Fields of Play [1/?]
title: Fields of Play [1/?]
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (pre-slash in this chapter)
rating: PG
words: 2,190
summary: Watson was only able to come up with one reason why staying in and growing mold was not the right thing to do, and that was the potential of traumatizing his landlady with the eventual and inevitable sight of his corpse, which she probably would probably be bringing tea at some point.
Each art has its own moves, and its own fields of play. Just as van Gogh in handling paint dealt as his daily, practical work with such things as color, radiance, vibration, hope, eagerness, and a somber background, so does each of us. Whatever means of expression we have chosen or received has its own feel. This is the integration, in practice, of inspiration.
Stephen Nachmanovitch, ‘Free Play: Improvisation in life and art'
Had it not been such an unpleasant thing to think about, Watson could have written an entire book on the subject of his poor health. He would have liked to as well, for he was bored to the point of total misery in his new lodgings on Baker Street. All he had to do was unpack and settle in, and he took great pains to be as slow and meticulous as he could with doing so.
It took him two days to do what otherwise would have taken him only a few hours, since he had so few possessions to call his own. He had never organized his books alphabetically before, nor had he ever personally removed every individual speck of dust from between every crack in his wooden floor.
Watson had originally expected that living with another person would force him to be more social. Instead, after only two days, he had developed a cleaning obsession. As he dusted the lamp on his nightstand for the fifth time that day, he heard the soft strains of a violin coming from the next room.
It was the only real difference that came from living alone and living with another; even though Watson had effortlessly slipped back into his familiar patterns of antisocial solitude, at least his depression now had musical accompaniment.
After another few days, the sun came out. Watson considered going out for a walk, so he carefully weighed the pros and cons of such an act (in order to use up ten extra minutes of his otherwise aimless day, or, looking at the bigger picture, his otherwise aimless life). As fragile as his health presently was, he decided eventually that it would definitely be worth the walk; despite the possibility of a relapse looming ominously in his future, Watson did not mind. If he died, then he would die, and maybe then things would be interesting.
On his list of pros and cons, a list that Watson actually took the time to put down on paper (a waste of ink, really), it almost disturbed him to find that he had listed death as a pro. Almost. He was only able to come up with one con, one reason why staying in and growing mold was not the right thing to do, and that was the potential of traumatizing his landlady with the eventual and inevitable sight of his corpse, which she probably would be bringing tea at some point.
He decided that he was still a doctor, no matter the fact that he was currently more severely indisposed than he would have ever thought possible, and it was not in him to cause anyone psychological damage. So he put on a jacket, wound a scarf around his neck, then put on a second jacket as an afterthought, picked up his cane and walked out into the undiscovered country that was Baker street.
Almost three hours later, he staggered back in through his front door, in more pain than he would have liked, and far more miserable than he had ever dreamed. He wasn’t at all surprised.
His leg, having been aching the entire day (every day for the past few months), had progressed to full-fledged agony long before he ever reached home. He had long since removed both of his jackets, feeling himself melting into exhaustion in the unforgiving afternoon sun. He had slung the lighter one over his shoulder, but the heavier overcoat had disappeared. The streets must have claimed it, as payment for Watson’s heedless venture into unfamiliar territory. His scarf had met a similar fate soon after.
As he closed the door behind him, Watson could hear music drifting down from upstairs. Someone, his flat-mate, was playing a violin. His ear was not keen enough to have recognized the tune, but he did appreciate that it was well-played. There didn’t seem to be any mistakes to be heard, and it was rather pleasing to hear, as Watson realized after he came back into himself just in time to realize that he had, for the last few minutes, been sitting on the third step, his back to the wall, simply listening to it.
Bracing himself against the wall, Watson got his legs underneath him and stood up, determined to make it up the stairs and into the sitting room at least (for he sorely doubted that he would have been able to make it up to his own bedroom floor). Slowly, carefully, and much too set on the task at hand to go back down and retrieve his jacket from the step below where he had been sitting, he ascended. Closer and closer he staggered, towards the sounds of Holmes’ violin, until finally there was nothing but the closed door of the sitting room keeping him from seeing the instrument firsthand.
He pushed the door open, and Holmes immediately stopped the bow halfway across his violin’s strings, producing an abrupt and unpleasant sound that left Watson feeling like a thoughtless idiot for interrupting.
“Please,” he said, “don’t stop on my account.”
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “Surely, you’re exhausted from your walk. I wouldn’t want to disturb your rest.” He had already returned his violin to its case, so Watson saw it unnecessary to push that subject anymore.
“Can I ask you then,” he said instead, “how you had known that I was gone for a walk?”
Watson had to assure himself that it was a perfectly acceptable question to ask, because Holmes was then looking at him so condescendingly, with just a slightly raised eyebrow and pinched lips that looked like they were holding back a smirk, twirling his violin bow around his fingers, that he felt like an idiot for even considering it.
But really, there was nothing wrong with him wondering. After all, in the course of an entire day, Holmes and Watson would only cross paths once, if ever, at Mrs. Hudson’s dinners. Holmes was usually gone before Watson ever woke up, and would return directly to his own room when he got back, without so much as a hello and definitely without checking up to see if Watson was even home (even if Watson was a man of predictable habits who could almost always be found in his room). Since it was still two hours before dinner would be served when Watson returned, Holmes had no reason to think of him, let alone set out to discover his whereabouts. At least that’s what Watson assumed.
Holmes’ almost-smirk became a smile, as he fixed his full attention on the violin bow. He stilled his spontaneous twirling of the thing and considered it for a moment, before he shifted his grip and started loosening the bow’s hair. “Because,” he said, after enough length to put Watson in a state of uneasy anticipation, “you weren’t home.”
“But how did you know this?” Watson said, in a considerably more forceful tone. It bothered him how little it took for his temper to flare up, how quick he was to succumb to his anxieties, since returning from Afghanistan. He could feel his heartbeat speeding up already. “Do you expect me to believe that you could have broken your infallible routine and gone to my room to look for me?”
This got Holmes’ attention. His fingers still worked at loosening the hair of the bow, but his eyes were now on Watson, and looking rather concerned, actually. “It seems I’ve upset you.” Again, his fingers stilled and gripped the bow. “I meant you no insult. Please accept my most sincere apologies.”
“I would much prefer your elucidation,” Watson snapped, growing increasingly and uncontrollably agitated with every second that Holmes delayed. The circumstances were positively trivial, and Watson eagerly awaited a resolution so that he could then be off to his room to sit by himself and wallow in shame and embarrassment of this whole mess.
“Very well,” said Holmes, slapping the violin bow into his palm, clearly for dramatic and decisive emphasis. Watson jumped involuntarily at the sound, a sharp, loud crack that sounded like a gunshot. Holmes either failed to notice (which was impossible, since he had been looking directly at Watson at the time) or pretended not to, for he proceeded as if nothing had happened, as unassuming as if Watson’s agitation was in no way his own fault.
Of course it wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t have been. War was to blame, and the trauma Watson had suffered. But clearly, Watson had still not recovered enough to think clearly, and so he blamed it all on Holmes, whose apology did not help:
“In all honesty - for I have no intention of lying to you, especially about something so trivial - I knew nothing of your whereabouts until you walked through this door, just moments ago.”
He flicked the bow in the direction of the door, perhaps trying to remind Watson which way he had come in (presumptuously assuming the man had, in less than a minute’s time, forgotten), or perhaps meaning to gauge Watson’s sensitivity to sudden, unexpected sounds and motions, probably taking into consideration the embarrassing display he had just made at the sound of the bow hitting Holmes’ palm.
Watson flinched.
“From where I stood near the window,” Holmes continued, “I could easily hear the sound of the front door opening and someone entering. I then heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, which - considering how you are my only flat mate and therefore the only person who would be letting himself inside this apartment to begin with - might seem trivial to you, but let me assure you otherwise. From the heaviness of foot and slowness of step of whoever could have been climbing the stairs, for Mrs. Hudson is known to do so as well, on occasion, I could easily infer that whoever it was out there was tired. What could possibly tire a person, out on a warm day like today? Surely, a man such as yourself, being cooped up inside all week due to inclement weather, would not want to miss the chance to go outside on a day like this. Your present state of health no doubt made your purpose a difficult one, thus it seems no surprised that you would be exhausted from the walk, and not possessing nearly enough strength that our seventeen steps out there require.”
He paused, returning the bow to its case. “Also,” he added, “there are traces of mud on your shoes, and bits of grass.”
Whether he was being rude or just genuinely observant, Watson couldn’t quite tell. He wanted to punch the man in the jaw, and that was the truth, but he couldn’t quite comprehend why. So he stammered out the most polite thing he could think to say, all other methods of exiting a conversation having flown out of his mind. “A most commendable observation, Mr. Holmes.”
“Happy to be of service, Dr. Watson,” Holmes replied, sounding considerably less certain of himself than when he had just before going into painstaking details on Watson’s current state of being.
Watson ducked his head, trying to bow it politely, though he never did manage to raise it again until he was back in his own room, and only then to hide it in his hands. Safe, he though, and hated himself for it. He felt miserable and pathetic for letting what probably had been nothing more than neighborly politeness set off his temper, and for his nerves falling to pieces at the sound of a violin bow slapping against Holmes’ palm. He kept hearing the sound being played over and over again in his mind, each time growing slightly louder and more echoing, and then eventually accompanied by the individual screams of his comrades.
Clutching his temples with trembling fingers, he tried to steady himself, slow his breathing to get his racing heart under control. As long as he kept his lips pressed tightly together, he knew he wouldn’t scream himself, and therefore all would be well. He recalled bitterly that Holmes had called him Doctor. It had to have been in jest, he decided with even more bitterness, a cruel attempt to mock his pain and make him feel all the worse for his inability to control his anxiety.
With his hands over his ears, and breathing too heavily to hear anything else, Watson couldn’t have been sure when exactly Holmes had started playing his violin again. But when he could finally breathe easy again, Watson became aware of the soft strains of music coming from the next room. Watson wondered if it was the same song Holmes had been playing earlier, still too agitated to bother trying to identify the tune, and having been too exhausted to identify it when he had returned from his walk. Then he wondered if he happened to have tracked in any of the traces of mud and bits of grass Holmes had noticed on his shoes, and so he set off in search of cleaning supplies to clean the carpeted stairwell with. Holmes played his violin well into the night.
(Next Chapter)
fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Holmes/Watson (pre-slash in this chapter)
rating: PG
words: 2,190
summary: Watson was only able to come up with one reason why staying in and growing mold was not the right thing to do, and that was the potential of traumatizing his landlady with the eventual and inevitable sight of his corpse, which she probably would probably be bringing tea at some point.
Each art has its own moves, and its own fields of play. Just as van Gogh in handling paint dealt as his daily, practical work with such things as color, radiance, vibration, hope, eagerness, and a somber background, so does each of us. Whatever means of expression we have chosen or received has its own feel. This is the integration, in practice, of inspiration.
Stephen Nachmanovitch, ‘Free Play: Improvisation in life and art'
Had it not been such an unpleasant thing to think about, Watson could have written an entire book on the subject of his poor health. He would have liked to as well, for he was bored to the point of total misery in his new lodgings on Baker Street. All he had to do was unpack and settle in, and he took great pains to be as slow and meticulous as he could with doing so.
It took him two days to do what otherwise would have taken him only a few hours, since he had so few possessions to call his own. He had never organized his books alphabetically before, nor had he ever personally removed every individual speck of dust from between every crack in his wooden floor.
Watson had originally expected that living with another person would force him to be more social. Instead, after only two days, he had developed a cleaning obsession. As he dusted the lamp on his nightstand for the fifth time that day, he heard the soft strains of a violin coming from the next room.
It was the only real difference that came from living alone and living with another; even though Watson had effortlessly slipped back into his familiar patterns of antisocial solitude, at least his depression now had musical accompaniment.
After another few days, the sun came out. Watson considered going out for a walk, so he carefully weighed the pros and cons of such an act (in order to use up ten extra minutes of his otherwise aimless day, or, looking at the bigger picture, his otherwise aimless life). As fragile as his health presently was, he decided eventually that it would definitely be worth the walk; despite the possibility of a relapse looming ominously in his future, Watson did not mind. If he died, then he would die, and maybe then things would be interesting.
On his list of pros and cons, a list that Watson actually took the time to put down on paper (a waste of ink, really), it almost disturbed him to find that he had listed death as a pro. Almost. He was only able to come up with one con, one reason why staying in and growing mold was not the right thing to do, and that was the potential of traumatizing his landlady with the eventual and inevitable sight of his corpse, which she probably would be bringing tea at some point.
He decided that he was still a doctor, no matter the fact that he was currently more severely indisposed than he would have ever thought possible, and it was not in him to cause anyone psychological damage. So he put on a jacket, wound a scarf around his neck, then put on a second jacket as an afterthought, picked up his cane and walked out into the undiscovered country that was Baker street.
Almost three hours later, he staggered back in through his front door, in more pain than he would have liked, and far more miserable than he had ever dreamed. He wasn’t at all surprised.
His leg, having been aching the entire day (every day for the past few months), had progressed to full-fledged agony long before he ever reached home. He had long since removed both of his jackets, feeling himself melting into exhaustion in the unforgiving afternoon sun. He had slung the lighter one over his shoulder, but the heavier overcoat had disappeared. The streets must have claimed it, as payment for Watson’s heedless venture into unfamiliar territory. His scarf had met a similar fate soon after.
As he closed the door behind him, Watson could hear music drifting down from upstairs. Someone, his flat-mate, was playing a violin. His ear was not keen enough to have recognized the tune, but he did appreciate that it was well-played. There didn’t seem to be any mistakes to be heard, and it was rather pleasing to hear, as Watson realized after he came back into himself just in time to realize that he had, for the last few minutes, been sitting on the third step, his back to the wall, simply listening to it.
Bracing himself against the wall, Watson got his legs underneath him and stood up, determined to make it up the stairs and into the sitting room at least (for he sorely doubted that he would have been able to make it up to his own bedroom floor). Slowly, carefully, and much too set on the task at hand to go back down and retrieve his jacket from the step below where he had been sitting, he ascended. Closer and closer he staggered, towards the sounds of Holmes’ violin, until finally there was nothing but the closed door of the sitting room keeping him from seeing the instrument firsthand.
He pushed the door open, and Holmes immediately stopped the bow halfway across his violin’s strings, producing an abrupt and unpleasant sound that left Watson feeling like a thoughtless idiot for interrupting.
“Please,” he said, “don’t stop on my account.”
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “Surely, you’re exhausted from your walk. I wouldn’t want to disturb your rest.” He had already returned his violin to its case, so Watson saw it unnecessary to push that subject anymore.
“Can I ask you then,” he said instead, “how you had known that I was gone for a walk?”
Watson had to assure himself that it was a perfectly acceptable question to ask, because Holmes was then looking at him so condescendingly, with just a slightly raised eyebrow and pinched lips that looked like they were holding back a smirk, twirling his violin bow around his fingers, that he felt like an idiot for even considering it.
But really, there was nothing wrong with him wondering. After all, in the course of an entire day, Holmes and Watson would only cross paths once, if ever, at Mrs. Hudson’s dinners. Holmes was usually gone before Watson ever woke up, and would return directly to his own room when he got back, without so much as a hello and definitely without checking up to see if Watson was even home (even if Watson was a man of predictable habits who could almost always be found in his room). Since it was still two hours before dinner would be served when Watson returned, Holmes had no reason to think of him, let alone set out to discover his whereabouts. At least that’s what Watson assumed.
Holmes’ almost-smirk became a smile, as he fixed his full attention on the violin bow. He stilled his spontaneous twirling of the thing and considered it for a moment, before he shifted his grip and started loosening the bow’s hair. “Because,” he said, after enough length to put Watson in a state of uneasy anticipation, “you weren’t home.”
“But how did you know this?” Watson said, in a considerably more forceful tone. It bothered him how little it took for his temper to flare up, how quick he was to succumb to his anxieties, since returning from Afghanistan. He could feel his heartbeat speeding up already. “Do you expect me to believe that you could have broken your infallible routine and gone to my room to look for me?”
This got Holmes’ attention. His fingers still worked at loosening the hair of the bow, but his eyes were now on Watson, and looking rather concerned, actually. “It seems I’ve upset you.” Again, his fingers stilled and gripped the bow. “I meant you no insult. Please accept my most sincere apologies.”
“I would much prefer your elucidation,” Watson snapped, growing increasingly and uncontrollably agitated with every second that Holmes delayed. The circumstances were positively trivial, and Watson eagerly awaited a resolution so that he could then be off to his room to sit by himself and wallow in shame and embarrassment of this whole mess.
“Very well,” said Holmes, slapping the violin bow into his palm, clearly for dramatic and decisive emphasis. Watson jumped involuntarily at the sound, a sharp, loud crack that sounded like a gunshot. Holmes either failed to notice (which was impossible, since he had been looking directly at Watson at the time) or pretended not to, for he proceeded as if nothing had happened, as unassuming as if Watson’s agitation was in no way his own fault.
Of course it wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t have been. War was to blame, and the trauma Watson had suffered. But clearly, Watson had still not recovered enough to think clearly, and so he blamed it all on Holmes, whose apology did not help:
“In all honesty - for I have no intention of lying to you, especially about something so trivial - I knew nothing of your whereabouts until you walked through this door, just moments ago.”
He flicked the bow in the direction of the door, perhaps trying to remind Watson which way he had come in (presumptuously assuming the man had, in less than a minute’s time, forgotten), or perhaps meaning to gauge Watson’s sensitivity to sudden, unexpected sounds and motions, probably taking into consideration the embarrassing display he had just made at the sound of the bow hitting Holmes’ palm.
Watson flinched.
“From where I stood near the window,” Holmes continued, “I could easily hear the sound of the front door opening and someone entering. I then heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, which - considering how you are my only flat mate and therefore the only person who would be letting himself inside this apartment to begin with - might seem trivial to you, but let me assure you otherwise. From the heaviness of foot and slowness of step of whoever could have been climbing the stairs, for Mrs. Hudson is known to do so as well, on occasion, I could easily infer that whoever it was out there was tired. What could possibly tire a person, out on a warm day like today? Surely, a man such as yourself, being cooped up inside all week due to inclement weather, would not want to miss the chance to go outside on a day like this. Your present state of health no doubt made your purpose a difficult one, thus it seems no surprised that you would be exhausted from the walk, and not possessing nearly enough strength that our seventeen steps out there require.”
He paused, returning the bow to its case. “Also,” he added, “there are traces of mud on your shoes, and bits of grass.”
Whether he was being rude or just genuinely observant, Watson couldn’t quite tell. He wanted to punch the man in the jaw, and that was the truth, but he couldn’t quite comprehend why. So he stammered out the most polite thing he could think to say, all other methods of exiting a conversation having flown out of his mind. “A most commendable observation, Mr. Holmes.”
“Happy to be of service, Dr. Watson,” Holmes replied, sounding considerably less certain of himself than when he had just before going into painstaking details on Watson’s current state of being.
Watson ducked his head, trying to bow it politely, though he never did manage to raise it again until he was back in his own room, and only then to hide it in his hands. Safe, he though, and hated himself for it. He felt miserable and pathetic for letting what probably had been nothing more than neighborly politeness set off his temper, and for his nerves falling to pieces at the sound of a violin bow slapping against Holmes’ palm. He kept hearing the sound being played over and over again in his mind, each time growing slightly louder and more echoing, and then eventually accompanied by the individual screams of his comrades.
Clutching his temples with trembling fingers, he tried to steady himself, slow his breathing to get his racing heart under control. As long as he kept his lips pressed tightly together, he knew he wouldn’t scream himself, and therefore all would be well. He recalled bitterly that Holmes had called him Doctor. It had to have been in jest, he decided with even more bitterness, a cruel attempt to mock his pain and make him feel all the worse for his inability to control his anxiety.
With his hands over his ears, and breathing too heavily to hear anything else, Watson couldn’t have been sure when exactly Holmes had started playing his violin again. But when he could finally breathe easy again, Watson became aware of the soft strains of music coming from the next room. Watson wondered if it was the same song Holmes had been playing earlier, still too agitated to bother trying to identify the tune, and having been too exhausted to identify it when he had returned from his walk. Then he wondered if he happened to have tracked in any of the traces of mud and bits of grass Holmes had noticed on his shoes, and so he set off in search of cleaning supplies to clean the carpeted stairwell with. Holmes played his violin well into the night.
(Next Chapter)