fic: adagio, holmes/ watson
Title: Adagio
Pairing: Holmes/ Watson
Rating/ Warnings: G.
Words: 887
As a thank you for xtinethepirate for poking me and tugging my sleeve. And because we were both in need for cosy, snuggly fic.
Early Holmes/ Watson. Not that much snuggling going on, but it is still comforting. I hope.
The music spun around them, slowly rising until the hall seemed perfectly filled with it. With every note dispersing into silence, there was another one, rising higher and clearer than Watson ever thought possible. Seated in a private box, Holmes was leaning back in his chair, rather sprawling if Watson was to be honest, legs stretched in front of him and hands both on his chest as if he needed a reminder to breathe and only the gentle weight of his dexterous and normally never still hands would accomplish this task. His eyes were closed and Watson found himself rather spellbound by the strings in conjunction with the expression of peace on his friend's face. He forgot to follow the music, its arches and inversions, expanding and ascending, its transposes and restatements. He just sat there in the dim light of a gas lamp that had been turned low, looking at Holmes, who almost seemed asleep would it not have been for the tiniest shifts in his expression in correspondence to the music, a crease of brow when it turned mournful, a hint of a smile when it turned bittersweet. So when the notes rose and rose, the string choir moving up the scale to their highest register, the music becoming surging, culminating in a frantic fortissimo-forte climax before quite suddenly falling silent, he had his gaze still on Holmes who opened his eyes, and, with a curious expression on his face, blinked when the strings picked up again, this time quieter and so yearning that Watson felt a tug deep in his chest.
He gave a small start when Holmes reached out, touching his knee accidentally, but he quickly recovered and met his hand halfway with his own. They sat this way until the last note had been played and a little longer, the rustle of an audience leaving lying over the silence that should have followed the violins and violas, that last long note before the applause had set in.
Neither Watson nor Holmes had applauded. Not for lack of appreciation, but for the incapability of letting the other go. Moved beyond words, Watson found himself holding on to Holmes' hand in the gentlest fashion, and he only stirred when Holmes shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
“Dearest Watson,” he said, still keeping Watson's hand in his own, “I would like it very much if you would agree to us walking home, maybe stopping for a glass of wine on the way?”
Watson could not say he found the thought of a drink as tempting as the stillness in which they were now, but doubtlessly, they could not remain here. He nodded, brushing his thumb over the back of Holmes' hand before releasing him and feeling instantly bereft. He busied himself with his coat, not wanting to give the gesture more weight than it deserved, but when he stepped out of the box, Holmes took his arm.
The air was mild and Holmes was in a remarkable mood, his step not too brisk but carrying a spring, and he was chatting about their day. Watson found himself smiling at the night and reaching over to pat the hand Holmes had rested in the crook of Watson's arm. Holmes leaned closer then and, in an altogether unfamiliar exuberant manner, placed his head against Watson's shoulder for the briefest of moments.
“Let's skip the wine,” Watson found himself saying, “We can have a glass of brandy back home.”
Holmes squeezed Watson's arm gently and smiled.
“I daresay our chairs are much more comfortable in any case,” Holmes agreed, “And it was only the company I was after.”
Watson looked at him in surprise, but Holmes had averted his gaze, and there was the faintest flush in his cheeks. To Watson, it felt as if he was back in the concert hall, right when the mournful chords cut through the abrupt silence, and he had to take a deep breath to calm his heart. He padded Holmes' hand and took a note of the expression his friend was currently wearing. Watson thought that Holmes had looked hopeful for a moment, but when he curiously studied Holmes' face a little longer, all he could see was the other man's familiar attentive countenance.
“So what did you think of the concert, my dear Watson,” Holmes asked.
Watson all of a sudden felt oddly grateful for having been introduced to the man currently at his side and for the odd smile Holmes displayed while waiting for Watson to gather his thoughts and shape an answer. So when he spoke, he spoke of the concert only, trying to wrap the music into words, not an easy undertaking in any case and especially not tonight. Holmes probably was aware of Watson almost glowing from the evening already, so there was no need to voice it, and Watson prided himself to detect signs of contentment in Holmes as well.
When Holmes pressed a little closer as they neared their lodgings, Watson felt that odd tug again, like a violin holding a note so it would transcend the silence, accompanied by a quiet glow that rushed through him. The warmth stayed all through their brandy and after they bade goodnight, following Watson into his dreams.
Pairing: Holmes/ Watson
Rating/ Warnings: G.
Words: 887
As a thank you for xtinethepirate for poking me and tugging my sleeve. And because we were both in need for cosy, snuggly fic.
Early Holmes/ Watson. Not that much snuggling going on, but it is still comforting. I hope.
The music spun around them, slowly rising until the hall seemed perfectly filled with it. With every note dispersing into silence, there was another one, rising higher and clearer than Watson ever thought possible. Seated in a private box, Holmes was leaning back in his chair, rather sprawling if Watson was to be honest, legs stretched in front of him and hands both on his chest as if he needed a reminder to breathe and only the gentle weight of his dexterous and normally never still hands would accomplish this task. His eyes were closed and Watson found himself rather spellbound by the strings in conjunction with the expression of peace on his friend's face. He forgot to follow the music, its arches and inversions, expanding and ascending, its transposes and restatements. He just sat there in the dim light of a gas lamp that had been turned low, looking at Holmes, who almost seemed asleep would it not have been for the tiniest shifts in his expression in correspondence to the music, a crease of brow when it turned mournful, a hint of a smile when it turned bittersweet. So when the notes rose and rose, the string choir moving up the scale to their highest register, the music becoming surging, culminating in a frantic fortissimo-forte climax before quite suddenly falling silent, he had his gaze still on Holmes who opened his eyes, and, with a curious expression on his face, blinked when the strings picked up again, this time quieter and so yearning that Watson felt a tug deep in his chest.
He gave a small start when Holmes reached out, touching his knee accidentally, but he quickly recovered and met his hand halfway with his own. They sat this way until the last note had been played and a little longer, the rustle of an audience leaving lying over the silence that should have followed the violins and violas, that last long note before the applause had set in.
Neither Watson nor Holmes had applauded. Not for lack of appreciation, but for the incapability of letting the other go. Moved beyond words, Watson found himself holding on to Holmes' hand in the gentlest fashion, and he only stirred when Holmes shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
“Dearest Watson,” he said, still keeping Watson's hand in his own, “I would like it very much if you would agree to us walking home, maybe stopping for a glass of wine on the way?”
Watson could not say he found the thought of a drink as tempting as the stillness in which they were now, but doubtlessly, they could not remain here. He nodded, brushing his thumb over the back of Holmes' hand before releasing him and feeling instantly bereft. He busied himself with his coat, not wanting to give the gesture more weight than it deserved, but when he stepped out of the box, Holmes took his arm.
The air was mild and Holmes was in a remarkable mood, his step not too brisk but carrying a spring, and he was chatting about their day. Watson found himself smiling at the night and reaching over to pat the hand Holmes had rested in the crook of Watson's arm. Holmes leaned closer then and, in an altogether unfamiliar exuberant manner, placed his head against Watson's shoulder for the briefest of moments.
“Let's skip the wine,” Watson found himself saying, “We can have a glass of brandy back home.”
Holmes squeezed Watson's arm gently and smiled.
“I daresay our chairs are much more comfortable in any case,” Holmes agreed, “And it was only the company I was after.”
Watson looked at him in surprise, but Holmes had averted his gaze, and there was the faintest flush in his cheeks. To Watson, it felt as if he was back in the concert hall, right when the mournful chords cut through the abrupt silence, and he had to take a deep breath to calm his heart. He padded Holmes' hand and took a note of the expression his friend was currently wearing. Watson thought that Holmes had looked hopeful for a moment, but when he curiously studied Holmes' face a little longer, all he could see was the other man's familiar attentive countenance.
“So what did you think of the concert, my dear Watson,” Holmes asked.
Watson all of a sudden felt oddly grateful for having been introduced to the man currently at his side and for the odd smile Holmes displayed while waiting for Watson to gather his thoughts and shape an answer. So when he spoke, he spoke of the concert only, trying to wrap the music into words, not an easy undertaking in any case and especially not tonight. Holmes probably was aware of Watson almost glowing from the evening already, so there was no need to voice it, and Watson prided himself to detect signs of contentment in Holmes as well.
When Holmes pressed a little closer as they neared their lodgings, Watson felt that odd tug again, like a violin holding a note so it would transcend the silence, accompanied by a quiet glow that rushed through him. The warmth stayed all through their brandy and after they bade goodnight, following Watson into his dreams.