[FIC]Shatter These Walls 1/?
I promised you fic this weekend, and even though the weekend's technically over in the part of the world I'm in atm it's still on at home base, so here you go.
Two notes in advance. First, I want you all to bow down to and hail the spectacularjg5799, whose mad beta and britpicking skills have saved you from going through a mess of misspellings, Americanisms, anachronisms and page-long sentences. I likely wouldn't have published for weeks if not for her. Second, I'm working full-time at a pretty demanding job so I can't manage more than one update per week. Wish I could get paid for writing fanfiction, but no luck so far. This is a WIP, I don't know how long it'll be yet.
OK, there's another note: I can't write smut without plot. Thus there will be talking, and plot, and case! And smut, later on.
Hope you'll enjoy- and remember to thank jg5799!
Shatter These Walls
Chapter 1
He had known from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her that she was too soft for his dear Watson. Oh, she had spunk, Miss Mary Morstan did, and the bearing of a lady even through the more unfortunate circumstances of her life, but she was not what his dearest friend's soldier side required, nor would she be enough to bear up under the pressure of his more adventurous attitudes. She was a lady, after all.
In everything else, she was the perfect complement to the doctor. She shared his passion for books, his spark, and his humanity even towards those most undeserving of any kindness whatsoever. The more wretched the existence, the more insistent Watson seemed to see to its betterment; proof in point: The doctor's involvement with himself. Maybe it was proof, in turn, of Miss Morstan's practical intelligence (of the kind geared to dealing with the tedium of human existence, not the kind given to brainwork; Holmes was willing to credit her but not with the assumption that a female could actually encroach upon that which was his alone- well, maybe his brother's if he was feeling generous). She was not as inclined to watching over him and pandering to his whims as his doctor was.
Holmes lowered his violin, his repertoire of melancholy songs of loneliness quite exhausted and his mind too distracted by all that was around him to focus on improvising and composing new ones. Experiments- some quite abandoned, or rather interrupted by other brainwork or his leave of absence following a rather uncomfortable tumble off a ledge over a waterfall, others mildly stewing or right at crucial points for continuance- littered every available surface. With his doctor gone from the flat, Holmes had turned again to attempting to once and for all find a substance reactive to only human hemoglobin So far, he had almost succeeded- if it had not been for a rather unfortunate spill of his most promising substance during a moment where boredom had overwhelmed his being enough for not even the contents of his Moroccan case to be soothing in their effect. He might admit to nearly missing the Napoleon of Crime in these instances...
Oh. Oh! Hastily abandoning the Stradivarius upon its stand, Holmes quickly strode to the cabinet housing his more exotic chemical components, particularly the ones reacting violently to the exposure to sunlight, air, or water, and pulled from within a small vial of unremarkable powder. It was lye in its dormant form, chemical formula NaOH, to be dissolved within distilled water in an exothermic reaction, the heat of which he would need to contain; maybe by adjusting his calculations so a lower strength base would be enough to mix with what he thought might be the reduced form of a complex organic compound. It was a substance he'd stumbled upon by chance when he'd almost blown up the flat while experimenting with zinc and sulfur and lye (Watson had been eminently displeased with the smells produced, but Holmes had found said most fascinating compound as a result of the experiment). Being as before he'd followed and expounded upon Auguste Laurent's chloride experiments (naphthalene and nitric acid before, then he'd attempted to further nitride the compound), even he could not object to the airing of their rooms (which had taken two miserable days of being huddled under a pile of blankets on the settee while Watson refused to bring him his case files no matter how much he'd wheedled). (1)
Blackwood had thrown quite the wrench into that particular avenue of experimentation. Then Watson had to go and get himself married, a state which in and of itself was as incomprehensible as it was vexing to Holmes, who now found himself without a sounding board upon which to resonate his theories of chemistry, life, and deduction.
In addition, Watson had been far less inclined to listen to him ranting on the subject of the females of the species ever since he'd gone and had that governess intrude into their well-established relationship. Holmes could theoretically appreciate Watson's need for female companionship, for the soothing presence she seemed to be in his doctor's life when she wasn't insulting Holmes, or throwing wine in his face, or distrusting him, or annoying him with witty repartee she shouldn't have been capable of, but she was still not needed. He'd give his friend all he would ever ask for and more, without questioning, simply since it was the only way he knew he could ever show his appreciation.
Puzzled, Holmes abandoned his frantic movements, extinguishing his Bunsen burner because he was certain Mrs. Hudson would not suffer him a moment longer if he caused the second explosion within as many weeks. Better to err on the side of caution; his funds were not yet sufficiently recovered from his months-long hiatus and he would rather not be forced to rely on Mycroft yet again. His brother had a way of rubbing him the wrong way on even his best days, which were few and far between now that he lacked his most trusted companion's constant attendance. Being rubbed wrong while being laid up in hospital in Basel was even less tolerable, especially since the cursed doctors had insisted on keeping his drugs down to the bare minimum required for him not to be a screaming wreck of pain during those first weeks of recovery.
He had returned to Baker Street once he'd actually healed enough to withstand travel to England, his fall having done more damage than even Moriarty's twisted mind could have inflicted. He'd taken another fortnight, battling exhaustion and a low-grade fever, perfecting his urban camouflage to suit Watson's new quarters at Cavendish place, forwarding Watson's parcel that he'd had sent once around the world (distraction) to Watson, tracing Moran's whereabouts and devising a plan to ensure his continued existence. A plan which had never quite come to fruition as aforementioned marksman had taken it upon himself to flee England, probably to return to India, once he'd gotten the notion that the Yard, and Lestrade, were coming uncomfortably close to apprehending him, led, of course, by anonymous voices from the populace that came in several most cleverly devised disguises, even if Holmes said so himself. He'd been rather fond of the way he'd found to incorporate his still painful and stiff shoulder, even going as far as to masquerade as a one-armed Afghan veteran aided by his observance of Watson and his habits.
And yet again, his thoughts cycled back to his friend. Watson had not been as pleased to find him alive as Holmes had assumed he'd be. He had made his displeasure known in a direct and effective way, a straight jab to the right shoulder to unbalance him followed with a strong left to the jaw that had floored him. He'd not been able to get up again, the fireworks of pain sparked in the injured joint proving too distracting; that shoulder had been twice pulled out of place and twisted into a scarred mass after meeting with several rather sharp rocks on the way into the abyss. Or maybe it had been the snarl on Watson's face, only tempered by recognizance of his less than ideal state of health a moment too late, that staid him from rising and returning the favour.
Watson had apologized and patched him up afterwards, remarking on the good work Holmes' Swiss doctors had done on his shoulder. He'd also offered to help Holmes regain full mobility and taken some silent pleasure in seeing how pale and strained most of his help had left the detective, until he'd finally seen some improvement. Miss Morstan- Mrs. Watson, much as it pained Holmes to call her that- had had that amused twinkle of hers in her eye, covering some well-concealed concern that made Holmes wonder if she wasn't starting to care for him after all and he'd given her too much credit (not that it would astonish him to find that he was right, he had been going out on a limb where she was concerned).
Holmes shrugged his shoulders, the remaining twinge negligible. Perhaps a trip to the Punchbowl was warranted that night, to bolster his failing funds and put his physical recovery to the test. Maybe there would be a fighter good enough to give him a mental challenge, make that turning and twisting of his thoughts on the subject of the absence of the one constant in his life halt in its tracks. Physical exertion was the only thing that surpassed even mental discipline in keeping pesky emotions from staining memories even deeper than necessary into the very fabric of his brain.
It was this discipline that had, literally, saved his life, for he'd have gone mad without it. Mycroft had taken it to an even greater extreme, removing himself so far from human emotion as to be incapable of understanding it on a baser level, instead discussing it with the clarity of mind that came with residing on the meta plane.
Sherlock himself had been headed down the same path, aloofness the only protection against eyes that see too much, a mind that registers everything and is constantly in motion, re-classifying, re-organizing, linking, dividing, sequestering, analyzing. Emotionally charged memories are indelible and prone to cropping up at the most inopportune moments, delaying observation, impeding deduction, obstructing the flow of data along a web of information intrinsically linked to the essence of his being. Better to keep them from forming at all, keep everything on a level playing field, able to be accessed at any time without any strange priorities.
It was the arrival of one Doctor John H. Watson, fresh from the war in Afghanistan, pale, haunted, jittery and yet stronger than any other man he'd ever encountered that hindered his development into the detached, blasé and bored world his brother lived in. He'd torn down the walls Holmes had erected around his instincts, forced him to confront his emotions head-on and refused to let him distance himself, whether through aids chemical or via the force of concentrated thought.
Ever since, he'd been living in a cesspool of humanity, a quagmire of unrestrained feelings churning under the surface of his analytical gaze, his deductions sharper for it, but the price he paid...
Watson would never know. He'd never let him know. It was just a small part of what he'd do for his only friend, the only one who'd cared to break through to the deeply emotional man that lay dormant inside the genius mind. Whatever Watson did, it registered on the emotional level whether Holmes wanted it to or not; such was the nature of their friendship.
Holmes threw himself onto the settee, arm sheltering his eyes from the light that would tell him the exact time of day as surely as the voices outside the window, mercifully muted, he couldn't withstand the full onslaught of London today, not when he was feeling so strung-out along a line of thought he'd yet to discover the aim of and his supply of seven-percent solution not recovered.
Voices rose, loudly, underneath the windows- bankers, group of three, one of them owing a good-natured debt to the oldest of the group and desperate to distract him from remembering, flower girl, hansom driver chatting with the housekeeper of 145, two Irregulars keeping watch while whistling a ditty that had become popular on the wharfs the past week, Watson greeting Mrs. Hudson and the neighbor's girl... Watson?
Holmes sprang upright. It wouldn't do to let his friend find him in a black mood, not on one of his increasingly rare visits. He brushed his fingers through his hair, forcing the thoughts clamoring for his attention to the back of his mind by focusing on the gunshot wound he'd inflicted on their wall, VR, Victoria Regina and...
"What brings you here, old boy?" Soft. Calming. Soothing. He was there to listen, Watson was agitated, probably some marital spat gone awry, words had that shouldn't have been spoken or rather, shouted; he was limping ever so slightly so it couldn't have been more than a few hours since he'd last physically exerted himself, he'd not even had tea yet and it was almost time for lunch, and there were several creases in his jacket that he'd never have allowed himself if he hadn't been distracted by something he put even more importance on than his appearance. Experience dictated there was but one thing that would fit all these criteria. "Mary throw you out yet?"
"Congratulations on your brilliant deduction, Holmes. What gave it away?"
"Tea," Holmes said, throwing himself into his chair, opposite Watson's, inviting his friend to sit without a word. He'd taken care to let the chairs, their chairs, be the only surface of the room not covered in papers, experiments, or byproducts thereof. Hopefully Watson would be able to appreciate the effort.
"No, thank you," Watson shot back sharply, fixing Holmes with a baleful gaze that took the sting out of his words.
"You haven't had any yet." Holmes offered by way of an explanation.
"She said I'm too... wild. That I behave like an animal at night. For God's sake, I just love the woman to death and we are so well matched, but sometimes she's like a flower wilting in a vase, demanding to be appreciated but not touched." He wrung his hands, a gesture Holmes knew all too well for being directed at him whenever Watson felt he'd done something extremely out of the boundaries of convention and decorum, in public, of course. Talking about what went on in a marriage apparently fell under that category, even if it was to a friend. As he was here talking about it with Holmes of all people, Watson himself must feel that the subject matter pertained to anything within those areas, the exaggeration in both countenance and gestures meant it was a somewhat delicate matter, and as it was Watson who was talking there, it had to be...
"It is not within the realm of my expertise to say so, old friend, but... Are you talking about... the way you... exchange affection within the confines of the marital bed, Watson?" He smirked, almost triumphantly, he'd known she couldn't handle his friend.
"Yes, Holmes. To all of that. I love her, she loves me, we're well suited yet sometimes... And when I try talking to her she just... But what am I asking of you? You!"
Holmes was feeling distinctly out of his depth. While not a man who lived like a monk and certainly not a saint, his very nature wasn't given to a physical expression of his desires. His body was but a vessel to carry his mind and occasionally a tool to sharpen or quieten said vessel. He'd never given thought to quelling desires with another person when, should the occasion warrant it, a perfunctory use of his own hand was enough to settle the matter quickly and efficiently.
Therefore, while he was theoretically able to appreciate Watson's problem, he remained as unsure as to why his friend was talking to him about the matter as Watson sounded (there had to be others, Lestrade, Stamford, who could offer much better advice than he could). The boundaries of propriety being violated alone couldn't warrant spiting a more expert opinion such as those of men who were actually married, a more helpful bit of advice than the mere platitudes he could deduce from his studies of humanity.
"She is a woman, Watson," he tried to explain. It made sense after all. The fairer sex.
"Which you have been pointing out to me at all points in our relationship. You even threw her from a train to get rid of her!"
"Oh, that again!" Holmes waved his hands in exasperation. Had Watson still not got past that? It had been perfectly timed and very much necessary, not only to gain a valuable contact with Mycroft but also to remove the annoyance from the picture of their ultimately ill-fated adventure. She had the mental acumen to keep Lestrade on task and in check while dismantling Moriarty's financial base, and that was really the biggest compliment he'd ever paid a woman. He'd relied on her, he'd trusted her, and in turn, had paid the same compliment to Watson for finding a life companion who was, if not perfect, at least as tolerable as they could get.
"It was the quickest, most efficient way to get her out of harm's way, into my brother's protection and situated where she could be our agent in London." His explanation would, as it had so many times before, fall on deaf ears he knew.
"You constantly belittle my love for her, insinuate yourself into every aspect of our lives, and now all you've got to say is She's a woman?"
Holmes was quiet, not the thrumming, charged-up quiet he was just before sprinting off after a new clue in a case, the stunned quiet that came with punches to the temple, or injuries severe enough to still the ever-moving detective. His thoughts were shocked into silence, knowing that he was just a convenient target for Watson's frustration, but it still... It wasn't what he'd said at all.
There were several avenues of conversation left open to him, and while it would be easy to rile his friend further, make him spend his rage and fury on him, even allow for physical reactions (he should be able to take a bit more damage now than he had several months back), Holmes was certain that none of them would benefit Watson in the long run, introducing guilt over his actions into the violent mix of emotions depicted in every line of his tautly tensed muscles.
"Yes, quite," was all he said, whirling on his heel to restore the lye to the cabinet for later use. "Now, would you rather continue your pointless rant about the inestimable Mrs. Watson or would you care to follow me to the Punchbowl for some sport? I believe we might get a bite to eat afterwards..."
"Holmes?"
"I might find myself in need of the services of my most excellent doctor, but I need to... put this on trial." He gestured towards his right shoulder, blinking rapidly to dislodge the strains of sound rising up from memory, taking him back to air burning with unfired gunpowder, rife with the sharp sting of gun oil and burning petroleum, and twins that weren't really twins. Watson's eyes saved him, he was holding with all his power on to those bewildered, bright blue irises, pupils still slightly narrowed, a reaction to the almost-hysteria that had fueled his previous outburst, widening to more natural proportions now as Holmes' steamrollering him set him back to normal. He had observed similar reactions on administration of his adrenal extract, which reminded him that he still had to ask Watson about his observations as to the first effects on his person, that whole mess was a little hazy in his mind- that satanic pony's fault no doubt. Thank goodness Watson had blue eyes! He might never find his way out of the recollection otherwise.
He haphazardly knotted a cravat around his neck , focus restored to the present with great effort, and snatched a rumpled and stained jacket from the coat rack (why was it there? He normally kept his jackets on the potted plant in the left-hand corner behind the door). A challenging grin to Watson, just the right amount of lopsidedness to ensure his friend knew he meant it as a joke rather than an invitation to a punch-out.
"Coming?"
He didn't mind putting his other plans- putting case files into their proper place, continuing the experiment, finding a way to pry Gladstone from Watson's wife's undoubtedly overprotective care- on hold, neither did he feel much like lunching. His friend needed cheering up, so that's what he had to do.
He had been so scared when Watson, after his initial violent reaction and subsequent attack of guilty care, had not deigned to speak to him, or even look at him, again for two weeks outside their physical therapy sessions. Holmes had come to relish them- despite the pain, despite the almost-tears that he barely held back by main force of will as Watson's fingers pressed into the scar tissue, manipulating and softening and ensuring he would still be able to fight in his particular amalgam style comprised of several nationalities' techniques, they had been the only time his only friend had willingly borne his renewed company. Watson hadn't spoken even then, just...
"Thought you'd never ask." His friend snatched his hat off the same coat rack, frowning at Holmes' attire but making no attempt at getting him to dress like the gentleman he was.
"Do you have your pocketbook, or is it locked in your wife's drawer now?" Holmes asked, not spiteful, just matter-of-fact. He would have to take care that the bet placed would not exceed certain limits so as not to attract too much attention from the more unsavory elements in attendance. Yes, even at the Punchbowl there were certain distinctions in the human detritus gathered.
"Have it right here, safe and sound," Watson replied, sounding slightly offended despite knowing of Holmes' intentions.
"I hope you won't mind splitting the bet today, old boy," the detective asked, peering up at his taller companion while jauntily swinging a cane he'd snatched off a windowsill as they left the house, through the front door for once.
"Not at all, Holmes," Watson answered, keeping an eye out for a hansom cab they could hail. "The practice is doing better now than ever."
"Good to hear!" Holmes grinned, then whistled sharply to the cab just rounding the corner ahead. It had taken him a while, but he had his doctor back. The one that needed the rush, needed the chase, needed the uncertainty of the moment- when he wasn't taking care of his better than ever practice.
He would do anything to keep his friend where he was, because, just as Watson needed him, Holmes needed Watson.
(1)Yes, I'm basically having Holmes almost stumble upon Luminol here. It's all very disjointed, but the chemical formulae are there.
Chapter end notes:
First chapter done. Hope you liked it! I'd love to hear what I can do better the next time. Thanks for reading!