igrab
in
grabi_hands
In Sickness and in Health [Holmes/Watson, PG]
Title: In Sickness and in Health
Author: igrab
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Written For: random00, prompt: Holmes/Watson - Watson's got a sore throat and a stuffy nose. Holmes takes care of him.
Word Count: 1,635
Rating: PG
Notes: it ended up being less fluff and more intellectual, i am sorry, darling! feel better ♥
"Oh goodness, Watson, what is that noise?"
I didn't buy it for a second. For one, Holmes knew perfectly well what sound one's nose makes when one is sick. His badly-concealed annoyance at my noisy interruption of his chemical work did not help him sound any more convincing.
"Holmes, let up," I muttered, not in any sort of mood to play games with him. "I'm not feeling well and you absolutely know it. I apologize for interrupting you." The last was, I'm afraid to say, was shockingly devoid of repentance, but I was feeling quite put upon already. I sank into my desk chair, a handkerchief pressed to my face, doing my level best to put aside the unpleasantness in my throat and start organizing some of my notes. At the very least, my nose was too stuffed to pick up the awful smell of Holmes's latest scientific discovery.
He didn't respond, and I ignored him in favor of my desk, so we worked in a silence that, for many minutes, I did not notice was strained and tense. But the sounds of glass clinking and fussy sighs got more and more frequent, and finally I turned, heaving a sigh of my own. "Yes, Holmes?"
"You're sick." He was seated on the table, literally, with his legs folded up under him and his shirtcuffs stained a particularly vile green. There was a beaker in his hands, with nothing in it, and he was tapping the pads of his fingers on the glass in a skittish rhythm. There were no other notable signs of his discomfort, though the one was sufficiently alarming on its own. He had my full attention. Sherlock Holmes never makes obvious statements without a purpose.
Of course, my mouth moved before I had a chance to think it through probably. "Brilliant deduction, Holmes. Did you think that one up all on your own, or did Mrs. Hudson have to give you a hint?" I fully expected him to brush off the insult, turn it around to benefit himself, and surprise me with some flash of hidden brilliance.
Well, he did surprise me, so I suppose I was right on that count.
"I didn't - I apologize."
I believe I stared at him for a full minute after that one. I can count on one hand the number of times that Holmes has apologized to me for something he's done, but this in particular seemed so insignificant that I admit to being quite flummoxed.
"...You apologize?"
He immediately looked away - left, up, down, as is his habit when I make him uncomfortable - and the flitting of his hands over the beaker grew more pronounced. "I made an uncalled-for and mildly cruel commentary without taking the time to familiarize myself with the facts - "
I cut him off before he could really get going. "Holmes. It's nothing. I wasn't offended by it."
His head snapped up, and he pinned me with a suspicious glare of the very worst kind. "You sounded offended."
I raised an eyebrow, still not quite believing that this conversation was taking place at all, though the amount of times I've had that thought could fill a book. And, indeed, it has; several of them. "I assumed you knew. I'm just tired, it's - "
"Exactly. I always know. And I'm apologi- are you working?"
In some ways, my patience was paper-thin that day, but in others, I felt as if I simply didn't have the energy to get worked up about anything. "Yes," I said, perfectly mildly. If Holmes wished to ask questions he already knew the answers to, I would be happy to answer them.
"I insist you cease this instant."
I ignored him. The argument that led down that path was not worth it. He, of course, was having none of that, and I suppose I should have predicted that such a bland response would incite an even more violent reaction out of him. He leapt off the table, dashed across the room, and within the space of several seconds, had collected every single one of my writing utensils and locked them away in his desk drawer.
"...Holmes," I began, fully armed with all the logic of one who is sick, hates being sick, and wishes to do something productive with his time.
"Watson," he returned, stopped me before I could continue. "I do not often get this chance, please do me the favor of not stripping it away from me entirely."
I narrowed my eyes, suspicious of his honesty. I always am. I suppose I should let myself relax and enjoy it when it (all too infrequently) shows itself, but I am a man of habits, and this is a hard one to break. "What chance?"
He was in front of me then, his hands at my shoulders, too close for a healthy person to be, and I was about to open my mouth and insist that he keep a decent distance, but once again, he got the first word in.
"You, Doctor, are always incessantly fussing over me, whether it be due to injuries, poor health, or my admittedly precarious mental state."
I was listening, but I was also trying not to sneeze on him, which, at that moment, was quite a feat. "You want to fuss over me."
"Yes. And you're deadpan because there's work you'd rather be doing, I'm quite aware of that, but I absolutely insist that you take a break and rest." He looked so intent, so serious, it was quite daunting. Also I really did rather have to sneeze.
"I've been resting, Holmes, and it's just a sniffle. I'll be fine."
I would like to point out that this was, admittedly, a very broad statement of the word 'fine'. My throat felt rather like several large animals were trying to claw their way out of it, and my nose and my mustache were doing battle with only a handkerchief to mediate between them.
He gave me a long, critical look. I both hate it and love it when he does so - love because I am as guilty as anyone of being fond of Holmes's brilliant deducting skills, and hate because 99% of the time, he refuses to explain himself. I could already tell that this would be one of those times.
"You haven't slept for more than an hour without waking in the past day and a half. It is a particularly disruptive sniffle, and while you want very much to be fine, you are clearly not." His hands slid down from my shoulders to my own hands, which he cradled between his own in an uncharacteristic display of affection. I must admit it quite warmed my heart, more than his badly-worded attempt to get me to rest.
"I am sick to death of being in bed," I informed him, which was the utter truth. I was tired and bored and, to be quite honest, I had wished for a little of Holmes's attention, be it favorable or snappish. I had apparently succeeded.
"I believe we can arrange a compromise." He took off, leaving my hands colder than ever and, as always, the feeling of one waking up from a particularly heady dream. The impression he makes upon me has not dulled in the slightest over the years.
I watched him move around the room, flitting here and there. He extracted a small, smooth board from under his chemical table, about a quarter of the size of my desk, and propped it against the couch. He fetched a warm blanket from the linen closet, and two pillows from his own astonishing collection. He built up the fire. I watched it all with a frank amusement, clearly able to see where he was going with all of this, but the very thought of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only independent consulting detective and self-proclaimed heartless being rushing about the sitting room to attempt at making me feel better - it was a thought that I could not help but smile broadly at, with a wonderful little twist in my heart. It is moments like these that I live for, and, with all his knowledge and deductive skill, I believe he's somehow managed to miss this one. I am glad of it. If he didn't, he would attempt to contrive such situations, and it is his honesty that I treasure most.
"There," he said, breathlessly, turning to face me with such a look of stark bashfulness and uncertainty that I was very nearly shocked into laughter. "Come here."
I went, smiling like a loon, because I can't resist him anything. He tucked me into the nest he'd made in the corner of the couch, all pillows and blankets that smelled like him. He put the makeshift desk on my lap, and brought over a sheaf of my notes and my favorite pen, but I pushed his hands away, shunted it all off to the side table. If he could give me his honesty, then I suppose he deserved mine, as well. "Work can wait," I said, tugging at his wrists. "Come, sit with me. It's the best comfort you can possibly give."
His eyes widened just a fraction of an inch, but he sat on the floor next to the couch, and put his head in my lap, and talked to me of violin-making until I drifted off, one hand tangled in his hair, to the first uninterrupted sleep I'd had for days.
if you liked that, try these:
Positively Angelic . Pastorale
Author: igrab
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Written For: random00, prompt: Holmes/Watson - Watson's got a sore throat and a stuffy nose. Holmes takes care of him.
Word Count: 1,635
Rating: PG
Notes: it ended up being less fluff and more intellectual, i am sorry, darling! feel better ♥
"Oh goodness, Watson, what is that noise?"
I didn't buy it for a second. For one, Holmes knew perfectly well what sound one's nose makes when one is sick. His badly-concealed annoyance at my noisy interruption of his chemical work did not help him sound any more convincing.
"Holmes, let up," I muttered, not in any sort of mood to play games with him. "I'm not feeling well and you absolutely know it. I apologize for interrupting you." The last was, I'm afraid to say, was shockingly devoid of repentance, but I was feeling quite put upon already. I sank into my desk chair, a handkerchief pressed to my face, doing my level best to put aside the unpleasantness in my throat and start organizing some of my notes. At the very least, my nose was too stuffed to pick up the awful smell of Holmes's latest scientific discovery.
He didn't respond, and I ignored him in favor of my desk, so we worked in a silence that, for many minutes, I did not notice was strained and tense. But the sounds of glass clinking and fussy sighs got more and more frequent, and finally I turned, heaving a sigh of my own. "Yes, Holmes?"
"You're sick." He was seated on the table, literally, with his legs folded up under him and his shirtcuffs stained a particularly vile green. There was a beaker in his hands, with nothing in it, and he was tapping the pads of his fingers on the glass in a skittish rhythm. There were no other notable signs of his discomfort, though the one was sufficiently alarming on its own. He had my full attention. Sherlock Holmes never makes obvious statements without a purpose.
Of course, my mouth moved before I had a chance to think it through probably. "Brilliant deduction, Holmes. Did you think that one up all on your own, or did Mrs. Hudson have to give you a hint?" I fully expected him to brush off the insult, turn it around to benefit himself, and surprise me with some flash of hidden brilliance.
Well, he did surprise me, so I suppose I was right on that count.
"I didn't - I apologize."
I believe I stared at him for a full minute after that one. I can count on one hand the number of times that Holmes has apologized to me for something he's done, but this in particular seemed so insignificant that I admit to being quite flummoxed.
"...You apologize?"
He immediately looked away - left, up, down, as is his habit when I make him uncomfortable - and the flitting of his hands over the beaker grew more pronounced. "I made an uncalled-for and mildly cruel commentary without taking the time to familiarize myself with the facts - "
I cut him off before he could really get going. "Holmes. It's nothing. I wasn't offended by it."
His head snapped up, and he pinned me with a suspicious glare of the very worst kind. "You sounded offended."
I raised an eyebrow, still not quite believing that this conversation was taking place at all, though the amount of times I've had that thought could fill a book. And, indeed, it has; several of them. "I assumed you knew. I'm just tired, it's - "
"Exactly. I always know. And I'm apologi- are you working?"
In some ways, my patience was paper-thin that day, but in others, I felt as if I simply didn't have the energy to get worked up about anything. "Yes," I said, perfectly mildly. If Holmes wished to ask questions he already knew the answers to, I would be happy to answer them.
"I insist you cease this instant."
I ignored him. The argument that led down that path was not worth it. He, of course, was having none of that, and I suppose I should have predicted that such a bland response would incite an even more violent reaction out of him. He leapt off the table, dashed across the room, and within the space of several seconds, had collected every single one of my writing utensils and locked them away in his desk drawer.
"...Holmes," I began, fully armed with all the logic of one who is sick, hates being sick, and wishes to do something productive with his time.
"Watson," he returned, stopped me before I could continue. "I do not often get this chance, please do me the favor of not stripping it away from me entirely."
I narrowed my eyes, suspicious of his honesty. I always am. I suppose I should let myself relax and enjoy it when it (all too infrequently) shows itself, but I am a man of habits, and this is a hard one to break. "What chance?"
He was in front of me then, his hands at my shoulders, too close for a healthy person to be, and I was about to open my mouth and insist that he keep a decent distance, but once again, he got the first word in.
"You, Doctor, are always incessantly fussing over me, whether it be due to injuries, poor health, or my admittedly precarious mental state."
I was listening, but I was also trying not to sneeze on him, which, at that moment, was quite a feat. "You want to fuss over me."
"Yes. And you're deadpan because there's work you'd rather be doing, I'm quite aware of that, but I absolutely insist that you take a break and rest." He looked so intent, so serious, it was quite daunting. Also I really did rather have to sneeze.
"I've been resting, Holmes, and it's just a sniffle. I'll be fine."
I would like to point out that this was, admittedly, a very broad statement of the word 'fine'. My throat felt rather like several large animals were trying to claw their way out of it, and my nose and my mustache were doing battle with only a handkerchief to mediate between them.
He gave me a long, critical look. I both hate it and love it when he does so - love because I am as guilty as anyone of being fond of Holmes's brilliant deducting skills, and hate because 99% of the time, he refuses to explain himself. I could already tell that this would be one of those times.
"You haven't slept for more than an hour without waking in the past day and a half. It is a particularly disruptive sniffle, and while you want very much to be fine, you are clearly not." His hands slid down from my shoulders to my own hands, which he cradled between his own in an uncharacteristic display of affection. I must admit it quite warmed my heart, more than his badly-worded attempt to get me to rest.
"I am sick to death of being in bed," I informed him, which was the utter truth. I was tired and bored and, to be quite honest, I had wished for a little of Holmes's attention, be it favorable or snappish. I had apparently succeeded.
"I believe we can arrange a compromise." He took off, leaving my hands colder than ever and, as always, the feeling of one waking up from a particularly heady dream. The impression he makes upon me has not dulled in the slightest over the years.
I watched him move around the room, flitting here and there. He extracted a small, smooth board from under his chemical table, about a quarter of the size of my desk, and propped it against the couch. He fetched a warm blanket from the linen closet, and two pillows from his own astonishing collection. He built up the fire. I watched it all with a frank amusement, clearly able to see where he was going with all of this, but the very thought of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only independent consulting detective and self-proclaimed heartless being rushing about the sitting room to attempt at making me feel better - it was a thought that I could not help but smile broadly at, with a wonderful little twist in my heart. It is moments like these that I live for, and, with all his knowledge and deductive skill, I believe he's somehow managed to miss this one. I am glad of it. If he didn't, he would attempt to contrive such situations, and it is his honesty that I treasure most.
"There," he said, breathlessly, turning to face me with such a look of stark bashfulness and uncertainty that I was very nearly shocked into laughter. "Come here."
I went, smiling like a loon, because I can't resist him anything. He tucked me into the nest he'd made in the corner of the couch, all pillows and blankets that smelled like him. He put the makeshift desk on my lap, and brought over a sheaf of my notes and my favorite pen, but I pushed his hands away, shunted it all off to the side table. If he could give me his honesty, then I suppose he deserved mine, as well. "Work can wait," I said, tugging at his wrists. "Come, sit with me. It's the best comfort you can possibly give."
His eyes widened just a fraction of an inch, but he sat on the floor next to the couch, and put his head in my lap, and talked to me of violin-making until I drifted off, one hand tangled in his hair, to the first uninterrupted sleep I'd had for days.
if you liked that, try these:
Positively Angelic . Pastorale