"Fixed" (July 2 prompt), Sherlock Holmes fic
Title: Fixed
Author: gardnerhill
Rating: G
Characters: ACD Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.
Summary: A gentle sequel to Malamute. Set in April 1919.
Warnings: I'm going back to do the 4 prompts that I'd missed right at the beginning of the month.
Word Count: 220
Author's Notes: For the July 2 prompt (Rain, Lamp-post, Handkerchief, Flowers).
***
The fierce and chilling thunderstorm of the night had become a gentle, steady spring rain. The land was a watercolour, the greens of grasses softly blurred with the blue of speedwell and wine-red of campion as the flowers reawakened after the winter.
From the kitchen window Holmes could just see the fitful gleam of the first lamp-post at the edge of Alfriston. He was very grateful neither had anywhere to go; the night before had been harrowing for both of them. Every bone he owned ached today, his throat was raw, and both were exhausted.
An explosion of noise came from near the fireplace, drowning out the whistle of the teakettle. A great honk. "Sorry, old man," a familiar voice croaked, half-muffled by a handkerchief.
Holmes bit his lip to keep his mirth silent (and his tears in check) even as he put together the tea things and took down a bottle of his homemade cough medicine (in which honey and whisky featured heavily).
His beloved friend had come here sound in body but wounded in heart and spirit from the horrors of war. But even in his current state, Watson was a sure and steady fixed point.
Thirty years of living with the man, and he still had a sneeze that would put an elephant to shame.
***
Author: gardnerhill
Rating: G
Characters: ACD Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.
Summary: A gentle sequel to Malamute. Set in April 1919.
Warnings: I'm going back to do the 4 prompts that I'd missed right at the beginning of the month.
Word Count: 220
Author's Notes: For the July 2 prompt (Rain, Lamp-post, Handkerchief, Flowers).
***
The fierce and chilling thunderstorm of the night had become a gentle, steady spring rain. The land was a watercolour, the greens of grasses softly blurred with the blue of speedwell and wine-red of campion as the flowers reawakened after the winter.
From the kitchen window Holmes could just see the fitful gleam of the first lamp-post at the edge of Alfriston. He was very grateful neither had anywhere to go; the night before had been harrowing for both of them. Every bone he owned ached today, his throat was raw, and both were exhausted.
An explosion of noise came from near the fireplace, drowning out the whistle of the teakettle. A great honk. "Sorry, old man," a familiar voice croaked, half-muffled by a handkerchief.
Holmes bit his lip to keep his mirth silent (and his tears in check) even as he put together the tea things and took down a bottle of his homemade cough medicine (in which honey and whisky featured heavily).
His beloved friend had come here sound in body but wounded in heart and spirit from the horrors of war. But even in his current state, Watson was a sure and steady fixed point.
Thirty years of living with the man, and he still had a sneeze that would put an elephant to shame.
***