Quite Essential + Bonus Ficlet (Holmes/Watson)
Title: Quite Essential
Rating: G
Word count: ~800
Pairings: Holmes/Watson pre-slash
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: Sherlock Holmes needs no one in the world but Sherlock Holmes. Watson's presence in his life is welcome, an asset even, but it isn't needed.
Notes: Because while I'm at it, why not fill another one? The kink meme prompt can be found here.
Please not that this is Granada!Holmes and Watson, not the movie 'verse characters.
~~~
Quite Essential
He says, "Come, Watson!" and Watson follows, without question, to whatever destination Holmes has in mind. "Read," he says, and Watson reads telegrams out loud for him, newspaper articles, pages from a book. "Watson!" he commands, and points, and Watson dashes off to apprehend the latest villain, unfailing in his courage and obedience.
Some might suppose that this makes Holmes the patriarch of 221b Baker Street.
It does not.
"Some soup at least," Watson says, and proceeds to fill the room with his silent disapproval until no space seems left for even cigarette smoke to hang in the air and Holmes has no choice but to comply if he wishes to enjoy his evening pipe. "You need a vacation," Watson says, and Holmes finds himself dragged off to the remotest corners of the country without recollection of so much as packing his bags. Watson's face falls in disappointment once too often, and Holmes buries his syringe on a Cornwall beach, never to touch cocaine again.
In the course of their daily life, it would seem, it is not he who gives the directions. And he has always been ill-equipped to deal with constriction.
So he pushes. He throws Watson's revolver into a lake and lets him write reports to a man who is but a mile away instead of solving a case in London. He sends Watson on errands that are often quite unnecessary, ridicules his writing, fakes his own death for three years and afterwards puts up a picture of Reichenbach Falls over the fireplace mantle; all to show that he is no man's subject, that Sherlock Holmes needs no one in the world but Sherlock Holmes. Watson's presence in his life is welcome, an asset even, but it isn't needed.
And yet.
It has been three long weeks since Watson departed for his symposium, and Holmes cannot quite convince himself that the lack of energy he feels is merely a coincidence. The letters are stacking up on the table by the door; a wealth of potential cases that Holmes cannot bring himself to touch. Indeed, he cannot bring himself to do much of anything save lie in his bed and stare at the wall. Not even smoking holds any appeal without someone there to lecture him about the poisonous atmosphere that fills the room.
Watson's presence may not be needed - and in his darkest moments, Holmes begins to doubt the truth even in that statement - but nonetheless it appears to be quite… essential.
"Only one more week," Mrs. Hudson says when she brings a breakfast that will remain untouched, and Holmes very nearly asks her to send a telegram. The sooner Watson returns to his chair by the fireplace, the sooner Holmes will dazzle and shine again, solving crimes and flinging deductions with an ease that seems directly related to the delight he can elicit in his companion.
One more week. How the devil is he supposed to last one more week? Perhaps if he revisited that opium den… but no. There is no point in going there deliberately, without anyone to drag him back.
The door opens again, and he expects Mrs. Hudson to tsk at him for ignoring yet another meal. The footsteps that near the bed are heavier, however. For one brief moment, Holmes closes his eyes in sheer, overwhelming relief.
"I thought you were going to be another week," he says, and if his voice falls a little short of airy, he knows it will not be mentioned.
"It was quite boring," Watson, bless him, claims, equally certain that Holmes will not remark on his poor skills at prevarication. This time. He eyes Mrs. Hudson's breakfast tray with some disapproval and says, quite sternly, "Eat, Holmes."
Holmes purses his lips, but he snakes one arm out from under the covers to reach for a piece of toast.
"Tell me about your esteemed colleagues," he demands, chewing slowly as Watson cheerfully eviscerates the reputation of half of South England's general practitioners. He has a mischievous streak, the good Doctor, and Holmes fears he has quite ruined him for polite company.
Tomorrow, he will comment on this, and Watson will protest that he is certainly more well-equipped than Holmes to deal with company of any kind, thank you kindly. They will make their way through the stack of letters and perhaps invite a client or two. "My friend and colleague, Doctor Watson," Holmes will introduce him, but he might as well say, "all the best parts of me."
For the notion may be foolish, but it is still entirely true.
~~~
Bonus Ficlet
(This is movie 'verse, inspired by ingridmatthews posting a screenshot of Watson getting intimate with his gun. Myself, I liked the gloves. Ahem.)
Once back in Baker Street, Holmes can resist no longer.
Watson's gloves are cool from the London air, the leather as soft and smooth as butter. Its faint scent seems inescapably strong as Holmes sucks Watson's right index finger into his mouth, the tastes of dust and metal and tannin mingling on his tongue into an irresistible mixture, something that might yet prove more addictive than any stimulant he has tried so far.
Watson stands as still as the menhirs that are so liberally scattered across the landscape of Cornwall, his mouth slightly open as he stares at Holmes with shock and a growing hunger. Holmes hollows his cheeks and sucks harder, the motions of his tongue around the leather both promise and request, an entreaty as honest as any he's ever made.
"Holmes," Watson rasps as Holmes lets go of his finger with a wet pop, the leather darkened and shining with saliva. "What -"
"I," Holmes says, "am in the process of consolidating years of research in various fields. Would you care to observe?"
Watson's pupils are blown, his eyes still wide and colour rising to his cheeks. He licks his lips, leaving them moist and glistening, and only his superior skills at appearing utterly unmoved save Holmes from the disgrace of begging Watson for his attention to certain parts of Holmes's anatomy.
"Perhaps," Watson says slowly, clearing his throat as his voice wavers, "I may offer some assistance."
"It does make a considerable difference to me," Holmes grants, his own voice not entirely steady, "having someone with me on whom I can... thoroughly rely."
Watson's lips twitch. "Ten minutes?"
"Make it an hour," Holmes says, and as he drags Watson towards his bedroom, his mouth waters at the thought of what he will do with it, and how, and where. An hour will never suffice.
Perhaps a lifetime, he thinks. Watson will need some convincing, no doubt, but Holmes feels up to the task. He is a professional, after all.
.
Rating: G
Word count: ~800
Pairings: Holmes/Watson pre-slash
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: Sherlock Holmes needs no one in the world but Sherlock Holmes. Watson's presence in his life is welcome, an asset even, but it isn't needed.
Notes: Because while I'm at it, why not fill another one? The kink meme prompt can be found here.
Please not that this is Granada!Holmes and Watson, not the movie 'verse characters.
~~~
Quite Essential
He says, "Come, Watson!" and Watson follows, without question, to whatever destination Holmes has in mind. "Read," he says, and Watson reads telegrams out loud for him, newspaper articles, pages from a book. "Watson!" he commands, and points, and Watson dashes off to apprehend the latest villain, unfailing in his courage and obedience.
Some might suppose that this makes Holmes the patriarch of 221b Baker Street.
It does not.
"Some soup at least," Watson says, and proceeds to fill the room with his silent disapproval until no space seems left for even cigarette smoke to hang in the air and Holmes has no choice but to comply if he wishes to enjoy his evening pipe. "You need a vacation," Watson says, and Holmes finds himself dragged off to the remotest corners of the country without recollection of so much as packing his bags. Watson's face falls in disappointment once too often, and Holmes buries his syringe on a Cornwall beach, never to touch cocaine again.
In the course of their daily life, it would seem, it is not he who gives the directions. And he has always been ill-equipped to deal with constriction.
So he pushes. He throws Watson's revolver into a lake and lets him write reports to a man who is but a mile away instead of solving a case in London. He sends Watson on errands that are often quite unnecessary, ridicules his writing, fakes his own death for three years and afterwards puts up a picture of Reichenbach Falls over the fireplace mantle; all to show that he is no man's subject, that Sherlock Holmes needs no one in the world but Sherlock Holmes. Watson's presence in his life is welcome, an asset even, but it isn't needed.
And yet.
It has been three long weeks since Watson departed for his symposium, and Holmes cannot quite convince himself that the lack of energy he feels is merely a coincidence. The letters are stacking up on the table by the door; a wealth of potential cases that Holmes cannot bring himself to touch. Indeed, he cannot bring himself to do much of anything save lie in his bed and stare at the wall. Not even smoking holds any appeal without someone there to lecture him about the poisonous atmosphere that fills the room.
Watson's presence may not be needed - and in his darkest moments, Holmes begins to doubt the truth even in that statement - but nonetheless it appears to be quite… essential.
"Only one more week," Mrs. Hudson says when she brings a breakfast that will remain untouched, and Holmes very nearly asks her to send a telegram. The sooner Watson returns to his chair by the fireplace, the sooner Holmes will dazzle and shine again, solving crimes and flinging deductions with an ease that seems directly related to the delight he can elicit in his companion.
One more week. How the devil is he supposed to last one more week? Perhaps if he revisited that opium den… but no. There is no point in going there deliberately, without anyone to drag him back.
The door opens again, and he expects Mrs. Hudson to tsk at him for ignoring yet another meal. The footsteps that near the bed are heavier, however. For one brief moment, Holmes closes his eyes in sheer, overwhelming relief.
"I thought you were going to be another week," he says, and if his voice falls a little short of airy, he knows it will not be mentioned.
"It was quite boring," Watson, bless him, claims, equally certain that Holmes will not remark on his poor skills at prevarication. This time. He eyes Mrs. Hudson's breakfast tray with some disapproval and says, quite sternly, "Eat, Holmes."
Holmes purses his lips, but he snakes one arm out from under the covers to reach for a piece of toast.
"Tell me about your esteemed colleagues," he demands, chewing slowly as Watson cheerfully eviscerates the reputation of half of South England's general practitioners. He has a mischievous streak, the good Doctor, and Holmes fears he has quite ruined him for polite company.
Tomorrow, he will comment on this, and Watson will protest that he is certainly more well-equipped than Holmes to deal with company of any kind, thank you kindly. They will make their way through the stack of letters and perhaps invite a client or two. "My friend and colleague, Doctor Watson," Holmes will introduce him, but he might as well say, "all the best parts of me."
For the notion may be foolish, but it is still entirely true.
~~~
Bonus Ficlet
(This is movie 'verse, inspired by ingridmatthews posting a screenshot of Watson getting intimate with his gun. Myself, I liked the gloves. Ahem.)
Once back in Baker Street, Holmes can resist no longer.
Watson's gloves are cool from the London air, the leather as soft and smooth as butter. Its faint scent seems inescapably strong as Holmes sucks Watson's right index finger into his mouth, the tastes of dust and metal and tannin mingling on his tongue into an irresistible mixture, something that might yet prove more addictive than any stimulant he has tried so far.
Watson stands as still as the menhirs that are so liberally scattered across the landscape of Cornwall, his mouth slightly open as he stares at Holmes with shock and a growing hunger. Holmes hollows his cheeks and sucks harder, the motions of his tongue around the leather both promise and request, an entreaty as honest as any he's ever made.
"Holmes," Watson rasps as Holmes lets go of his finger with a wet pop, the leather darkened and shining with saliva. "What -"
"I," Holmes says, "am in the process of consolidating years of research in various fields. Would you care to observe?"
Watson's pupils are blown, his eyes still wide and colour rising to his cheeks. He licks his lips, leaving them moist and glistening, and only his superior skills at appearing utterly unmoved save Holmes from the disgrace of begging Watson for his attention to certain parts of Holmes's anatomy.
"Perhaps," Watson says slowly, clearing his throat as his voice wavers, "I may offer some assistance."
"It does make a considerable difference to me," Holmes grants, his own voice not entirely steady, "having someone with me on whom I can... thoroughly rely."
Watson's lips twitch. "Ten minutes?"
"Make it an hour," Holmes says, and as he drags Watson towards his bedroom, his mouth waters at the thought of what he will do with it, and how, and where. An hour will never suffice.
Perhaps a lifetime, he thinks. Watson will need some convincing, no doubt, but Holmes feels up to the task. He is a professional, after all.
.