Fic: A Silly Phase (Sherlock Holmes - Holmes/Watson)
This is foxxcub’s fault. Mostly inspired by the movie, if taking an odd turn here or there. It comes with the plot, really. Kudos to torakowalski for Britpick and e-mails that brighten my days, to inderpal for soundtrack-ing and to syllic for putting up with this madness.
Holmes/Watson
PG-13
~7’800 words
Holmes would probably be able to come up with a scientifically sound explanation -- at least if he hadn’t just turned into a six-year-old boy right in front of Watson’s eyes.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to others. I’m merely taking them for a spin.
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A Silly Phase
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If there is one thing Watson is certain of at this very moment, it’s that there must be a scientifically sound explanation for this.
Probably. Possibly.
No. There definitely is a scientifically sound explanation, and Watson is convinced that if Holmes hadn’t just turned into a child, he’d be evaluating the facts already, developing theories.
Which brings Watson back to the problem of how there must be an explanation for this; an explanation for how a fully grown man can spontaneously shrink into a boy of no more than six years right in front of Watson’s eyes. It would have to be an explanation that is more satisfactorily than Holmes having finally made one deal too many with the fortune-telling gypsy woman. Quite so.
Unfortunately, Watson’s musings screech to an abrupt halt as Holmes-as the six-year-old version of Sherlock Holmes - gives him an innocent smile before he glances around with a curious expression, turns abruptly and sets off for the thickest throng of people at the market.
--
“You mustn’t just run off like that,” Watson says. It might be the third time, or the fifth, or the ninth. He shifts the boy - the boy who used to be Sherlock Holmes, dear God - from his left hip to his right, the weight of a six-year-old not an easy one to bear.
“There was a thief,” the boy says, again. His voice is brighter than that of Holmes, carrying a note of childish stubbornness. “I couldn’t let him get away with robbing that poor mother of three children, could I? I think her husband spends most of their money on drinks, and that’s not good, right? You don’t think that’s right, do you, Watson?”
“You know who I am?” It’s the first indication Holmes has given of remembering anything, anything at all, and it makes Watson tighten his hold on the boy, the walking cane he considered leaving behind for practical reasons clicking rhythmically on the cobblestones. It is at least one familiar element to accompany their walk.
“Of course I know who you are.” The boy-Holmes gives him an impatient look, much like the one of his adult counterpart. Like his adult version? Like the man he will grow up to be?
Watson feels a headache creeping up, settling heavily at the base of his skull.
The wise thing would have been to hail a cab as soon as possible, but Holmes keeps the money for both of them, and there would have been something utterly wrong about asking the boy to retrieve their cab fare from his pockets, pockets belonging to clothes that are somewhere between the right size for a grown man and a six-year-old boy, hanging loosely on Holmes’ small frame. It isn’t much further, now.
“I’m glad you remember me,” Watson finally replies.
The boy-Holmes loops his arms around Watson’s neck, small fingers grappling at his shoulders. “You’re stupid,” Holmes says cheerfully. “Why would I not remember you?”
“I was just wondering.” Watson shifts Holmes to his other hip again, taking a moment to study the boyishly round face, brown eyes watching him without a hint of distrust. Holmes - his adult version - is hardly ever that unguarded with any person, not even with Watson. Something in Watson’s chest echoes hollowly at the realisation, but this is hardly the time to indulge such thoughts. He clenches his fingers around his walking cane and glances ahead to find that the next corner will bring them into Baker Street. “So you remember your own name as well?” he asks carefully. “You remember where you live?”
“I live with you, of course.” The tone leaves no room for doubt, followed by a blissfully happy smile. Then a frown crosses over Holmes’ face. “And I am… My name is…”
The sudden, instinctive tightening of Holmes’ small arms around Watson’s neck is enough of an answer.
--
“His name is Sherlock,” Watson tells Mrs. Hudson, lowering his voice to a confidential level; nothing ensures the landlady’s cooperation more thoroughly than a calculated bite of gossip. “He’s the son of Mr. Holmes’ cousin, the poor girl. He’s making arrangements for her while the boy will stay with us for a few days.” A few days, yes. Hopefully, it will be enough for Watson to track Flora down and force the wretched woman to undo whatever spell she cast - assuming he doesn’t find a scientific explanation for spontaneous childhood reversion first, of course.
“The son of Mr. Holmes’ cousin? He never spoke of one.” Mrs Hudson bends down to examine the boy, who stares back at her with a defiant expression, one of his hands holding on to Watson’s sleeve. He has to reach up slightly for it, emphasising the point that a fundamental change has taken place. It didn’t necessarily require emphasis, given that Holmes appears to have forgotten any and all information concerning his own person.
Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in wonderment. “Why, the similarity is uncanny.”
“I’m hungry,” Holmes tells her in a grave voice. His young face seems to contort in pain. In his oversized clothes, he does present quite a sight.
“Oh, of course! You poor child!” Mrs. Hudson straightens immediately, displaying a willingness that is rare when it comes to any of her lodgers. She bustles off into the kitchen after inquiring about Holmes’ preferences, muttering to herself about the unfortunate destiny of children that grow up without a honourable mother to raise them properly. Watson watches her go with no small sense of confusion.
He glances down at Holmes to find the boy’s gaze trained on him already, eyes revealing an intelligence that isn’t usually found in boys of that age. “The bread with marmalade is for you,” Holmes declares proudly. “I don’t like marmalade. It’s sticky. I don’t even know how you can like it.”
Watson is at a temporary loss for words. Then he shakes his head. “I just like it, Sherlock. Different people have different tastes. And you like honey, don’t you? That’s just as sticky.”
“It sounds weird when you call me Sherlock.” Holmes’ shoulders lift, his hand abruptly letting go of Watson’s sleeve while Watson’s head is ringing with too many different names for the same person, child and boy and Holmes and Sherlock, when he really just wants his best friend.
“Weird,” he repeats blandly.
Holmes considers it for a few moments before he nods seriously. “Weird as in… I don’t know. Like it’s not what you usually call me. You face tensed before you said it, did you know? It was weird.” The statement is followed by a shrewd look that is so much like the Holmes Watson knows that it hurts. The headache continues to throb behind Watson’s forehead; he hopes Holmes didn’t rearrange his assortment of medicinal plants before they left the house this morning, or he won’t find an ailment.
“I usually call you Holmes.”
“Oh.” An expression of concentration passes over Holmes’ face before he beams, his entire face lighting up with it. He slips his too-small hand into Watson’s larger, clumsier one. “Holmes. I like that.”
--
Holmes pauses on the threshold to Watson’s study, surveying the room while Watson doffs his jacket, removing the revolver from his pocket and placing it on his desk. Finally entering the room, Holmes trails after him, standing on tiptoes to take a closer look at the revolver. His fingers are already grappling for it when Watson notices.
“Don’t touch that,” he says sharply. Taking it from Holmes’ unresisting hand, he removes the bullets before he sets it back down. He doesn’t miss Holmes’ gaze resting on it for a wistful moment. Fortunately, that’s about when Holmes catches sight of Gladstone, partially hidden behind the sofa, only his tail visible. The dog starts at Holmes’ approach, sitting up and proceeding to shrink back into the corner behind sofa and shelf.
“Why’s it afraid of me?” Holmes asks. He sounds unhappy about it.
“Well.” It’s a good question. Apparently, Gladstone instinctively recognizes this boy as the man who feeds him substances of questionable edibility. Watson leans his walking cane against the wall. “He’s had some bad experiences with children, that’s all. Approach him gently, and it should be fine.”
Holmes looks dubious, but he does lower himself on all fours, crawling closer to the dog that, given its considerable body mass and Holmes’ agility, stands little chance of escape. Holding his hand out for Gladstone to smell it, Holmes waits patiently, although holding still is clearly an effort for him. When Gladstone cautiously slinks closer, probably hoping for food, Holmes pets his head. It results in the startled dog retreating once more.
“This dog is a coward,” Holmes observes. He puts one elbow on his knee, morosely studying Gladstone. Watson doesn’t find it adorable even one little bit.
“Once bitten, twice shy,” he says, biting down on a smile. “His name’s Gladstone, by the way.”
“Gladstone. I’m Holmes, I think.” Holmes nods seriously and reaches out once again, slowly this time. If Gladstone could, he’d be running; as he’s trapped, he allows Holmes to stroke his ears, relaxing marginally when it becomes obvious there is no experiment looming in his immediate future. “I think he likes me,” Holmes declares.
Watson isn’t about to tell him that what keeps Gladstone in place is most likely fear. Humming something that might be interpreted as agreement, Watson sinks into his armchair, the weight of his headache lifting, if only slightly.
“You know,” Holmes says suddenly, twisting around. “I doubt I have a mother.”
“Every boy has a mother, Holmes.” Watson rubs a tired hand over his forehead and firmly concludes that he is not going to go into details with a boy of that age, much less a boy that looks too much and too little like the Holmes he knows. Wrong doesn’t even begin to describe it.
“But I don’t remember one.” Lower lip sticking out, Holmes crosses his arms and stares stubbornly up at Watson. He soon is distracted again by Gladstone, but not before he proclaims, “I don’t remember a mother. I think I may have a brother, but he’s old.”
Watson watches Holmes petting the dog for a few moments before he asks, “So what am I? Am I old as well?”
As if the thought never even crossed his mind, Holmes gives Watson a probing look before he replies. “No. You’re different.”
“Different,” Watson repeats slowly. His headache is a low, throbbing pain that lingers behind his eyes.
“Different.” Holmes nods emphatically before his face scrunches up, clear eyes fixing on Watson’s face. “I don’t remember a mother. Did you lie to the woman?”
“Her name is Mrs. Hudson,” Watson says. “She’s our landlady.” He gets out of his armchair to cross over to the shelf, studying the rows of available treatment until his gaze lands on the glass labelled Chrysanthemum parthenium. He pulls it out, the glass startlingly cold against his palm, turns it over to study the description and places it back on the shelf. This is no fast-working cure; some sleep is probably all he needs.
“You didn’t reply to my question.” Holmes voice from behind him has that determined note that lets Watson know, small boy or not, that his chances of foregoing an answer are slim. “You only said that she was Mrs. Hudson, but you didn’t say whether you lied to her. You did, didn’t you? I don’t think I lived with my mother before, even though it’s what you told her.”
Watson turns around and buries his hands in his pockets, studying the boy who barely comes up to his waist, yet is staring at him with a petulantly inquisitive face. It can’t come as a surprise that Holmes as a child would be just as irritating as his adult counterpart; however, it is even harder to resist him when he is wearing his emotions on the surface, and Watson has difficulties resisting Holmes at the best of times. It is a weakness on which he prefers not to dwell.
“No. You’ve been living with me.”
The boy’s eyes light up, and he’d clearly inquire about details if it weren’t for Mrs. Hudson entering the room with a tray at that very moment. “Something to eat,” she announces, her usually forceful voice softened - so as not to frighten the poor, troubled child, Watson can only assume. She sets the tray down on his desk, glancing around the room with an air of someone not liking what they see. Only when her eyes fall on Holmes does she brighten. She gives Watson a brisk nod. “Very well. I already sent for my daughter to supply you with discarded clothes from her son; the boy has recently outgrown clothes that should fit this one quite perfectly.”
“Thank you,” Watson says, surprised. If he were to be honest, the matter of where to acquire clothes fit for a boy hasn’t featured in his calculations just yet; this phase hopefully won’t last long enough for Holmes to need more than one outfit.
“You are very welcome.” At the door, Mrs. Hudson pauses before she turns around to bestow a hard look on him. “A child like that needs the love of a mother and the firm hand of a father, Doctor. I trust that this will be a temporary arrangement?”
“Most definitely,” Watson tells her, the emphasis possibly more forceful than the question requires.
“Very well.” Mrs. Hudson’s mouth pinches in what might be a smile. “You have always been the more reasonable, between you and Mr. Holmes.”
As soon as the door has closed behind her, Holmes marches up to the tray of food, his back to Watson. His shoulders are very stiff, and when Watson calls out, “Holmes?” very softly, the boy doesn’t turn. With an inaudible sigh, Watson joins him at the desk, studying a profile that is still childishly round. “Holmes,” he repeats.
Holmes crosses his arms and stamps one foot on the floor. When he raises his head to glare at Watson, his eyes are overly bright. “I don’t need to be raised. I’m… I don’t want to go into some orphanage. Why did you agree with her?”
Of course the boy would draw his own conclusions.
“I wouldn’t let anyone take you to an orphanage,” Watson says quickly, seriously. “I wouldn’t let that happen, Holmes. You’re staying with me for as long as you want to.”
Holmes’ eyes narrow, gazing up at Watson as if trying to decide whether there is a second meaning hidden beneath the words. Apparently satisfied, he reaches out to pull the tray closer until it threatens to topple off the desk, then grabs the marmalade bread and holds it out for Watson. He hasn’t washed his hands.
--
His time with Holmes has honed Watson’s skills, enough so that he instantly wakes at the telltale creak of the door to his study. Moments later, the door to his bedroom is opened a crack, enough so for a sliver of moonlight and a boy to slip through; at the sight, Watson relaxes. The bed dips under the added weight of a small body.
“Holmes,” Watson mutters into the dark air above his head.
Holmes immediately ceases his efforts to sneak under covers that are decidedly not those of his own bed. His tone is sheepish when he says, “Yes?”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s cold,” Holmes replies quickly. “My bed is cold, and it’s too large, and I don’t like it. It’s empty.”
Watson props himself up on his elbows, trying to make out Holmes’ figure in the darkness. He identifies Holmes’ silhouette, crouching awkwardly at the edge of the mattress, and sighs. “You know there are no monsters hiding underneath the bed, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Holmes sounds scandalised. “I’m not a child.”
Watson would beg to differ, but it’s too late, or possibly too early, for a discussion like that. With a tired groan, he shifts closer to the wall and holds up one edge of the covers for Holmes to crawl in with him although even now, barely awake, he is already aware that it’s an unwise course of action. On the other hand, Holmes is only a child right now, a child in need of warmth and safety. Child or no child, Watson has never been able to say no to Holmes.
It’s only a moment later that cold hands reach for Watson, Holmes curling up against his chest with a content yawn. Watson awkwardly pets Holmes’ hair before he drops his hand down to the boy’s shoulder, the weight of exhaustion the only reason why Watson doesn’t succeed in suppressing a brief, momentary thought about how different this would be if it were the grown-up version of Holmes right here with him.
It isn’t, though. No matter how adorable - adorable and irritating - a young Holmes may be, he will never replace the real Holmes, the one who steals clothes out of Watson’s drawers and food from Watson’s plate, the one who might just know Watson better than Watson knows himself.
“Good night,” Holmes mumbles, sounding more than half-asleep already. Watson rests his chin on the boy’s head, Holmes’ scent unchanged and familiar, and shuts off his wandering thoughts.
--
Holmes is nowhere to be seen when Watson wakes, later than he usually does, sunlight slanting into the room at an angle that tells him the morning is already standing on the verge of noon. The door into the study is wide open, Gladstone’s barking muffled by thick walls.
He dresses swiftly and, on his way to the bathroom, passes the sitting room. While the door is closed, Gladstone’s barking is clearer now, mixed with Holmes’ voice that is brighter than it used to be. Watson stands listening for a moment, headache budding up again as it sinks in that it wasn’t just a feverish dream. If it had been, it would have been a worrying sign of his potential mental instability; as it isn’t, it makes him feel sick to the stomach that he is no closer to a solution than he was half a day ago.
Spilled water on the floor and remnants of toothpaste in the wash basin make it clear he isn’t the first to enter the bathroom this morning. He goes about his morning routine without much thought, his mind buzzing with his hopeless search for a scientific explanation, or even just a trace of one. In his years with Holmes, he’s experienced many strange occurrences that turned out to be no more magical than Mrs. Hudson’s cooking; yet this is one where sorcery appears to present the only solution.
He washes the razor under warm water and turns his head to shave his other cheek, his own worried reflection staring back at him, partly obscured by the soap. Just as he’s pressed the blade to his skin, Holmes comes crashing into the room.
“I,” he announces with the same grand air his adult counterpart often shows, “have found a way to train Gladstone.”
“A way to train Gladstone,” Watson repeats slowly. He suppresses a sigh because in a way, it seems that nothing much has changed at all. “You’re conducting experiments with my dog again, then.”
“Our dog. And it is brilliant.” Holmes tips his head back to beam up at him, unrestrained and happy. “See, I was bored, and you were still asleep, so I decided to play some games with Gladstone, but he has to be the laziest dog in all of London. And then I found out that he is only interested in his ball when a piece of bacon is tied to it, that he then jumps to fetch it. And once he’d learned to connect the ball to the bacon, he fetched it without me having to tie bacon to it first. There wasn’t any left over, anyway.”
Watson finishes drawing the blade down his cheek before he meets Holmes’ curious eyes. “So which bacon was it that aided your experiments? The one from my or the one from your breakfast?”
“I’d already eaten mine,” Holmes says, frowning. “You’re missing the point, Watson.”
“Holmes.”
“Yes?” The word is followed by an innocent smile, Holmes’ hair a tousled mess - another thing that hasn’t changed.
“Stop experimenting with our dog. And don’t steal my breakfast.”
“It was for a greater purpose,” Holmes protests. “And I wasn’t experimenting; I was merely playing with him.”
“Just playing?” Watson leans over the basin to wash his cheek clean of the soap, placing the razor in its customary spot before he wonders if he should move it to a more secure place, one that is out of reach for curious boys with a knack for experimentation. He straightens with a firm look at Holmes. “I know where your games tend to lead, Holmes.”
“Gladstone got bacon out of it,” Holmes says, which isn’t a particularly logical argument.
“Yes, and I have no bacon as a result.”
“I could ask the landlady for more. She likes me.” Holmes’ stands on tiptoes to take the towel off its hook, holding it out for Watson. Watson accepts it with a nod, drying his face under the watchful gaze of a too-young Sherlock Holmes.
“Please do,” Watson tells him.
Holmes doesn’t move from his spot between Watson and the door, his eyes intent on Watson’s face, his head tipped back a little to watch him comfortably. Only now does Watson notice that he’s wearing clothes that are almost the right size, apparently a result of Mrs. Hudson’s efforts. The neckerchief is one that an adult Holmes might choose to wear as well. He tugs at it with a brilliant smile, fingernails proudly displaying their dirty rims. “I like your moustache.”
Watson blinks. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” With another bright smile, Holmes turns and ambles out of the room. Watson watches him go with a faint sense of exasperated confusion.
--
In between the appointments Watson has scheduled for this morning, he browses his collection of medicinal books for anything that might give him an indication as to what may have caused Holmes’ spontaneous reversion to childhood. The only thing even remotely relevant is one rare condition that lets children age rapidly and die well before the usual time; yet it is the wrong way around, and it’s not a process that happens from one blink of an eye to the next.
Meanwhile, Holmes is perched on an armchair, leafing through a text detailing the effects of various chemicals on the human body. It’s certainly not the kind of book fit for a six-year-old boy, and more than one patient has remarked upon it when catching sight of the title.
Watson’s research is once more interrupted by the arrival of Miss Mary Morstan, a new client referred to him by her aunt. She greets him with a timid air, but the proud tilt of her head and her lovely appearance suggest it is not her usual manner. Pulling out a chair, Watson gives her an encouraging smile. “Please, take a seat.”
“Thank you.” She sinks into it gracefully, glancing around the room with alert eyes until her gaze settles on Holmes. Rather than stay focused on his book as he’s done with previous patients, Holmes has sat up, glaring at Miss Morstan with dislike plain on his features.
“Holmes,” Watson says sharply, and Holmes’ look snaps to his face. “Why don’t you take Gladstone for a walk?”
“I don’t want to.” Crossing his arms, Holmes burrows further in the armchair. The book is open on his lap, but he shows no inclination to direct his attention back towards it, instead making it obvious that he intends to observe their every exchange with a keen eye.
A small smile flits over Miss Morstan’s face as she slides her gloves off. “He’s a handful, isn’t he?”
“He certainly is.” Watson returns her smile, deliberately ignoring that it causes Holmes to glare at him as well.
“Are you the only parent he has left?”
“Oh, he’s not my son. He’s… the nephew of my friend.” Watson clears his throat and reaches for a pencil, poising it over his notebook. Miss Morstan’s cheeks are of a rosy tone, her eyes clear, nothing suggesting that she is suffering from an illness. “Now, Miss Morstan, how may I assist you?”
“It is not I that needs your help, Doctor.” She draws herself up, a shadow falling across her face. When she unnecessarily reaches up to right her hair, a thin golden band is shining on her finger. “It is my fiancé. He hasn’t been feeling well lately, and his skin and eyes show a yellowish hue that worries me.”
Jaundice, Watson jots down. He nods sagely, glancing over to find that Holmes’ posture has relaxed slightly, although he is still watching them through narrowed eyes. “I think it would be best if I could see him for myself, Miss Morstan. It’s hard to make an apt diagnosis from afar.”
“Yes, please. I was hoping you would be able to pay him a visit.” Miss Morstan’s mouth trembles, barely noticeable, before she regains control of herself, her voice firm and steady. “My aunt holds you in the highest esteem.”
“I am honoured.” Watson gives her a reassuring smile and quickly evaluates his schedule for the day - Miss Morstan is his last client before tea, and the only client after that is a retired sergeant who lives nearby and is only due to pick up a bottle of medicine that can be left with Mrs. Hudson. There is no reason why they can’t pay a visit to Miss Morstan’s fiancé right now, and if the way back takes them past the market place where Flora is often found, then that is only an added bonus.
--
“I was expecting you.” Flora’s grin reveals blackened teeth, the pipe she is sucking on accounting for the cause.
“Were you?” Watson glances down to make sure Holmes is staying right by his side even though the small hand slipped into his own should be enough of an indicator. “Then surely you know why I’m here.”
“Missing him already? He’s right there.” Her unruly curls bounce happily with her nod at Holmes.
“He is not,” Watson says. He leans forward in the vain hope that Holmes will not catch every word they exchange. “He doesn’t even remember his own name.”
“Ah, but I bet he remembers yours.” Flora makes no effort to lower her voice. A puff of darkened smoke escapes her pipe. “Doesn’t that tell you something? Or did you not ask him who else he remembers? Hmm?”
Watson pauses before he decides that Flora is either bluffing or trying to distract him from why he came to see her. “You know how to undo this.”
“Ah, but who says I want to? This will make him think twice about asking a poor gypsy to do his dirty work for him, and then forget about the part where it says thank you.” Her tone shows no repentance, the look she bestows upon Holmes deeply satisfied. It’s enough to remind Watson of the tempting weight of the revolver in his pocket, one potential response to this dilemma. He is not into the habit of threatening women, though, especially not in front of a Holmes who is just as exasperating, yet far more adorably innocent than his adult counterpart.
Flora is watching him as if she knows, a smug tilt to her mouth. “I wouldn’t try it, if I were you. Anyway, it will wear off before you know it.”
“It wears off?” Watson repeats quickly, drawing himself up to full height.
“Now that depends on him,” Flora says. She takes another drag of her pipe, smirking down at the boy who is staring back with a blank face. Only the tight grip he has on Watson’s hand gives away his tension. Abruptly, Flora chortles out a laugh. She bends down to ruffle Holmes’ hair even more than it already is. “Sorry about shrinking your clothes only half the way, sweetheart. I’m afraid my skills have grown a little rusty.”
Holmes doesn’t bat a lash.
With another bubble of laughter, Flora turns and disappears into the crowd. Watson tracks the progress of her brightly coloured shawl until she turns a corner behind a booth. Chancing a glance down at Holmes, he finds Holmes’ gaze already resting on him, an unhappy expression on his face. “I’m sorry I am not him,” he says.
Watson is at a loss for maybe a moment too long. A reply isn’t easy to find. “You are, in a way.”
Holmes doesn’t reply, but even like this, even in the form of a six-year-old, Watson knows him well enough to see the wheels turning behind his eyes, pieces of a puzzle collected and arranged. Telling him might be a reasonable course of action, yet Watson can’t bring himself to give voice to an explanation that must sound ridiculous to any man of a sane mind.
“Let’s go home,” is what he says instead.
--
Once the dust has settled, things, as is their habit, don’t take long to slot into their new places.
By the third night, Watson no longer startles at the nightly sound of the door to his bedroom opening, has grown accustomed to quiet complaints about how the house is large and cold, to Holmes small figure taking up an unreasonable amount of space in his bed. By the sixth night, Holmes doesn’t even pretend to sleep in his own bed anymore; instead, he falls asleep with his head pillowed on Watson’s thigh while Watson is flicking through book after book in his attempt to find a clue. There isn’t much left on the topic of age that he hasn’t read yet, and still he is no closer to an explanation than he was on that very first day. As Flora appears to have vanished into thin air, his only hope is that her allusion to the matter eventually resolving itself was a truthful one.
On the thirteenth day, his fingers absently carding through Holmes’ messy hair, Watson finds that he can almost ignore the hollow ache which constantly reminds him that something is missing. At the very least, Gladstone seems happy, preferring a Holmes who tosses balls to one who tests chemicals.
--
Holmes is already burrowed underneath the covers, only the upper half of his face visible. His hair is trying to escape in several directions at once. Just as Watson is leaning over to blow out the candle on the nightstand, Holmes speaks up, his voice quiet and solemn. “What is your Holmes like? The one you’re missing.”
“I am not-” Watson begins, denial ready on the tip of his tongue, but Holmes fixes him with a firm stare. Even as a child, he succeeds in making it effective.
“I could probably learn to play the violin,” Holmes says thoughtfully. “And I don’t know anything of practical gardening, either. I think.”
Watson drops his hand, the candle’s flame flickering as he sinks back against the wall to frown at Holmes. It would be easier if Holmes weren’t gazing back with such a guileless expression on his face. “You,” Watson tells him, trying to keep his voice stern, “have gone through my notebooks. That’s not a nice thing to do, Holmes.”
Under the blanket, Holmes shrugs his shoulders, the motion making the cloth slide. He pulls it back up to his chin. “It’s not my fault you didn’t bother with a better lock.”
“You picked the lock on my trunk.” It shouldn’t even come as a surprise, Watson supposes; this young Sherlock Holmes is just as inquisitive as his older counterpart.
“I was curious,” Holmes says, as if that’s enough of an explanation. It probably is, to him. His boyishly round face is the perfect picture of concentration. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
If Watson had been drinking anything, he’d be spitting it out over the blankets right now. Fortunately, he hasn’t touched the glass of water standing on the nightstand, the one he and Holmes have grown used to sharing, and yes, Watson is perfectly aware that his thoughts are taking a detour because there is a white, rushing noise in his ears that makes it impossible to come up with a suitable reply to convince this young, overly curious boy who shares too many traits with the Holmes he knows-to convince this Sherlock Holmes that he read it all wrong. “That’s a ridiculous accusation,” is all he manages. He’s always been a bad liar where Holmes was concerned.
“It’s not an accusation,” Holmes protests. “Merely an observation. And he’s… Don’t you think he loves you back?”
“No.” Watson speaks the word firmly, his tone final, once more moving to blow out the candle. There’s a hollow feeling in his chest.
Holmes shuffles in place, blankets rustling. “But he’d be stupid not to.”
“Holmes,” Watson says, quietly but with a determination he rarely possesses around Holmes, around any version of Holmes; it doesn’t even seem to make a difference.
“Yes?” Holmes asks cheerfully.
“Go to sleep. I don’t want to hear anything else about the matter.” With a hard look at a Holmes who looks more confused than chastised, Watson finally blows out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Once he’s settled back down, it takes only moments for the familiar sounds of Holmes shuffling closer in his search of warmth. Watson doesn’t have the heart to push him away.
--
The body pressed to his side is warm, and it most certainly isn’t the body of a child.
Watson sits up with a start. The room is still lying in shadows, the door firmly closed and the curtains drawn, but in the faint trickle of light filtering in through the cloth, Watson can just make out Holmes face, finding sharp contours instead of the softened features of a child, grey stubble dusting Holmes’ chin and cheeks. The sight is enough for Watson’s breath to escape him in a harsh rush, throat inexplicably tight.
Then sanity reclaims its hold on him. If Holmes remembers what they spoke about last night-Or what if he doesn’t remember anything, and finds himself waking up in Watson’s bed-
With a quick, silent move, Watson slides out from beneath the covers. The air is cold on his bare shanks, and he fumbles around for his clothes, intending to change in the bathroom. He is nearly certain he has succeeded in an undetected escape when Holmes’ voice, low and gravely, rings out. “What in heaven’s name are you doing, Watson?”
Watson freezes. The distance between the bed and his body seems equally as endless as the amount of floor he’ll have to cross to reach the door. “An early client,” he says evenly.
“The sun hasn’t risen yet.” Holmes sits up, blanket sliding down and his expression unreadable in the darkened room. Judging from the quick glimpse Watson allows himself, it appears that Holmes’ clothes have once again failed to change sizes along with his body; the nightshirt that was loose before is now gaping wide open.
“Thank you for stating the obvious.” Watson presses the bundle of clothes tighter to his chest, keeping his voice calm. “I promised Miss Morstan that I would see to her fiancé early in the morning. Which is the time we have right now.”
“Aren’t you going to comment on how I’m no longer a child?” Holmes sounds amused, but there is a note of hurt underneath it. Watson draws a sharp breath, and it really is time he regains full control over his reactions again; he is not usually this vulnerable.
“You remember, then.”
“Perfectly.” The word is laced with an indefinable weight, a weight that might stem from disgust or confusion or pity. Pleading ignorance is the only defence Watson has.
“Name?” he asks briskly.
“Sherlock Homes.”
“Address?”
“Baker Street. 221B. Born 6th January, 1854. I am perfectly lucid, Watson.”
“Well, that’s certainly a change to your usual habits.” The cool air creeps up Watson’s shanks and underneath his night shirt. He hitches the clothes in his arms higher up and nods toward the door. “Anyway, I should get going. I trust you can find the way to your own bed now.”
Several moments pass before Holmes replies, “Thank you, but I am quite comfortable in yours. I think I have grown accustomed to it.”
If Holmes is trying to make light of the situation, it is a poor effort; on the other hand, finesse has never been his strongest suit. “As you wish,” Watson says, turning away. His hand is already on the doorknob, nothing but fierce silence emanating from behind him, when he adds, “I am glad you’re back. As yourself, I mean. Entirely yourself, that is.”
He pulls the door open and slips outside.
--
It isn’t that Watson is hiding, as such. He just happens to have a number of engagements over the course of the day, and it turns out that the two patients who were scheduled for the afternoon are almost on his way, so it is perfectly logical that he pays them a visit rather than have them go through the effort of hailing a cab to Baker Street.
Night is already crawling up the roads when he makes it back to Baker Street. The house’s porch light is lit, casting its bright glow over the front door, and it must be tiredness that slows Watson’s steps, an oncoming change of the weather indicated by the dull throbbing of his old wound. He takes the steps one at a time, focusing his entire thoughts on the process of entering a house he has entered more times than he can count, hardly ever dreading what might await him.
His first encounter is with Mrs. Hudson, her hair pulled back into a particularly neat bun. “So I see he’s back,” is what she greets him with. Her entire posture conveys displeasure. “You could have been so considerate as to let me say goodbye to the boy, Doctor.”
“My apologies.” With a readiness Watson doesn’t usually feel, he stops and smiles, waiting for the tight pinch of her mouth to relax before he continues. “It was an urgent matter, I am afraid. The carriage came late last night, without prior notice, so I was as surprised as you are. You know that Holmes doesn’t always like to inform others of his plans.”
“Why yes, I do.” Mrs. Hudson’s lips press together. “I may have to warn you, Doctor, that he spent the day holed up in his rooms, scratching away at that violin of his. Lord knows what it is he’s cooking up this time. I swear that one day, he’ll blow up the house.”
Buried under a pile of dread, the amusement barely surfaces, but Watson finds that he can’t quite suppress the twitch of a smile. “I’ll make sure he won’t.”
“Yes, but what if you were to leave us, one day?”
The question cuts slightly too close. Watson holds his shoulders very straight, inclining his head, and says with a certainty he doesn’t feel, “That seems rather unlikely at the moment, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” She bestows one of her rare smiles on him, inquiring about dinner. Once this matter is settled as well, Watson can’t think of another good reason to stall his ascent of the stairs for even one more minute, and anyway, he has never been a man to run from confrontation. Bidding the landlady farewell, he takes a slow, controlled breath and sets his foot on the first step. Mrs. Hudson’s watchful eyes make him quicken his pace.
Having reached the first floor, he considers walking past Holmes’ door, retreating straight to his own rooms. It won’t be long before Holmes seeks him out, though, and if given the choice, Watson prefers he himself be in the position to leave.
He raps his knuckles against the door.
“Enter,” Holmes calls out, voice muffled through the wood. The word is followed by a half-hearted bark from Gladstone.
Steeling himself, Watson pushes the door open. At first, he finds it hard to make out anything in the dimly lit room; the only source of light is a candle that paints flickering shadows on the wall. Holmes is reclining on an armchair, both legs thrown over the armrest. It’s a position he’s grown fond of only in the course of the last week, resulting in frequent admonitions from Mrs. Hudson that Holmes countered with a bright, guileless smile that broke her resistance almost instantly.
Watson breathes in the stale air, a result of smoke as well as the fact that this room was put to little use lately and Watson forgot to open the windows, while Mrs. Hudson has been banned from entering at all. “I see,” he says lightly, “that you are wasting no time to redeem the fact that you had no access to inhibiting substances recently.”
“I am just as lucid as I was this morning, Watson.” Holmes swings his legs over the armrest and gets to his feet, drawing closer. “The real question is: Are you avoiding me?”
The door is still open behind Watson. He takes a step further into the room, the wood of his walking cane reassuring in his hands. “I am here right now. Tell me how that counts as avoiding you.”
“You were gone the entire day.”
“I had things to attend to.”
“Including cancelling your afternoon appointments?”
“Still snooping through my things, I see.”
“Your calendar was open on your desk. I didn’t even have to pick a lock to read it.”
“Right, of course.” Inhaling deeply, Watson passes a tired hand over the back of his neck, averting his gaze from Holmes, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of Holmes’ eyes intent on his face, irises appearing unnaturally dark in the insufficient light of the candle. Despite that, he doesn’t appear drugged in any way. Watson grips his cane a little tighter. “It just so happened that I passed by my clients’ houses on the way, so there was no need to cancel anything.”
“So you were avoiding me,” Holmes concludes.
He moves with a suddenness that comes as a shock to Watson, almost has him take a step back, but he stands his ground even when Holmes’ fingers grab the fabric of his jacket. Watson doesn’t attempt to push him away; for all that lies unspoken between them, he finds it impossible to believe that Holmes could be so disgusted as to hurt him. Intentionally, that is.
“I thought a little distance might be welcome,” Watson tells the silent air between them.
“Why?” Holmes’ eyes are narrowed, his head tilted up just slightly. He’s still smaller than Watson is, and in a way, it’s a reassuring realization. Flickering candlelight reveals the shadow of stubble on Holmes’ cheeks.
“Is this a serious question?” Watson asks.
“It is.” The hand twisted into Watson’s jacket gives a light tug, and it comes as enough of a surprise that Watson stumbles forward, into Holmes. They’re close enough that he can smell the familiar scent that’s been clinging to Holmes the whole time, even when he was six years old and far too smart for his age. It makes Watson’s throat close up. “You can’t just leave me here on my own,” Holmes declares.
“You’re not a little boy anymore,” Watson says. His mouth is dry, and yet he swallows. “There’s no need for me to watch over you all the time, now.”
Holmes shakes his head. “That doesn’t mean I need you any less.”
“You can’t just-”
Whatever Watson intended to say is cut off by Holmes’ mouth. It’s a slow kiss, almost tentative, careful, but it’s enough to rob Watson of breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he tilts closer, raising a hand to grip Holmes’ shoulder, strong and bony under his touch. His walking cane clutters to the ground.
The sound brings Watson back to his senses. He tears himself away, taking a hurried step back. “What are you doing?”
Holmes smiles, a genuine, bright smile that is not that different from the unrestrained smile of a child. He takes half a step forward, erasing part of the distance Watson just introduced between them. “I thought it was rather self-explanatory. Maybe I need to repeat the experiment.”
“Holmes.” Watson speaks the name with a determination he won’t be able to cling to for very long. “Just because you’ve grown used to having me close over the course of these last few days doesn’t mean-”
“Stubborn man,” Holmes interrupts, reaching out once more, and Watson’s resolve crumbles. He doesn’t resist when Holmes kisses him again, not quite as timidly as the first time, a fierce certainty in it as if Holmes were trying to state a point, stake a claim. Watson has difficulties reasoning with Holmes’ hand gripping his waist, the other hot against the side of his neck. When Holmes pulls back, it’s only far enough to say, “I talked to Flora today.”
“You…” The abrupt change of topic requires a moment of adjusting. “Oh. I tried to find her, to no avail.”
“You asked the wrong people. A police officer generally isn’t well-informed of the whereabouts of a gypsy.” Holmes sounds amused, but his hand is still resting on Watson’s shoulder, warm and heavy. “I mostly went to thank her.”
“You thanked her?”
“It’s easier to see some things clearly when you assess them with an open, unspoilt mind. A fresh perspective, so to say.” The corners of Holmes’ eyes crinkle, smile clear in the flickering light of the candle. Something gives in Watson’s chest, a tightness that he didn’t even realise was there.
“Enlighten me.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as interesting that other than a vague memory of Mycroft, you were all I could remember?”
“It is rather curious,” Watson says slowly.
“No, it isn’t.” Holmes lifts one shoulder, his gaze clear and intent. “It’s only logical that my brain would be holding on to the one thing that is most important to me.”
“So what you’re saying is…” There are no right words, or at least none Watson can think of.
Holmes’ hand slides from Watson’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck, thumb pressing into the base of Watson’s skull. Eyes warm and dark, Holmes moves his weight to his tiptoes, bringing them to an equal height. “What I’m saying is that you should close the door.”
Blindly, Holmes’ mouth already back on his and stealing his breath, Watson reaches behind himself to twist the doorknob. After all, he has never been able to refuse Holmes much of anything.
=== .finis. ===
Bonus thingies (...because a story this ridiculous needs ridiculously awesome extras)!
Art by noxie!
Soundtrack (.zip file) by inderpal (PW: Holmes)!
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