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in
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♠ Two of Swords • Holmes/Watson
Two of Swords
Holmes/Watson
• ritchie!films, no GoS spoilers. takes place entirely during the first movie.
• written for 78_tarot, full table here
The Argument was never done.
It had started, oh. Hm. Yes. The night after they'd caught Lord Blackwood. They'd returned home and Holmes had felt jittery, alive, clean and vital and made of glass. It was a wondrous feeling that defied words, and it was sweeter than music or wine or cocaine. That he had finally gotten an edge on the fearsome, terrifying man.
And there had been a roughness to it, too. The rough of Watson's fog-jacket as it scraped against his hands, the rough of their teasing banter about the stove and Gladstone and the only reason Holmes hadn't noticed that something was off was because he was so very lit up in his own brilliance.
A brilliance shot to pieces by a few simple words.
"Holmes, I've met someone."
And then the deductions, falling like dominoes. They'd met last Saturday, but it wasn't until just this morning that she admitted a return in affection. Yes, he was speaking of a girl and yes, he was quite head over heels for her.
At that moment, Holmes felt exactly as a pig might feel as the butcher cut deep to remove every bit of his insides.
And so it started.
♠
He could not say what was worse, knowing that she was a perfect angel that deserved him, or knowing that Watson did indeed care for this useless waste of a consulting detective. If she'd been terrible, or if Watson had truly felt nothing beyond friendship for him, it would be a simple matter of cutting out one or the other - himself or the girl - and he would know he was doing the best for the Doctor.
But this was why the argument was never over. Because he did care, and she was worth it, and damn if Holmes couldn't think of the slightest way to resolve this peaceably. So he alternately clung tighter than a boa constrictor or sank his teeth in, hurting his friend as deep as he could, as if he could make the man hate him. As if.
The only reprieve he let himself feel was when they had a case. Which, of course, became the crux of the argument, though they both knew it had nothing to do with that. It had everything to do with everything but work. Watson loved working with him. He did. It was a matter of fact. And Holmes knew that he only had to go, and his friend would follow.
But love, that was another matter. So when he said my ten minutes are up he really meant my heart isn't yours anymore, and when he said I am psychologically disturbed he meant why in God's name do I still love you.
The only time they spoke of the bald truth was then, on that bench, with Watson's pained eyes begging Holmes to stop hurting him so, and he changed the subject.
He would not let go. He could not let go. To let an angel that loves you slip away would be the greatest folly, and that was also why he understood that Watson couldn't let go, either.
Now you're not making any sense, he hissed, but he was making perfect sense. Let me go, Holmes. Please, for the love of God, let me go. For I can't seem to do it myself.
♠
"I know you love him as much as I do," she said, and that made him stop dead in his tracks. It was true, of course. Her knowing it only meant that he was appallingly transparent, his brother would surely find it immensely aggravating.
And what could he do? His mind had been so devastated by the argument that was always forestalled, never completed, always tucked away behind a change of subject or a wealth of words or a case.
He found he didn't give a damn if Lord Blackwood won, if Watson left him.
But no, he couldn't think like that. He would still be in London, affected by that wraith of a man's dark plans, so Sherlock Holmes must be a sodding hero for the damsel in distress.
Only the damsel was John Watson, and Holmes would need quite a lot of cocaine to make it through this.
♠
When Watson woke up, he found himself face to face with Irene Adler.
"Er," he said, and then, because he was not quite up to speed yet, "you're not Mary."
She laughed, her voice like a bell chime. "Oh, John. Of course I'm not. Your ladyfriend is taking a nap, as I instructed her to do. You do know what happened?"
"I recall a very loud noise," he said, not without a bit of a scathing tone. Then, suddenly, his face paled. "Is Holmes - "
"Alive, but as to whether he's all right, I haven't the faintest. I couldn't find him. I figured you were the next best option." Her eyes sparkled with good humor.
"Oh - I have to - " he tried to get up, but then seemed to realize his arm was full of shrapnel. "Oh," he said, rather distantly. "That looks a bit not good."
Irene flapped her hands at him. "Well, are you a doctor or aren't you? Go on. I'll keep you company."
As he worked, she talked. He listened. She talked about so many things, about a girl she once loved in Salzburg, about the intricacies of operatic composition, and most of all about Sherlock Holmes. She talked about loving him, and at first it made his heart ache like something sharp and jagged - but then she kept talking, about how all of her love couldn't help him, she wasn't what he needed, and a ready sword arm to solve cases with was all well and good but there was something he needed quite a bit more.
"Are you talking about yourself any longer, or about me?" He was in too much pain to be anything but blunt.
She smiled the sweetest and most dangerous of smiles. "You, of course."
"What - " and he dragged another shard out much more violently than he'd intended - "could he possibly want with me aside from a - " and another, he was bleeding quite profusely now - "partner?"
Her smile didn't falter one bit. "There is more than one shade of meaning to that word."
♠
He woke up and found the world to be startlingly real. Absurdly real. Almost as if The Argument didn't exist at all, and for one absolutely awful moment, he wondered what Irene had told him, what lies she might have poured into his head like Hamlet and Claudius and oh, dear, he was making Shakespeare references, the world wasn't at all right.
But didn't the Doctor look like something beyond beautiful.
And that was that. The Argument forestalled for another day, and Holmes had no idea how or why, but it was entirely possible that it was the sheer amount of drugs he'd taken. And when had Watson's eyelashes turned to gold? Literal gold. He was fairly certain of it.
He was quite glad his mind had decided to completely unhinge. It made him much more capable at solving crime and ignoring everything else.
The Argument would be back, of course, he didn't doubt that, but for now, he would take this momentary reprieve like oxygen, like a man in the desert collapsing into an oasis. It was a mirage, he was full well aware. But while it lasted. While it lasted. He would drink in every last drop.
Holmes/Watson
• ritchie!films, no GoS spoilers. takes place entirely during the first movie.
• written for 78_tarot, full table here
The Argument was never done.
It had started, oh. Hm. Yes. The night after they'd caught Lord Blackwood. They'd returned home and Holmes had felt jittery, alive, clean and vital and made of glass. It was a wondrous feeling that defied words, and it was sweeter than music or wine or cocaine. That he had finally gotten an edge on the fearsome, terrifying man.
And there had been a roughness to it, too. The rough of Watson's fog-jacket as it scraped against his hands, the rough of their teasing banter about the stove and Gladstone and the only reason Holmes hadn't noticed that something was off was because he was so very lit up in his own brilliance.
A brilliance shot to pieces by a few simple words.
"Holmes, I've met someone."
And then the deductions, falling like dominoes. They'd met last Saturday, but it wasn't until just this morning that she admitted a return in affection. Yes, he was speaking of a girl and yes, he was quite head over heels for her.
At that moment, Holmes felt exactly as a pig might feel as the butcher cut deep to remove every bit of his insides.
And so it started.
♠
He could not say what was worse, knowing that she was a perfect angel that deserved him, or knowing that Watson did indeed care for this useless waste of a consulting detective. If she'd been terrible, or if Watson had truly felt nothing beyond friendship for him, it would be a simple matter of cutting out one or the other - himself or the girl - and he would know he was doing the best for the Doctor.
But this was why the argument was never over. Because he did care, and she was worth it, and damn if Holmes couldn't think of the slightest way to resolve this peaceably. So he alternately clung tighter than a boa constrictor or sank his teeth in, hurting his friend as deep as he could, as if he could make the man hate him. As if.
The only reprieve he let himself feel was when they had a case. Which, of course, became the crux of the argument, though they both knew it had nothing to do with that. It had everything to do with everything but work. Watson loved working with him. He did. It was a matter of fact. And Holmes knew that he only had to go, and his friend would follow.
But love, that was another matter. So when he said my ten minutes are up he really meant my heart isn't yours anymore, and when he said I am psychologically disturbed he meant why in God's name do I still love you.
The only time they spoke of the bald truth was then, on that bench, with Watson's pained eyes begging Holmes to stop hurting him so, and he changed the subject.
He would not let go. He could not let go. To let an angel that loves you slip away would be the greatest folly, and that was also why he understood that Watson couldn't let go, either.
Now you're not making any sense, he hissed, but he was making perfect sense. Let me go, Holmes. Please, for the love of God, let me go. For I can't seem to do it myself.
♠
"I know you love him as much as I do," she said, and that made him stop dead in his tracks. It was true, of course. Her knowing it only meant that he was appallingly transparent, his brother would surely find it immensely aggravating.
And what could he do? His mind had been so devastated by the argument that was always forestalled, never completed, always tucked away behind a change of subject or a wealth of words or a case.
He found he didn't give a damn if Lord Blackwood won, if Watson left him.
But no, he couldn't think like that. He would still be in London, affected by that wraith of a man's dark plans, so Sherlock Holmes must be a sodding hero for the damsel in distress.
Only the damsel was John Watson, and Holmes would need quite a lot of cocaine to make it through this.
♠
When Watson woke up, he found himself face to face with Irene Adler.
"Er," he said, and then, because he was not quite up to speed yet, "you're not Mary."
She laughed, her voice like a bell chime. "Oh, John. Of course I'm not. Your ladyfriend is taking a nap, as I instructed her to do. You do know what happened?"
"I recall a very loud noise," he said, not without a bit of a scathing tone. Then, suddenly, his face paled. "Is Holmes - "
"Alive, but as to whether he's all right, I haven't the faintest. I couldn't find him. I figured you were the next best option." Her eyes sparkled with good humor.
"Oh - I have to - " he tried to get up, but then seemed to realize his arm was full of shrapnel. "Oh," he said, rather distantly. "That looks a bit not good."
Irene flapped her hands at him. "Well, are you a doctor or aren't you? Go on. I'll keep you company."
As he worked, she talked. He listened. She talked about so many things, about a girl she once loved in Salzburg, about the intricacies of operatic composition, and most of all about Sherlock Holmes. She talked about loving him, and at first it made his heart ache like something sharp and jagged - but then she kept talking, about how all of her love couldn't help him, she wasn't what he needed, and a ready sword arm to solve cases with was all well and good but there was something he needed quite a bit more.
"Are you talking about yourself any longer, or about me?" He was in too much pain to be anything but blunt.
She smiled the sweetest and most dangerous of smiles. "You, of course."
"What - " and he dragged another shard out much more violently than he'd intended - "could he possibly want with me aside from a - " and another, he was bleeding quite profusely now - "partner?"
Her smile didn't falter one bit. "There is more than one shade of meaning to that word."
♠
He woke up and found the world to be startlingly real. Absurdly real. Almost as if The Argument didn't exist at all, and for one absolutely awful moment, he wondered what Irene had told him, what lies she might have poured into his head like Hamlet and Claudius and oh, dear, he was making Shakespeare references, the world wasn't at all right.
But didn't the Doctor look like something beyond beautiful.
And that was that. The Argument forestalled for another day, and Holmes had no idea how or why, but it was entirely possible that it was the sheer amount of drugs he'd taken. And when had Watson's eyelashes turned to gold? Literal gold. He was fairly certain of it.
He was quite glad his mind had decided to completely unhinge. It made him much more capable at solving crime and ignoring everything else.
The Argument would be back, of course, he didn't doubt that, but for now, he would take this momentary reprieve like oxygen, like a man in the desert collapsing into an oasis. It was a mirage, he was full well aware. But while it lasted. While it lasted. He would drink in every last drop.