"Ethical Differences" [Sherlock Holmes]
Title: Ethical Concerns
Characters: Holmes, Watson.
Rating:PG
Word Count: 1587
Summary: Holmes needs assistance on a case. Watson has his doubts.
Notes: Because ~*~Emotional Outburst~*~!Watson was excellent. :)
Holmes stormed into the drawing room on a breath of chilly November air, still in his hat and coat. Watson knew from the set of his eyes that he might as well fold up his newspaper and set it aside as a lost cause, but he was determined that he would, for once, resist. Holmes removed his coat, and dropped it where he stood. The hat soon followed suit. When he stalked over to what appeared to be the site of one of his chemical experiments and poured himself a glass of liquid out of a phial that liquid had been dripping into all evening, Watson had to bite his lip not to comment. Instead, he forced himself to focus once again on Letters to the Editor. He saw Holmes down a shot and pour another out of the corner of his eye. 'Sir,' he read.
“My dear Watson, I have spent enough time in this room with you to know that when you read, your breathing slows into a rhythm that is not unlike the rhythm of your breathing when you are asleep. I can not fail to notice that at the present moment, your breathing is highly irregular and most tellingly, you hold it for a moment when I do this-” Holmes poured another shot down his throat.
'Sir, In response to the letter written by Lord Hastings of Guildford, published on November 12th, I say only this:...'
“Are you not at all curious to hear of the progress I have made in my case?” he asked, with a note of petulance in his voice. He had set himself down in his usual chair, chin leaned on his hand as he contemplated Watson's newspaper, eyebrow raised.
“It is not a case, Holmes.”
“Really? That is remarkable, I distinctly remember spending all day out on the streets, working...”
Watson folded his paper, without regard for the creases, giving it up as a lost cause, and slammed it down on the already cluttered table with force, causing a tinkle of glass and a flutter of dust.
“It is not a case. No letter has arrived to beg your assistance, no tearful Duchess has walked through these doors requesting your aid, there has certainly not been any exchange of currency in return for services to be rendered...”
“Money, money, money.”
“You are simply bored and intent to do a job that is Lestrade's to do...”
“That much is certainly true, I do close to every job Lestrade is meant to do. The good man needs to take a census in order to choose his socks in the morning.”
“Holmes, you are being insufferable.”
“I only ask that you suffer to listen to me, for a short time, so I can arrange my thoughts. Then I'll let you get back to your paper. All night, just you and the paper. Cross my heart. ”
Watson breathed out deeply through his nose and reclined in his chair, forcing his tense shoulders to relax.
“I have spent enough time in this room with you to know that your thoughts arrange themselves, Holmes. I deserve more credit than you give me. Be honest when you intend to manipulate.”
Holmes shifted forward, and Watson nearly moved to mirror him.
“Since I have taken it upon myself to investigate these disappearances, it has become increasingly obvious to me that the answer to this mystery is written quite plainly on a map of London. It is the distribution of these locations on the, amongst other things, that have led me to suspect Lord Kinnock.”
“What other things, Holmes?”
“Patience, Watson. It would not do to reveal too much straight away, it would only serve to cloud your judgement. You must approach this with a clear mind!”
“Forever withholding,” Watson murmured, looking up at the ceiling.
“I have not yet had the opportunity to meet the man himself, he keeps to himself in his mansion on St. James's Park, and he does not entertain guests. The family physician, however, is another matter. Talkative chap.”
“Dare I ask how you are acquainted with the family physician?”
“Pure chance, dear Watson. Fortune must smile upon even the most wretched amongst us from time to time,” Holmes said, a look of false piety on his face.
“Chance? Holmes, you could not find a bookmaker in this city who would bet against you.”
“You've been known to.”
“My gambles are often ill-judged.”
“Is it a question of judgement? Or motivation?” Holmes said, with a smile on the corner of his mouth.
“You spoke to the physician?”
“Over a few pints. He told me all his troubles. You see, a tragedy is unfolding in the Kinnock household. The Lord's only son, a boy of twelve, has fallen seriously ill. The doctors are at a loss, and Lord Kinnock is losing his temper.” Holmes was speaking faster now, leaning almost halfway over the table. “Naturally, I informed him that I have a good friend, who is an excellent doctor-”
“Holmes, no.”
“You don't even know what I'm about to ask.”
“I do know what you're about to ask and the answer is no.” Watson abruptly stood from his chair, crossing the room to pour himself a glass of bourbon. He was in no mood for drink, but he needed something to occupy his hands, something to look at that wasn't Holmes's face.
“Only one visit. You must do this for me, Watson, you're the only one who can.”
“You can not ask this of me, Holmes. To go into a patient's house as a subterfuge for uncovering his secrets - it goes against every ethical code of my profession! ”
He did not need to turn around to know that Holmes had risen from his chair, and he could sense the man's large, calloused hand before it landed on his upper arm.
“I would go myself, but I can not. I would be recognised instantly. But you, you can go. Treat the patient. Do what you can for him. And if you notice certain things during your stay in the house, it is no fault of yours. You have a good set of eyes, after all. And, no one would blame you for sharing that information with a friend, over a few drinks...” Holmes's voice was low and steady in his ear, and his hand was smoothing over Watson's elbow, as though staying a nervous animal. Watson turned around to face him, throwing off the touch.
“No, Holmes! You're chasing after spooks! There is nothing you have told me about - about this case - that leads me to believe that this foul play, not a shred of evidence, not even a police report-”
“Not a shred of evidence? It should be enough that it was I who told you! What is it, the money? If that is really so important to you, I'll pay you out of my own pocket -”
The crystal glass smashed into fragments on the floor, with all the force of Watson's bowling arm behind it. Holmes was momentarily distracted by the movement, and in that instant Watson had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, fully intending to shove him away, but inexplicably pulling him close instead, nearly lifting him off the floor.
“Do you really think so little of me? You know it's not about the money, it is about a shred of human dignity! Ask anything of me, anything you will, you know damn well that I can not refuse you!”
“Don't play the martyr, Watson, it does not suit you! Why are you here if not for this?” A ringing silence fell between them, and Holmes reached up to grab hold of his upper arms, holding on tightly, locking Watson in place. Watson attempted to look away, but that was a difficult task when Holmes didn't want you to. He did everything with such intensity - whether it was one of his calculations, or inserting a needle into the veins of his arms, and Watson felt as though the full weight of his mind was directed upon him.
“I need you, Doctor.”
They were so close together that Watson could see the smallest blood vessels in Holmes's eyes, and smell the alcohol he had been drinking on his breath. They were both winded, and Watson felt uncomfortable in his skin. He released his grip on Holmes's shirt, and Holmes slowly followed suit. He turned away and replaced the stopper on the decanter, taking this chance to clear his throat. Holmes moved away, and he turned around just in time to see him disappear into his bedroom.
“Am I right to presume that you've already made an appointment?” he asked wearily. There was a short pause.
“Noon tomorrow.”
Holmes reappeared in the doorway, shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned, hair in disarray.
“Thank you, Watson,” he said seriously, as though his gratitude would make this situation any less unbearable. But that was the problem with Holmes. He was merely applying his mental faculties, meticulously and mechanically, to solve a problem, and he - well, he was nothing more than part of the equation. He resolved then and there that it was high time he started spending time in the company of people who weren't Holmes.
Characters: Holmes, Watson.
Rating:PG
Word Count: 1587
Summary: Holmes needs assistance on a case. Watson has his doubts.
Notes: Because ~*~Emotional Outburst~*~!Watson was excellent. :)
Holmes stormed into the drawing room on a breath of chilly November air, still in his hat and coat. Watson knew from the set of his eyes that he might as well fold up his newspaper and set it aside as a lost cause, but he was determined that he would, for once, resist. Holmes removed his coat, and dropped it where he stood. The hat soon followed suit. When he stalked over to what appeared to be the site of one of his chemical experiments and poured himself a glass of liquid out of a phial that liquid had been dripping into all evening, Watson had to bite his lip not to comment. Instead, he forced himself to focus once again on Letters to the Editor. He saw Holmes down a shot and pour another out of the corner of his eye. 'Sir,' he read.
“My dear Watson, I have spent enough time in this room with you to know that when you read, your breathing slows into a rhythm that is not unlike the rhythm of your breathing when you are asleep. I can not fail to notice that at the present moment, your breathing is highly irregular and most tellingly, you hold it for a moment when I do this-” Holmes poured another shot down his throat.
'Sir, In response to the letter written by Lord Hastings of Guildford, published on November 12th, I say only this:...'
“Are you not at all curious to hear of the progress I have made in my case?” he asked, with a note of petulance in his voice. He had set himself down in his usual chair, chin leaned on his hand as he contemplated Watson's newspaper, eyebrow raised.
“It is not a case, Holmes.”
“Really? That is remarkable, I distinctly remember spending all day out on the streets, working...”
Watson folded his paper, without regard for the creases, giving it up as a lost cause, and slammed it down on the already cluttered table with force, causing a tinkle of glass and a flutter of dust.
“It is not a case. No letter has arrived to beg your assistance, no tearful Duchess has walked through these doors requesting your aid, there has certainly not been any exchange of currency in return for services to be rendered...”
“Money, money, money.”
“You are simply bored and intent to do a job that is Lestrade's to do...”
“That much is certainly true, I do close to every job Lestrade is meant to do. The good man needs to take a census in order to choose his socks in the morning.”
“Holmes, you are being insufferable.”
“I only ask that you suffer to listen to me, for a short time, so I can arrange my thoughts. Then I'll let you get back to your paper. All night, just you and the paper. Cross my heart. ”
Watson breathed out deeply through his nose and reclined in his chair, forcing his tense shoulders to relax.
“I have spent enough time in this room with you to know that your thoughts arrange themselves, Holmes. I deserve more credit than you give me. Be honest when you intend to manipulate.”
Holmes shifted forward, and Watson nearly moved to mirror him.
“Since I have taken it upon myself to investigate these disappearances, it has become increasingly obvious to me that the answer to this mystery is written quite plainly on a map of London. It is the distribution of these locations on the, amongst other things, that have led me to suspect Lord Kinnock.”
“What other things, Holmes?”
“Patience, Watson. It would not do to reveal too much straight away, it would only serve to cloud your judgement. You must approach this with a clear mind!”
“Forever withholding,” Watson murmured, looking up at the ceiling.
“I have not yet had the opportunity to meet the man himself, he keeps to himself in his mansion on St. James's Park, and he does not entertain guests. The family physician, however, is another matter. Talkative chap.”
“Dare I ask how you are acquainted with the family physician?”
“Pure chance, dear Watson. Fortune must smile upon even the most wretched amongst us from time to time,” Holmes said, a look of false piety on his face.
“Chance? Holmes, you could not find a bookmaker in this city who would bet against you.”
“You've been known to.”
“My gambles are often ill-judged.”
“Is it a question of judgement? Or motivation?” Holmes said, with a smile on the corner of his mouth.
“You spoke to the physician?”
“Over a few pints. He told me all his troubles. You see, a tragedy is unfolding in the Kinnock household. The Lord's only son, a boy of twelve, has fallen seriously ill. The doctors are at a loss, and Lord Kinnock is losing his temper.” Holmes was speaking faster now, leaning almost halfway over the table. “Naturally, I informed him that I have a good friend, who is an excellent doctor-”
“Holmes, no.”
“You don't even know what I'm about to ask.”
“I do know what you're about to ask and the answer is no.” Watson abruptly stood from his chair, crossing the room to pour himself a glass of bourbon. He was in no mood for drink, but he needed something to occupy his hands, something to look at that wasn't Holmes's face.
“Only one visit. You must do this for me, Watson, you're the only one who can.”
“You can not ask this of me, Holmes. To go into a patient's house as a subterfuge for uncovering his secrets - it goes against every ethical code of my profession! ”
He did not need to turn around to know that Holmes had risen from his chair, and he could sense the man's large, calloused hand before it landed on his upper arm.
“I would go myself, but I can not. I would be recognised instantly. But you, you can go. Treat the patient. Do what you can for him. And if you notice certain things during your stay in the house, it is no fault of yours. You have a good set of eyes, after all. And, no one would blame you for sharing that information with a friend, over a few drinks...” Holmes's voice was low and steady in his ear, and his hand was smoothing over Watson's elbow, as though staying a nervous animal. Watson turned around to face him, throwing off the touch.
“No, Holmes! You're chasing after spooks! There is nothing you have told me about - about this case - that leads me to believe that this foul play, not a shred of evidence, not even a police report-”
“Not a shred of evidence? It should be enough that it was I who told you! What is it, the money? If that is really so important to you, I'll pay you out of my own pocket -”
The crystal glass smashed into fragments on the floor, with all the force of Watson's bowling arm behind it. Holmes was momentarily distracted by the movement, and in that instant Watson had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, fully intending to shove him away, but inexplicably pulling him close instead, nearly lifting him off the floor.
“Do you really think so little of me? You know it's not about the money, it is about a shred of human dignity! Ask anything of me, anything you will, you know damn well that I can not refuse you!”
“Don't play the martyr, Watson, it does not suit you! Why are you here if not for this?” A ringing silence fell between them, and Holmes reached up to grab hold of his upper arms, holding on tightly, locking Watson in place. Watson attempted to look away, but that was a difficult task when Holmes didn't want you to. He did everything with such intensity - whether it was one of his calculations, or inserting a needle into the veins of his arms, and Watson felt as though the full weight of his mind was directed upon him.
“I need you, Doctor.”
They were so close together that Watson could see the smallest blood vessels in Holmes's eyes, and smell the alcohol he had been drinking on his breath. They were both winded, and Watson felt uncomfortable in his skin. He released his grip on Holmes's shirt, and Holmes slowly followed suit. He turned away and replaced the stopper on the decanter, taking this chance to clear his throat. Holmes moved away, and he turned around just in time to see him disappear into his bedroom.
“Am I right to presume that you've already made an appointment?” he asked wearily. There was a short pause.
“Noon tomorrow.”
Holmes reappeared in the doorway, shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned, hair in disarray.
“Thank you, Watson,” he said seriously, as though his gratitude would make this situation any less unbearable. But that was the problem with Holmes. He was merely applying his mental faculties, meticulously and mechanically, to solve a problem, and he - well, he was nothing more than part of the equation. He resolved then and there that it was high time he started spending time in the company of people who weren't Holmes.