igrab
in
grabi_hands
Positively Angelic [Holmes/Watson, PG]
Title: Positively Angelic
Author: igrab
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Written For: phantom_roxs, who requested H/W, angsty h/c-ish sortof
Word Count: 938
Rating: PG
Notes: feel better, love ♥
Watson was only ever this quiet for two reasons, and it was the simplest of deductions to be able to figure out which it was this time.
He took great pains to keep from making any sort of noise when Holmes wished for it, and requested it of him. The 'grand gift of silence' that he often remarked upon sarcastically was something he was, in fact, quite grateful for, no matter how he might've sounded, sometimes. But Watson knew this. He'd never said it, but it was the sort of thing that Watson, being an emotional creature well-versed in the nonverbal language of Sherlock Holmes, was quite aware of.
He was also quiet when he was furious.
In fact, Holmes could only remember one time when he'd been this surly with him, and it hadn't lasted. The Blackwood case, or more accurately, WATSON'S ENGAGEMENT. It had all sorts of warning notes and labels in Holmes's mind, neatly bundled up in that box labeled 'things not to think about', and he resolutely Was Not thinking about it now, even though the glare Watson was giving him was almost precisely like that one, in the carriage. That Holmes was not thinking about.
The difference was that it was about ten times more fierce.
As such, Holmes found himself unable to say anything at all, which was probably for the best. He was having a hard enough time holding his bundled-up shirt against the wound in his leg - oh, the wound in his leg. That. Nothing important, just a scratch.
The carriage pulled up at Baker Street and before Holmes could move, Watson gripped his elbow with a bruising force. "Get out."
Holmes really wished he had the presence of mind to leash his tongue in front of his friend sometimes, but really, he was in quite a lot of pain and it was quite distracting. "If you'd only waited, you would've noticed that I was already in the process of - "
"Out."
Holmes got out.
"In."
Holmes went in. The walk up the stairs was difficult at best, with Watson shoving him from behind and blood trickling down his leg and "Really old boy, I think I can manage," he muttered, but the doctor's hand only tightened and what had he done to instill such rage? It was positively unhealthy.
"My dear, I really think you need to calm down," Holmes continued, quite unable to stop himself, as Watson pushed him down into the deep plush of the couch. He slid slowly sideways, and didn't resist when he was shoved onto his back. "You'd never guess that I was the one shot, not you, the way you carry on."
"Besides the bleeding, you mean?" bit Watson at his most acidic. Holmes was simply in too much pain to appreciate it, though, and smiled angelically in return.
Watson grabbed his medical bag and began cutting Holmes's trousers away. "But that's the point, Holmes." However harsh his words were, his hands remained gentle, and Holmes tried to resist pushing up into them like a cat. Only the knowledge that he would likely only make things worse kept him still. "You shouldn't've been shot at all."
Ah. Ah. Suddenly, it all began to make a little more sense. "...You're angry because I took the bullet for you," he murmured, a slight hint of wonder in his voice.
"Yes, Holmes!" Watson snapped, looking up at him. "For the love of God, how do you think it feels to have to patch you up like this?"
But Homes was smiling and smiling and smiling. "There are times, dear friend, when I could only describe you as positively angelic."
"Angelic? Don't start with me, Holmes. I don't need your poetry." But when he turned to the mess of Holmes's leg, he could see that the back of the doctor's neck was red, and that was as good as a spoken confirmation in his book.
"I'm afraid you inspire me," he mumbled, eyes sliding to half-lids, unable to close them entirely and lose looking at his beautiful friend.
A very small grin quirked in the corner of Watson's mouth. "I could've sworn you hated romanticism, anyway."
Holmes's eyes flew open. "Your wording, not mine," he muttered.
"Poetry, then. Do you deny it?" Watson's eyes flicked to the finished copy of 'The Sign of the Four', open on Holmes's desk.
"Once again, your words. I simply said you were angelic, and that is nothing but truth."
Watson moved slower, for a minute, and when he tucked the last edge of the bandage in place, it was so gentle as to be called delicate. Holmes was about ready to assume he hadn't heard him at all, before he said, very quietly, "Only for you."
"I'm sorry?" Holmes blinked, trying to bring the room into more focus, but it was so hard.
"Go to sleep, you're injured," was Watson's response, and as he pushed himself creaking to his feet, he managed to lean over and press a soft, chaste kiss to Holmes's forehead that nevertheless left a burn in its wake.
"Don't go," Holmes whispered, the words nearly lost in the ache in his throat.
Watson smiled over his shoulder, and settled into his old chair by the fire. "Wouldn't dream of it, old friend."
if you liked that, try these:
In Sickness and in Health . Through the Looking Glass
Author: igrab
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Written For: phantom_roxs, who requested H/W, angsty h/c-ish sortof
Word Count: 938
Rating: PG
Notes: feel better, love ♥
Watson was only ever this quiet for two reasons, and it was the simplest of deductions to be able to figure out which it was this time.
He took great pains to keep from making any sort of noise when Holmes wished for it, and requested it of him. The 'grand gift of silence' that he often remarked upon sarcastically was something he was, in fact, quite grateful for, no matter how he might've sounded, sometimes. But Watson knew this. He'd never said it, but it was the sort of thing that Watson, being an emotional creature well-versed in the nonverbal language of Sherlock Holmes, was quite aware of.
He was also quiet when he was furious.
In fact, Holmes could only remember one time when he'd been this surly with him, and it hadn't lasted. The Blackwood case, or more accurately, WATSON'S ENGAGEMENT. It had all sorts of warning notes and labels in Holmes's mind, neatly bundled up in that box labeled 'things not to think about', and he resolutely Was Not thinking about it now, even though the glare Watson was giving him was almost precisely like that one, in the carriage. That Holmes was not thinking about.
The difference was that it was about ten times more fierce.
As such, Holmes found himself unable to say anything at all, which was probably for the best. He was having a hard enough time holding his bundled-up shirt against the wound in his leg - oh, the wound in his leg. That. Nothing important, just a scratch.
The carriage pulled up at Baker Street and before Holmes could move, Watson gripped his elbow with a bruising force. "Get out."
Holmes really wished he had the presence of mind to leash his tongue in front of his friend sometimes, but really, he was in quite a lot of pain and it was quite distracting. "If you'd only waited, you would've noticed that I was already in the process of - "
"Out."
Holmes got out.
"In."
Holmes went in. The walk up the stairs was difficult at best, with Watson shoving him from behind and blood trickling down his leg and "Really old boy, I think I can manage," he muttered, but the doctor's hand only tightened and what had he done to instill such rage? It was positively unhealthy.
"My dear, I really think you need to calm down," Holmes continued, quite unable to stop himself, as Watson pushed him down into the deep plush of the couch. He slid slowly sideways, and didn't resist when he was shoved onto his back. "You'd never guess that I was the one shot, not you, the way you carry on."
"Besides the bleeding, you mean?" bit Watson at his most acidic. Holmes was simply in too much pain to appreciate it, though, and smiled angelically in return.
Watson grabbed his medical bag and began cutting Holmes's trousers away. "But that's the point, Holmes." However harsh his words were, his hands remained gentle, and Holmes tried to resist pushing up into them like a cat. Only the knowledge that he would likely only make things worse kept him still. "You shouldn't've been shot at all."
Ah. Ah. Suddenly, it all began to make a little more sense. "...You're angry because I took the bullet for you," he murmured, a slight hint of wonder in his voice.
"Yes, Holmes!" Watson snapped, looking up at him. "For the love of God, how do you think it feels to have to patch you up like this?"
But Homes was smiling and smiling and smiling. "There are times, dear friend, when I could only describe you as positively angelic."
"Angelic? Don't start with me, Holmes. I don't need your poetry." But when he turned to the mess of Holmes's leg, he could see that the back of the doctor's neck was red, and that was as good as a spoken confirmation in his book.
"I'm afraid you inspire me," he mumbled, eyes sliding to half-lids, unable to close them entirely and lose looking at his beautiful friend.
A very small grin quirked in the corner of Watson's mouth. "I could've sworn you hated romanticism, anyway."
Holmes's eyes flew open. "Your wording, not mine," he muttered.
"Poetry, then. Do you deny it?" Watson's eyes flicked to the finished copy of 'The Sign of the Four', open on Holmes's desk.
"Once again, your words. I simply said you were angelic, and that is nothing but truth."
Watson moved slower, for a minute, and when he tucked the last edge of the bandage in place, it was so gentle as to be called delicate. Holmes was about ready to assume he hadn't heard him at all, before he said, very quietly, "Only for you."
"I'm sorry?" Holmes blinked, trying to bring the room into more focus, but it was so hard.
"Go to sleep, you're injured," was Watson's response, and as he pushed himself creaking to his feet, he managed to lean over and press a soft, chaste kiss to Holmes's forehead that nevertheless left a burn in its wake.
"Don't go," Holmes whispered, the words nearly lost in the ache in his throat.
Watson smiled over his shoulder, and settled into his old chair by the fire. "Wouldn't dream of it, old friend."
if you liked that, try these:
In Sickness and in Health . Through the Looking Glass