igrab
in
grabi_hands
Not in Blood [Blackwood/Coward, PG]
Title: Not in Blood
Author: igrab
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Written For: viceindustrious
Wordcount: 592
Rating: PG
There was one other thing that he noticed about the room, and it was strange. Strange, in that it held such a sense of familiarity - a personal familiarity, and for a second he could not close his mind on it, but a closer examination unearthed the answer that should have been obvious.
It was a room of two men, rather than one, living in exceedingly close company. Holmes knew this, for a fact, because while it did not outwardly resemble his lodgings at Baker Street the entire effect was so strikingly similar that it very nearly took his breath away. The tea service with the mismatched cups - not company, then, but two particular individuals. A profusion of coats in tellingly distinctive styles. Much-used chairs, one by the bookshelf, the other by the window, with the imprint of two very different weights. Writing in two hands. This room may have been Lord Coward's in name, but someone else inhabited it with him, quite intimately, and he was unmarried.
He knew the answer without looking closer at the coats in the closet, though he did, to confirm his hypothesis. A thousand moments, a thousand snippets of conversation echoed in his head - 'to assume that I am holding the brush at all', 'his power grows daily', 'death is only the beginning'. The quick little glance at the crypt, containing an entire communique within it.
There was a spray of roses on the far table, all of them the darkest, richest red that could possibly be bought.
Holmes had a very sudden, painful memory. It was only a year ago, or less, and the detective had been in one of his blackest of black moods and had threatened to break Watson's neck, dump tea on Mrs Hudson's dress, and throw Gladstone out of the window - all in the space of one morning. Watson had stomped off, indignant, only to return several hours later, with a beautiful spray of roses. They were the darkest of red, the kind that looked to be made of velvet.
Perhaps they'd both been aware how inappropriate it was, red roses for a friend, but Watson displayed an unusual delicacy and understanding at times, and white roses would have only made it worse. He had the oddest aversions in his despressions, to sugar, to light, to anything that wasn't dark and solid. But he held the flowers to his face when Watson had left and took in their deep perfume, and it had all seemed rather silly, then.
He hadn't apologized, but it was the closest he'd ever been.
So Holmes stared at the roses, and the parallel disturbed, right down to the core of him. He did not want to believe that his enemies were capable of feeling, of loving, of laughing at their daily tasks and of living a life together that had been so viciously denied him. He looked at the tea tray, and the spoons were crossed, half on one saucer, like they had nothing to hide.
For one moment, and one moment only, Holmes entertained the dangerous notion of letting them win. Of a world governed by men like this, free men, for whom vice and sin were as natural as breathing.
"We take power at noon," his adversary informed him, and he snapped out of it so fast it gave him whiplash.
"Well. There isn't any time to waste, then, is there?"
if you liked that, try these:
The Sun and the Moon . Pastorale
Author: igrab
Pairing: Blackwood/Coward
Written For: viceindustrious
Wordcount: 592
Rating: PG
There was one other thing that he noticed about the room, and it was strange. Strange, in that it held such a sense of familiarity - a personal familiarity, and for a second he could not close his mind on it, but a closer examination unearthed the answer that should have been obvious.
It was a room of two men, rather than one, living in exceedingly close company. Holmes knew this, for a fact, because while it did not outwardly resemble his lodgings at Baker Street the entire effect was so strikingly similar that it very nearly took his breath away. The tea service with the mismatched cups - not company, then, but two particular individuals. A profusion of coats in tellingly distinctive styles. Much-used chairs, one by the bookshelf, the other by the window, with the imprint of two very different weights. Writing in two hands. This room may have been Lord Coward's in name, but someone else inhabited it with him, quite intimately, and he was unmarried.
He knew the answer without looking closer at the coats in the closet, though he did, to confirm his hypothesis. A thousand moments, a thousand snippets of conversation echoed in his head - 'to assume that I am holding the brush at all', 'his power grows daily', 'death is only the beginning'. The quick little glance at the crypt, containing an entire communique within it.
There was a spray of roses on the far table, all of them the darkest, richest red that could possibly be bought.
Holmes had a very sudden, painful memory. It was only a year ago, or less, and the detective had been in one of his blackest of black moods and had threatened to break Watson's neck, dump tea on Mrs Hudson's dress, and throw Gladstone out of the window - all in the space of one morning. Watson had stomped off, indignant, only to return several hours later, with a beautiful spray of roses. They were the darkest of red, the kind that looked to be made of velvet.
Perhaps they'd both been aware how inappropriate it was, red roses for a friend, but Watson displayed an unusual delicacy and understanding at times, and white roses would have only made it worse. He had the oddest aversions in his despressions, to sugar, to light, to anything that wasn't dark and solid. But he held the flowers to his face when Watson had left and took in their deep perfume, and it had all seemed rather silly, then.
He hadn't apologized, but it was the closest he'd ever been.
So Holmes stared at the roses, and the parallel disturbed, right down to the core of him. He did not want to believe that his enemies were capable of feeling, of loving, of laughing at their daily tasks and of living a life together that had been so viciously denied him. He looked at the tea tray, and the spoons were crossed, half on one saucer, like they had nothing to hide.
For one moment, and one moment only, Holmes entertained the dangerous notion of letting them win. Of a world governed by men like this, free men, for whom vice and sin were as natural as breathing.
"We take power at noon," his adversary informed him, and he snapped out of it so fast it gave him whiplash.
"Well. There isn't any time to waste, then, is there?"
if you liked that, try these:
The Sun and the Moon . Pastorale