haunches, with his violin tucked under his chin.
“Oh no you don’t,” Watson warned him immediately.
Holmes blinked up at him, his brows raised in an expression of innocence. With a quick flexing of his left hand, he pressed his still-bruised fingers onto the instrument and set the bow to the strings. Such a blatant sign of disobedience as it was, Watson did not hesitate to walk right up to Holmes and physically pluck the violin out of his grip.
“You’ve a broken hand,” he reminded Holmes. “Do you really think this a wise decision?”
“I assure you, my motives have nothing to do with it.” Holmes said, as if Watson were being so completely unreasonable that all Holmes could do in his own defense was to whine. “I simply need to play.”
“You do not need to play,” Watson enunciated. “You need to let me splint your hand again before you lose your ability to ever play again.”
The subject was moot. Holmes was quite able to fight on his own behalf, but his violin was already in Watson’s hands by then, and jumping up to try and snatch it back might have damaged the instrument in a way that would not be alright, not in the slightest. It might also have damaged Holmes’ still-healing hand, which Watson thought only as an afterthought; this obvious confusion in regards to his priorities disturbed him greatly.
“Be careful with that,” Holmes warned, resigning himself to glaring and frowning in that ineffective way that children often assume when they know that they cannot fight and yet do not have it in them to surrender either.
Watson had never held a violin before in his entire life. He held it awkwardly by the neck, half contemplating where to put his other hand, half expecting the thing, if it was anything like the detective who owned it, to struggle like Holmes would. In all his glimpses of Holmes holding it, he had always been so comfortable with it. The way a mother can instinctively cradle her child in her arms, so did Holmes handle his violin.
Still, despite trying to channel some of Holmes’ innate grace, Watson still felt awkward holding it. It was lighter than he had expected it to be, and significantly shorter than a rife. And yet the sudden comparison plunged a hot knife into Watson’s gut as his mind flashed back to a time when his blood ran cold in his veins under the brutal desert sun, and his heart stopped dead in his chest. He’d held his rifle quite the same way, no longer able to support the weapon with his shoulder, though he tried; Watson had not yet begun to feel the pain from where his shoulder had exploded, for he was much too alive in that moment -- there was just too much blood, and the rifle kept slipping, and so Watson held it by the neck and ran.
“Watson, for god’s sake, be careful!”
The pounding of his insistent heartbeat in his ears reminded him to take a breath, and it was Holmes’ cry that brought him back to the present, to the fire-warmed study of his Baker Street home, and Holmes was standing much too close, holding the violin in his right hand, with his left hovering near Watson’s cheek. That his face was a mask of concern sickened Watson even more the thought of his shoulder blown open, exposed to the elements and bleeding and bleeding and bleeding out sinto the sand.
“Give that to me,” Watson said harshly, for he still felt as if he were in the midst of battle, snatching the violin back as if his life depended on it, and ducking his head away from Holmes’ lingering hand as if it were a bullet sailing towards his skull.
Holmes, oddly enough, looked curious, the tension lines drawn into his previous mask of concern abated and melted away. His hand, that bullet, came to his face, the index finger tapping against his lip. “You,” he said thoughtfully, “are not in this room, are you?”
“What?” Watson blinked deliberately, trying to clear his head.
“You went away just then, did you not?”
In the time it took for Watson to make sense of what Holmes was saying, Holmes reached forward to snatch his violin back. “No,” Watson all but shouted, his reflexes as keen as they had been in battle. “I am going to my room, and this blasted instrument is coming with me.”
Holmes had gone back to looking concerned, although this time it was about the safety of his violin. His long fingers were reaching for it, tentative to grab it again for fear of what Watson might do with it. “Please be careful, if you must--”
“I have it,” said Watson, with enough echoing force (which must have alarmed Mrs. Hudson all the way downstairs) that he hoped might startle Holmes into backing away.
No such luck was to be had. Holmes stood exactly where he was, much too close for Watson to feel at ease. “Just leave it here, you do not need to take it away from me.”
Watson took a breath to steady himself, fingers tightening around the neck of the violin, before he spoke, although he was sorely disappointed to hear how furious he sounded. “I’m your doctor,” he shouted, for he could not seem to stop shouting, “and I doubt you possess the willpower to keep from playing it otherwise.”
“Tell me why you are angry,” said Holmes, not at all taken aback or discouraged by Watson’s irrational yelling.
“I am angry at nothing, and wish you would leave me alone!”
“Tell me what you are angry at,” Holmes implored further, grabbing Watson’s shoulders to keep him from turning away. “If you can answer, then I will let you go, and you can take my violin with you.
“Leave me be,” said Watson, and pulled out of Holmes’ grip, only for Holmes to grab hold of him again immediately.
“You appear quite angry, to me,” Holmes said, his face so close that Watson could practically taste his peculiar scent with every breath he took. Watson held his breath to alleviate this. Holmes continued. “Cheeks red, sweat at your temples, your fingers clenched, knuckles whitening. Besides, you are currently incapable of speaking in anything other than a shout.”
“Stop it!” Watson roared, only further proving Holmes’ point.
Still, Holmes soldiered on. “You are either angry with me, for my blatant refusal to follow your medical instruction, or you are angry with yourself.”
“And why,” said Watson, trying and failing yet again to control his voice, “would I be angry with myself?”
“For being weak.”
“Holmes, I swear--”
“For being weak despite your best efforts, for falling victim to a mind not yet strong enough to handle the horrors it has seen.”
“I am taking your violin and I am going to my room. I need to rest, and you still need to heal.”
“Have it,” Holmes said, giving up and waving his hands at Watson dismissively as he finally let him go. “You can answer me at any time. I will wait.”
“Wait, then,” Watson spat. “Wait all night, so long as it gives you something to bloody do that won’t wreck your hand.”
“Might I remind you that you yourself are still in need of healing as well,” Holmes called, his voice following Watson’s retreating figure up the stairs and into his own room, sneaking past just before the door was slammed shut. Watson found that Holmes’ words would not leave him, as he set the violin down on his desk with such care that made his limbs, yearning to throw and hit things, shake from the effort of such monumental restraint.
Once free of their precious burden, Watson’s hands reached up to his brow. Watson squeezed his eyes shut tight and told himself to just breathe, focus on breathing, which had become incredibly difficult since his return to his bedroom. He dropped his chin to his straining chest and clasped his hands behind his neck. Still, he couldn’t breathe, and could feel a growing pressure inside his skull. So he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to focus on the bright spots blooming behind his eyelids instead.
They looked liked explosions. Watson gasped. The sound frightened him; it was the gasp of a man who lay with his stomach slashed open, entrails slipping out over ruined flesh, a man whose name was Devon and with whom Watson had spent many a late evening talking with.
Watson’s next breath sounded less like the death-gasp of his companion, and his breath after that even less so. He would breathe, and he would focus on breathing, and he would go to sleep. He would rest, and he would recover.
It seemed ultimately impossible. Holmes needed to keep his broken hand supported and make sure not to use it in order for it to heal. Watson did not know what he needed in order to heal himself. He knew he needed to rest, to be patient, but none of those things yielded tangible results. Watson wanted nothing more than to be well, and to be rid of these anxieties which seemed very likely to destroy him.
Helpless and increasingly frustrated, he rid himself of his clothes instead. He did not remain undressed very long, hiding his ruined body beneath an enormous dressing gown he fetched from the lavatory. When he returned to his bedroom, Holmes was waiting for him.
He stood awkwardly between the door and the bed, his right hand in his pocket and his left hanging at his side. Watson did not yet trust his voice not to betray him, but he also felt that he and Holmes had already evolved past the niceties of society that deemed their current arrangement as unholy and offensive.
Holmes cleared his throat. “It needs to be splinted,” he shrugged his left shoulder. “If you would be so kind.”
“Fine,” Watson whispered, his voice sounding like wheels on gravel. Holmes invited himself further into the room and sat himself at the edge of Watson’s bed. He didn’t complain, didn’t even talk, as Watson lined his still-bruised hand up with a splint and taped it.
“I thank you for your patience,” he finally said, after Watson had completed his ministrations and turned his back to Holmes as a sign that he wanted him out.
“Do not say another word to me,” Watson said quietly. He was no longer shouting, and quite lacked the energy to even attempt such force. He felt depleted, and completely helpless.
“Please allow me to properly express my,” Holmes said, “most humble gratitude.”
“You are cruel,” Watson said, and kept his back turned. “I know that it is you who ought to be patient, and your confession can be nothing but an insult.”
When Holmes next spoke, he sounded so sincere that Watson nearly believed him. His soft voice bespoke the guilt that any human being would have felt after what Holmes had put Watson through, and such sincerity. “It is the truth.”
But it could not, it could not have been true. “Please..” Of course he wanted it to be true. He wanted many things in life, but none of them just simply walked into his room and asked for their broken hands to be re-splinted. Most of them did not even come at all, if fate and bad luck and consequences had anything to do with it. “Go.”
“Look at me,” Holmes said, and Watson found himself turning before he knew what he was doing. Holmes had stood up, and was, very cautiously, closing the space between them, his strange colored eyes fixed and narrowed with determination, though his brow remained soft, making him appear almost gentle.
Once again, Watson found it very hard to breathe, only this time it was because Sherlock Holmes was kissing him.
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
rating: PG-13 for angst, serious angst, panic attack, SLASH! (FINALLY!!!)
words: 2,628
summary: “I assure you, my motives have nothing to do with it.”
note: This chapter took me two months to write. How bizarre is that? My apologies for the delay, if anyone was following this story. I hope you've not all completely forgotten it! It's coming to a close, only one more chapter coming after this. This story is finally getting down to what it was originally supposed to be, to what my original ideas of this concept were. It's... going to be interesting, to say the least.
(Chapter 1)
(Chapter 2)
(Chapter 3)
(Chapter 4)
Holmes with a broken hand was, in a word, sloppy. That was not to say that he was not sloppy on most every other occasion he could think to take, to the point where the study floor was always littered with papers and pillows and blankets and ash and shoes and whatever else had the misfortune of being in Holmes’ way. But with a broken hand, he was even sloppier. This was diligently observed by Watson, under the guise of a caring and concerned physician.
Objects that would otherwise have been moved aside were now kicked aside, which resulted in plenty of shattered inkwells and glass and so on and so forth. Bending down and using his one good hand to clear a path for his restless feet seemed far too great an effort for the great Sherlock Holmes.
When Holmes wasn’t anxious and restless and agitated, he fell victim to a terrible lethargy. Much like how he was sloppier, it was not to say that he was not lethargic before breaking his hand, only that he was slightly less so than when his hand was broken.
In truth, Watson could not quite grasp why Holmes had become so despondent. It was his left hand that he had broken, and the man was right-handed, so he could have easily picked up a pen, for example, and seen to some of his many correspondences, many of which were strewn across the floor looking as if they had been, true to Holmes, kicked carelessly aside.
Rather than risk aggravating him, Watson treated Holmes if he had just fallen victim to one of his regular black moods, mostly ignoring him but never actively trying to affect any change in his behavior. He went about with his usual day-to-day routine, which was, to say, not very much of anything. He made a point to go out for a walk every day, for it has been said that the more one walks, the farther one can walk; Watson very much wanted to be able to walk again without succumbing to exhaustion and his traitorous body’s weakness.
Upon his return, he always found Holmes in exactly the same position that he left him in, either curled up on the sofa, slouching in an armchair, or sprawled out on the floor.
“Afternoon,” Watson would say, and Holmes would say nothing at all.
Watson took full advantage of these moments and used them to check on Holmes’ broken hand. In these moments, Holmes was practically comatose with lethargy, and therefore less likely to yank his hand away and do further damage to it. Watson would unwrap the tape and bandages, poke carefully at the very gradually fading bruises and puncture, feel along the bones and joint where the break had occurred. If his eyes were open, Holmes would occasionally watch Watson work. But that was not usual. More than likely, he would stare off into space, of not even open his eyes at all.
This lethargy, Watson had decided, was not actually a bad thing. After all, the only way that Holmes was going to heal was by resting and taking time, which he was far more likely to do if he were not out chasing criminals through the streets. Therefore, the more despondent he was, the longer he would go before, as Watson knew to be both eventual and painfully inevitable, he would rip off his splint and decide that he had healed enough.
This happened after two weeks, and probably because only then because Holmes’ hand no longer caused him any pain. Watson assumed so, anyway, for when he came home from his walk, he found Holmes crouched on the floor of the study, sitting up on his haunches, with his violin tucked under his chin.
“Oh no you don’t,” Watson warned him immediately.
Holmes blinked up at him, his brows raised in an expression of innocence. With a quick flexing of his left hand, he pressed his still-bruised fingers onto the instrument and set the bow to the strings. Such a blatant sign of disobedience as it was, Watson did not hesitate to walk right up to Holmes and physically pluck the violin out of his grip.
“You’ve a broken hand,” he reminded Holmes. “Do you really think this a wise decision?”
“I assure you, my motives have nothing to do with it.” Holmes said, as if Watson were being so completely unreasonable that all Holmes could do in his own defense was to whine. “I simply need to play.”
“You do not need to play,” Watson enunciated. “You need to let me splint your hand again before you lose your ability to ever play again.”
The subject was moot. Holmes was quite able to fight on his own behalf, but his violin was already in Watson’s hands by then, and jumping up to try and snatch it back might have damaged the instrument in a way that would not be alright, not in the slightest. It might also have damaged Holmes’ still-healing hand, which Watson thought only as an afterthought; this obvious confusion in regards to his priorities disturbed him greatly.
“Be careful with that,” Holmes warned, resigning himself to glaring and frowning in that ineffective way that children often assume when they know that they cannot fight and yet do not have it in them to surrender either.
Watson had never held a violin before in his entire life. He held it awkwardly by the neck, half contemplating where to put his other hand, half expecting the thing, if it was anything like the detective who owned it, to struggle like Holmes would. In all his glimpses of Holmes holding it, he had always been so comfortable with it. The way a mother can instinctively cradle her child in her arms, so did Holmes handle his violin.
Still, despite trying to channel some of Holmes’ innate grace, Watson still felt awkward holding it. It was lighter than he had expected it to be, and significantly shorter than a rife. And yet the sudden comparison plunged a hot knife into Watson’s gut as his mind flashed back to a time when his blood ran cold in his veins under the brutal desert sun, and his heart stopped dead in his chest. He’d held his rifle quite the same way, no longer able to support the weapon with his shoulder, though he tried; Watson had not yet begun to feel the pain from where his shoulder had exploded, for he was much too alive in that moment -- there was just too much blood, and the rifle kept slipping, and so Watson held it by the neck and ran.
“Watson, for god’s sake, be careful!”
The pounding of his insistent heartbeat in his ears reminded him to take a breath, and it was Holmes’ cry that brought him back to the present, to the fire-warmed study of his Baker Street home, and Holmes was standing much too close, holding the violin in his right hand, with his left hovering near Watson’s cheek. That his face was a mask of concern sickened Watson even more the thought of his shoulder blown open, exposed to the elements and bleeding and bleeding and bleeding out sinto the sand.
“Give that to me,” Watson said harshly, for he still felt as if he were in the midst of battle, snatching the violin back as if his life depended on it, and ducking his head away from Holmes’ lingering hand as if it were a bullet sailing towards his skull.
Holmes, oddly enough, looked curious, the tension lines drawn into his previous mask of concern abated and melted away. His hand, that bullet, came to his face, the index finger tapping against his lip. “You,” he said thoughtfully, “are not in this room, are you?”
“What?” Watson blinked deliberately, trying to clear his head.
“You went away just then, did you not?”
In the time it took for Watson to make sense of what Holmes was saying, Holmes reached forward to snatch his violin back. “No,” Watson all but shouted, his reflexes as keen as they had been in battle. “I am going to my room, and this blasted instrument is coming with me.”
Holmes had gone back to looking concerned, although this time it was about the safety of his violin. His long fingers were reaching for it, tentative to grab it again for fear of what Watson might do with it. “Please be careful, if you must--”
“I have it,” said Watson, with enough echoing force (which must have alarmed Mrs. Hudson all the way downstairs) that he hoped might startle Holmes into backing away.
No such luck was to be had. Holmes stood exactly where he was, much too close for Watson to feel at ease. “Just leave it here, you do not need to take it away from me.”
Watson took a breath to steady himself, fingers tightening around the neck of the violin, before he spoke, although he was sorely disappointed to hear how furious he sounded. “I’m your doctor,” he shouted, for he could not seem to stop shouting, “and I doubt you possess the willpower to keep from playing it otherwise.”
“Tell me why you are angry,” said Holmes, not at all taken aback or discouraged by Watson’s irrational yelling.
“I am angry at nothing, and wish you would leave me alone!”
“Tell me what you are angry at,” Holmes implored further, grabbing Watson’s shoulders to keep him from turning away. “If you can answer, then I will let you go, and you can take my violin with you.
“Leave me be,” said Watson, and pulled out of Holmes’ grip, only for Holmes to grab hold of him again immediately.
“You appear quite angry, to me,” Holmes said, his face so close that Watson could practically taste his peculiar scent with every breath he took. Watson held his breath to alleviate this. Holmes continued. “Cheeks red, sweat at your temples, your fingers clenched, knuckles whitening. Besides, you are currently incapable of speaking in anything other than a shout.”
“Stop it!” Watson roared, only further proving Holmes’ point.
Still, Holmes soldiered on. “You are either angry with me, for my blatant refusal to follow your medical instruction, or you are angry with yourself.”
“And why,” said Watson, trying and failing yet again to control his voice, “would I be angry with myself?”
“For being weak.”
“Holmes, I swear--”
“For being weak despite your best efforts, for falling victim to a mind not yet strong enough to handle the horrors it has seen.”
“I am taking your violin and I am going to my room. I need to rest, and you still need to heal.”
“Have it,” Holmes said, giving up and waving his hands at Watson dismissively as he finally let him go. “You can answer me at any time. I will wait.”
“Wait, then,” Watson spat. “Wait all night, so long as it gives you something to bloody do that won’t wreck your hand.”
“Might I remind you that you yourself are still in need of healing as well,” Holmes called, his voice following Watson’s retreating figure up the stairs and into his own room, sneaking past just before the door was slammed shut. Watson found that Holmes’ words would not leave him, as he set the violin down on his desk with such care that made his limbs, yearning to throw and hit things, shake from the effort of such monumental restraint.
Once free of their precious burden, Watson’s hands reached up to his brow. Watson squeezed his eyes shut tight and told himself to just breathe, focus on breathing, which had become incredibly difficult since his return to his bedroom. He dropped his chin to his straining chest and clasped his hands behind his neck. Still, he couldn’t breathe, and could feel a growing pressure inside his skull. So he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to focus on the bright spots blooming behind his eyelids instead.
They looked liked explosions. Watson gasped. The sound frightened him; it was the gasp of a man who lay with his stomach slashed open, entrails slipping out over ruined flesh, a man whose name was Devon and with whom Watson had spent many a late evening talking with.
Watson’s next breath sounded less like the death-gasp of his companion, and his breath after that even less so. He would breathe, and he would focus on breathing, and he would go to sleep. He would rest, and he would recover.
It seemed ultimately impossible. Holmes needed to keep his broken hand supported and make sure not to use it in order for it to heal. Watson did not know what he needed in order to heal himself. He knew he needed to rest, to be patient, but none of those things yielded tangible results. Watson wanted nothing more than to be well, and to be rid of these anxieties which seemed very likely to destroy him.
Helpless and increasingly frustrated, he rid himself of his clothes instead. He did not remain undressed very long, hiding his ruined body beneath an enormous dressing gown he fetched from the lavatory. When he returned to his bedroom, Holmes was waiting for him.
He stood awkwardly between the door and the bed, his right hand in his pocket and his left hanging at his side. Watson did not yet trust his voice not to betray him, but he also felt that he and Holmes had already evolved past the niceties of society that deemed their current arrangement as unholy and offensive.
Holmes cleared his throat. “It needs to be splinted,” he shrugged his left shoulder. “If you would be so kind.”
“Fine,” Watson whispered, his voice sounding like wheels on gravel. Holmes invited himself further into the room and sat himself at the edge of Watson’s bed. He didn’t complain, didn’t even talk, as Watson lined his still-bruised hand up with a splint and taped it.
“I thank you for your patience,” he finally said, after Watson had completed his ministrations and turned his back to Holmes as a sign that he wanted him out.
“Do not say another word to me,” Watson said quietly. He was no longer shouting, and quite lacked the energy to even attempt such force. He felt depleted, and completely helpless.
“Please allow me to properly express my,” Holmes said, “most humble gratitude.”
“You are cruel,” Watson said, and kept his back turned. “I know that it is you who ought to be patient, and your confession can be nothing but an insult.”
When Holmes next spoke, he sounded so sincere that Watson nearly believed him. His soft voice bespoke the guilt that any human being would have felt after what Holmes had put Watson through, and such sincerity. “It is the truth.”
But it could not, it could not have been true. “Please..” Of course he wanted it to be true. He wanted many things in life, but none of them just simply walked into his room and asked for their broken hands to be re-splinted. Most of them did not even come at all, if fate and bad luck and consequences had anything to do with it. “Go.”
“Look at me,” Holmes said, and Watson found himself turning before he knew what he was doing. Holmes had stood up, and was, very cautiously, closing the space between them, his strange colored eyes fixed and narrowed with determination, though his brow remained soft, making him appear almost gentle.
Once again, Watson found it very hard to breathe, only this time it was because Sherlock Holmes was kissing him.