Sherlock Holmes fic: Nobody Tells You Where To Go
Title: Nobody Tells You Where To Go
Summary: Everything feels too raw, the happiness too close to hurt. Holmes and Watson go for a drive in the country after His Last Bow.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson.
Notes:Un-betaed, and it probably shows. Written to a prompt at shkinkmeme, and originally posted here. First SH fic I've posted to this journal, the third I've written. And my first fic with slashy sex in it, I believe.
I'm not sure all these people understand/It's not like years ago
Nightswimming//R.E.M.
At first sight, they're just two rich Londoners on a week-end drive. With the cut of Watson's clothes and Holmes' upper-class drawl, they can't be mistaken for anything other than that. Watson wonders how it feels to be an Englishman again. Holmes has been somebody else for so long.
That's the wonderful thing: they've just dropped the glowering and dour Van Bork off at a large, anonymous house in the suburbs (to be interrogated -- Watson is glad to have nothing more to do with that business). While they might appear to be unassuming London types, eccentrics at worst, they're actually spies.
Of course, they conceal more than that. Holmes lets his hand rest on Watson's leg, just below the place where a Jezail bullet hit it. Thirty years ago; a different war. This is a secret they've shared for half a lifetime, something as simple and as messy as love.
Watson brings the motorcar to a stop in a narrow, tree-lined lane. There are some sheep in a field to one side, but no people. Just a low rock fence and hot metal ticking around them, the sky. Holmes leans across the leather bench seat and puts his hands to the side of Watson's face, pulling their lips together.
There's an intensity to their lovemaking that Watson hasn't experienced in a long time. Holmes' hands are everywhere, in his hair, running up and inside his shirt. Watson closes his eyes and runs his fingers over the sensitive skin at the bottom of Holmes' stomach. It tightens; gooseflesh.
Then Holmes puts one of his quick nervous hands down the front of Watson's trousers. Watson leans back to allow him better access, and then Holmes is pulling and he's jerking his hips. Watson comes harder than he has in a long time, with a shout that is quickly lost in the still summer air.
Later, when they're both lying languidly back on the wide leather seat, Holmes stirs first. He reaches for the picnic basket Watson placed carefully on the floor, when they left London.
"I know you won't let me drive, old boy," he says. "Do I have permission to spread out the picnic?"
"As long as you don't hurt anybody," Watson says, and for the first time in months, he hears Holmes' laugh. It's light and happy and it still sounds the way that it did when they met. It shocks Watson so much that when he smiles, tears prick his eyes. He looks away and scrubs a hand across his face and for a minute everything feels too raw, the happiness too close to hurt.
Later still, when they've eaten. There is silence, the summer air warm and sweet around them, the smell of grass and faraway sheep manure. Holmes has deeper lines around his mouth and his eyes. The beard is the strangest thing, salt-and-pepper.
"I know," Holmes says, "I can't wait to shave the blasted thing off."
Watson's question must show on his face, because Holmes says "I saw you scrutinising me." He props his chin on his hand and stares back at Watson.
"I missed you," Holmes says. He means other things, Watson knows: I love you, and I need you. Watson puts his hand across Holmes' ribcage, to feel the rise and fall of his thin chest, and Holmes does not push it away.
"I can't stay in Sussex," Watson says. "I'm needed in London." All the young men of the Empire are going off to war, and the ones who come back broken will need medical care. It's all Watson can do. Holmes is different. Holmes will sit back and get lost in the stupidity, the utter hopeless futility of it all. Will there be another Van Bork to occupy him?
When dusk starts to fall, Holmes arises with a characteristic burst of energy and packs the things into the motor. When Watson gets back behind the steering wheel, Holmes keeps them both busy for a wild five minutes, trying to find a more comfortable kissing position. They give up and drive off when Watson accidentally puts his elbow on the horn. They both start nervously at the sound, then Holmes grins.
"We had better leave, before these sheep report us for degeneracy."
They sleep in Holmes' cottage that night. There is a sheet draped over Holmes' chemical table, dust all around them. They're too tired to care.
Watson awakes in the early hours of the morning to unfamiliar sounds, Holmes treading carefully over the wooden floor. He goes out to the kitchen to find him lighting the fire, making a cup of tea.
"I couldn't sleep," Holmes says, "Did I wake you?"
He did, but Watson doesn't say that. He doesn't care. It seems so new, being together again.
"Stay a week," Holmes says, his face lit by the fire.
"I suppose I could do that," Watson says, because this seems more important now, seeing as much of Holmes as he can before circumstances overwhelm their lives again.
Holmes goes back to bed and sleeps for a long time, and when he wakes up Watson recognises the slack look his eyes get when he's in a black mood. He goes for a long walk, his fast, loping strides not welcoming to Watson, who limps more with every year. When he returns, he looks a little better.
"It feels different," he says, at dinner.
"What does?"
"The country," Holmes says, and they both fall silent. Watson remembers how he spoke of the coming cold wind, and something traces its way down his spine, the vestige of a shiver.
This Watson does know: they've survived Moriarty and Van Bork and the ravages of cocaine. They'll survive this, too, even if so many don't.
When they go to bed, Watson sleeps better than he has for months. It's slow and quiet, just the cold moonlight seeping through the window, the faraway roar of the ocean.
Summary: Everything feels too raw, the happiness too close to hurt. Holmes and Watson go for a drive in the country after His Last Bow.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson.
Notes:Un-betaed, and it probably shows. Written to a prompt at shkinkmeme, and originally posted here. First SH fic I've posted to this journal, the third I've written. And my first fic with slashy sex in it, I believe.
I'm not sure all these people understand/It's not like years ago
Nightswimming//R.E.M.
At first sight, they're just two rich Londoners on a week-end drive. With the cut of Watson's clothes and Holmes' upper-class drawl, they can't be mistaken for anything other than that. Watson wonders how it feels to be an Englishman again. Holmes has been somebody else for so long.
That's the wonderful thing: they've just dropped the glowering and dour Van Bork off at a large, anonymous house in the suburbs (to be interrogated -- Watson is glad to have nothing more to do with that business). While they might appear to be unassuming London types, eccentrics at worst, they're actually spies.
Of course, they conceal more than that. Holmes lets his hand rest on Watson's leg, just below the place where a Jezail bullet hit it. Thirty years ago; a different war. This is a secret they've shared for half a lifetime, something as simple and as messy as love.
Watson brings the motorcar to a stop in a narrow, tree-lined lane. There are some sheep in a field to one side, but no people. Just a low rock fence and hot metal ticking around them, the sky. Holmes leans across the leather bench seat and puts his hands to the side of Watson's face, pulling their lips together.
There's an intensity to their lovemaking that Watson hasn't experienced in a long time. Holmes' hands are everywhere, in his hair, running up and inside his shirt. Watson closes his eyes and runs his fingers over the sensitive skin at the bottom of Holmes' stomach. It tightens; gooseflesh.
Then Holmes puts one of his quick nervous hands down the front of Watson's trousers. Watson leans back to allow him better access, and then Holmes is pulling and he's jerking his hips. Watson comes harder than he has in a long time, with a shout that is quickly lost in the still summer air.
Later, when they're both lying languidly back on the wide leather seat, Holmes stirs first. He reaches for the picnic basket Watson placed carefully on the floor, when they left London.
"I know you won't let me drive, old boy," he says. "Do I have permission to spread out the picnic?"
"As long as you don't hurt anybody," Watson says, and for the first time in months, he hears Holmes' laugh. It's light and happy and it still sounds the way that it did when they met. It shocks Watson so much that when he smiles, tears prick his eyes. He looks away and scrubs a hand across his face and for a minute everything feels too raw, the happiness too close to hurt.
Later still, when they've eaten. There is silence, the summer air warm and sweet around them, the smell of grass and faraway sheep manure. Holmes has deeper lines around his mouth and his eyes. The beard is the strangest thing, salt-and-pepper.
"I know," Holmes says, "I can't wait to shave the blasted thing off."
Watson's question must show on his face, because Holmes says "I saw you scrutinising me." He props his chin on his hand and stares back at Watson.
"I missed you," Holmes says. He means other things, Watson knows: I love you, and I need you. Watson puts his hand across Holmes' ribcage, to feel the rise and fall of his thin chest, and Holmes does not push it away.
"I can't stay in Sussex," Watson says. "I'm needed in London." All the young men of the Empire are going off to war, and the ones who come back broken will need medical care. It's all Watson can do. Holmes is different. Holmes will sit back and get lost in the stupidity, the utter hopeless futility of it all. Will there be another Van Bork to occupy him?
When dusk starts to fall, Holmes arises with a characteristic burst of energy and packs the things into the motor. When Watson gets back behind the steering wheel, Holmes keeps them both busy for a wild five minutes, trying to find a more comfortable kissing position. They give up and drive off when Watson accidentally puts his elbow on the horn. They both start nervously at the sound, then Holmes grins.
"We had better leave, before these sheep report us for degeneracy."
They sleep in Holmes' cottage that night. There is a sheet draped over Holmes' chemical table, dust all around them. They're too tired to care.
Watson awakes in the early hours of the morning to unfamiliar sounds, Holmes treading carefully over the wooden floor. He goes out to the kitchen to find him lighting the fire, making a cup of tea.
"I couldn't sleep," Holmes says, "Did I wake you?"
He did, but Watson doesn't say that. He doesn't care. It seems so new, being together again.
"Stay a week," Holmes says, his face lit by the fire.
"I suppose I could do that," Watson says, because this seems more important now, seeing as much of Holmes as he can before circumstances overwhelm their lives again.
Holmes goes back to bed and sleeps for a long time, and when he wakes up Watson recognises the slack look his eyes get when he's in a black mood. He goes for a long walk, his fast, loping strides not welcoming to Watson, who limps more with every year. When he returns, he looks a little better.
"It feels different," he says, at dinner.
"What does?"
"The country," Holmes says, and they both fall silent. Watson remembers how he spoke of the coming cold wind, and something traces its way down his spine, the vestige of a shiver.
This Watson does know: they've survived Moriarty and Van Bork and the ravages of cocaine. They'll survive this, too, even if so many don't.
When they go to bed, Watson sleeps better than he has for months. It's slow and quiet, just the cold moonlight seeping through the window, the faraway roar of the ocean.