More Holmes fic
Oct. 29th, 2008 10:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
I had to finish this before Nano, because it would not leave me alone o_o
Another Holmes fic. Less snark than the last one, but I hope it pleases all the same :)
Title: "Those Three Years"
Rating: G. Surprised, aren't you? Holmes/Watson friendship, more if you feel like it.
Word Count: 1,259
Author Notes: This takes place directly after The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter (Read the summary over at Wikipedia, complete with Paget drawings!), which is set sometime in the winter of 1896-7. So that would be almost three years since Holmes's return - the topic of their discussion. I always find the end of that story really sad, so, um, angst ahead. Mildish angst. And hand-holding.
As we left the house outside Cambridge where Godfrey Staunton's young wife lay dead, I remember the sunlight being as pale and muted as would befit the somber occasion. I gathered the tracking dog, Pompey, from the place we had tied him in the garden, and met Holmes where he waited for me at the end of the drive.
My friend was silent during our long walk back to town. That was not in and of itself unusual, for he would sometimes go days without speaking, but the completion of a case – in the few hours before boredom set in, at least – normally found him in high spirits.
This, however, had not been a case that anyone might call rewarding.
Holmes was always polite to our clients unless they gave him reason not to be, but his halting attempt at consolation moments before was something the like of which I don't believe I had ever seen. I now noted such iron impassivity on his face that I knew it had shaken him, and I can't say I felt much better, though I'm certain I hid it less well. Staunton was much too young to suffer losing his wife, and being left behind by someone you love is no easy thing at any age.
We returned Pompey once we reached town, settled our accounts at the inn, and hailed a cab to the train station. I expected no conversation as we climbed into the brougham, and I settled down with my own melancholy thoughts.
As I sat watching the brown hills and skeletal trees roll past, I felt Holmes's cold, dry hand cover my own. I looked over to see him gazing out of the window much the same as I had been moments before. His expression was as unreadable as it had been on our walk back, but I now saw evidence of some inward strain upon his face that concerned me.
"Holmes?"
For a long moment he said nothing, and I was beginning to worry I'd get no explanation at all. Then he closed his eyes and let out a breath, and said: "I have never truly apologized to you for those three years."
I stared at him, trying – most likely unsuccessfully – to hide my amazement. Those three years, as he put it, were not something we discussed. There was much I wanted to say, now he had opened that door, but I knew that the conversation would be over before it began if I said the wrong thing. "Your conduct since then has made up for it," I ventured.
He gave a wan smile. "Nevertheless. I'm afraid this business has made it all too clear." He threw a glance toward me, but he was obviously not prepared to meet my eyes. "You must understand, at the time I thought it absolutely necessary."
"Of course," I replied automatically. I would never say otherwise to him, no matter how I felt. After a moment, I asked hesitantly: "Do you think differently now?"
"Well, you do realize, back then I had no idea of the extent..." With his other hand, he made a vague releasing gesture, and I wondered what he had been about to say. The extent of my feelings for him? The extent to which his death would affect me? I remained silent in the hopes that my attentiveness would encourage him. Still he looked out the window and not at me, but I was very aware of his hand on mine. "Whether I think differently now is irrelevant," he said evenly. I felt a sharp dip in the pit of my stomach - an opportunity lost, a door closing. I had to be very careful.
"I think it might matter a great deal," I said. He looked at me then, and I met his eyes, and it seemed to me that he was weighing something. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to measure up to his expectations.
"There was no safe alternative," he said, "and I am sorry for it." His eyes flicked away and I caught my breath. "I wish to God there had been," he said softly, and then a moment later his old half-humorous cynicism took over. "I only count myself lucky that you are not a man to hold a grudge." There was the barest note of uncertainty underneath the wryness, and I fought back a surge of emotion.
"Holmes," I said, steadily as I could. It was rare enough for him to talk about how he felt, let alone in regards to this, and I owed him the same honesty at least. "I was angry when you told me," I went on, "and hurt. But my God, Holmes, when I thought you were dead--" I saw him close his eyes again, and there was such quiet anguish in the gesture that I could have bitten my tongue. Instead, I swallowed and said: "That was nothing compared to how glad I am that you're here now. I don't need anything else." Not an apology, not an explanation, I realized with some surprise. That he was here, that he was alive, that we were together – that was enough. How often, in those early days after his return, had I rehearsed in my head what I should like to say to him: the betrayal I'd felt, how disappointed in myself I'd been that I hadn't earned his trust, how empty and bleak even the busiest London street had seemed when I thought of the world – of my life – without him. That I had taken him for granted, that I had thought him invincible, and when that delusion shattered, how I had to meticulously, piece by piece, reconstruct my picture of reality.
It seemed superfluous to tell him all of this now. It was clear to me just by looking at him that even if he didn't know the details, he still had some understanding of what it had been like for me. Staunton, poor lad, had shown him something of that at the very least. Holmes would not have initiated such a conversation, or offered what I knew to be, for him, such a significant admission, if he did not understand. Subjecting him to the details of those three years would only amount to pouring salt in the wound, and I for one had seen quite enough suffering that day.
Holmes had his face turned toward the window again, and in the watery light, his jawline looked like marble. "You may say so," he said presently, "but you deserved an apology nonetheless."
"Don't let it trouble you," I said huskily, and at that he almost laughed. The sound was surprisingly fragile. He tilted his head toward me and I felt immense relief at meeting his gaze again.
"I hardly think that's fair, Watson."
I had a sudden burst of insight then - his words fell into place and I saw in his eyes what he needed - and I admit that the realization shocked me as much as his apology had. "I do forgive you, dear fellow. I had years ago."
Holmes remained perfectly still for a moment and then broke our gaze, but the tension was gone from around his eyes. "You're a better man than most," he said. "Fortunately for me."
"Fortunately for the both of us, then," said I. He did not reply, but his fingers curled around the edge of my palm, and I returned the pressure with what I cannot deny was a flutter in my chest.
Another Holmes fic. Less snark than the last one, but I hope it pleases all the same :)
Title: "Those Three Years"
Rating: G. Surprised, aren't you? Holmes/Watson friendship, more if you feel like it.
Word Count: 1,259
Author Notes: This takes place directly after The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter (Read the summary over at Wikipedia, complete with Paget drawings!), which is set sometime in the winter of 1896-7. So that would be almost three years since Holmes's return - the topic of their discussion. I always find the end of that story really sad, so, um, angst ahead. Mildish angst. And hand-holding.
As we left the house outside Cambridge where Godfrey Staunton's young wife lay dead, I remember the sunlight being as pale and muted as would befit the somber occasion. I gathered the tracking dog, Pompey, from the place we had tied him in the garden, and met Holmes where he waited for me at the end of the drive.
My friend was silent during our long walk back to town. That was not in and of itself unusual, for he would sometimes go days without speaking, but the completion of a case – in the few hours before boredom set in, at least – normally found him in high spirits.
This, however, had not been a case that anyone might call rewarding.
Holmes was always polite to our clients unless they gave him reason not to be, but his halting attempt at consolation moments before was something the like of which I don't believe I had ever seen. I now noted such iron impassivity on his face that I knew it had shaken him, and I can't say I felt much better, though I'm certain I hid it less well. Staunton was much too young to suffer losing his wife, and being left behind by someone you love is no easy thing at any age.
We returned Pompey once we reached town, settled our accounts at the inn, and hailed a cab to the train station. I expected no conversation as we climbed into the brougham, and I settled down with my own melancholy thoughts.
As I sat watching the brown hills and skeletal trees roll past, I felt Holmes's cold, dry hand cover my own. I looked over to see him gazing out of the window much the same as I had been moments before. His expression was as unreadable as it had been on our walk back, but I now saw evidence of some inward strain upon his face that concerned me.
"Holmes?"
For a long moment he said nothing, and I was beginning to worry I'd get no explanation at all. Then he closed his eyes and let out a breath, and said: "I have never truly apologized to you for those three years."
I stared at him, trying – most likely unsuccessfully – to hide my amazement. Those three years, as he put it, were not something we discussed. There was much I wanted to say, now he had opened that door, but I knew that the conversation would be over before it began if I said the wrong thing. "Your conduct since then has made up for it," I ventured.
He gave a wan smile. "Nevertheless. I'm afraid this business has made it all too clear." He threw a glance toward me, but he was obviously not prepared to meet my eyes. "You must understand, at the time I thought it absolutely necessary."
"Of course," I replied automatically. I would never say otherwise to him, no matter how I felt. After a moment, I asked hesitantly: "Do you think differently now?"
"Well, you do realize, back then I had no idea of the extent..." With his other hand, he made a vague releasing gesture, and I wondered what he had been about to say. The extent of my feelings for him? The extent to which his death would affect me? I remained silent in the hopes that my attentiveness would encourage him. Still he looked out the window and not at me, but I was very aware of his hand on mine. "Whether I think differently now is irrelevant," he said evenly. I felt a sharp dip in the pit of my stomach - an opportunity lost, a door closing. I had to be very careful.
"I think it might matter a great deal," I said. He looked at me then, and I met his eyes, and it seemed to me that he was weighing something. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to measure up to his expectations.
"There was no safe alternative," he said, "and I am sorry for it." His eyes flicked away and I caught my breath. "I wish to God there had been," he said softly, and then a moment later his old half-humorous cynicism took over. "I only count myself lucky that you are not a man to hold a grudge." There was the barest note of uncertainty underneath the wryness, and I fought back a surge of emotion.
"Holmes," I said, steadily as I could. It was rare enough for him to talk about how he felt, let alone in regards to this, and I owed him the same honesty at least. "I was angry when you told me," I went on, "and hurt. But my God, Holmes, when I thought you were dead--" I saw him close his eyes again, and there was such quiet anguish in the gesture that I could have bitten my tongue. Instead, I swallowed and said: "That was nothing compared to how glad I am that you're here now. I don't need anything else." Not an apology, not an explanation, I realized with some surprise. That he was here, that he was alive, that we were together – that was enough. How often, in those early days after his return, had I rehearsed in my head what I should like to say to him: the betrayal I'd felt, how disappointed in myself I'd been that I hadn't earned his trust, how empty and bleak even the busiest London street had seemed when I thought of the world – of my life – without him. That I had taken him for granted, that I had thought him invincible, and when that delusion shattered, how I had to meticulously, piece by piece, reconstruct my picture of reality.
It seemed superfluous to tell him all of this now. It was clear to me just by looking at him that even if he didn't know the details, he still had some understanding of what it had been like for me. Staunton, poor lad, had shown him something of that at the very least. Holmes would not have initiated such a conversation, or offered what I knew to be, for him, such a significant admission, if he did not understand. Subjecting him to the details of those three years would only amount to pouring salt in the wound, and I for one had seen quite enough suffering that day.
Holmes had his face turned toward the window again, and in the watery light, his jawline looked like marble. "You may say so," he said presently, "but you deserved an apology nonetheless."
"Don't let it trouble you," I said huskily, and at that he almost laughed. The sound was surprisingly fragile. He tilted his head toward me and I felt immense relief at meeting his gaze again.
"I hardly think that's fair, Watson."
I had a sudden burst of insight then - his words fell into place and I saw in his eyes what he needed - and I admit that the realization shocked me as much as his apology had. "I do forgive you, dear fellow. I had years ago."
Holmes remained perfectly still for a moment and then broke our gaze, but the tension was gone from around his eyes. "You're a better man than most," he said. "Fortunately for me."
"Fortunately for the both of us, then," said I. He did not reply, but his fingers curled around the edge of my palm, and I returned the pressure with what I cannot deny was a flutter in my chest.
no subject
Date: 2008-10-30 01:00 pm (UTC)*GLOMPS you* GAWD your voice for them both and choice of wording is IMPECCABLE, m'dear. You are truly made of Awesome!
Your nano is gonna roxxors to the max!
no subject
Date: 2008-10-30 10:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-30 07:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-30 10:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-01 02:41 pm (UTC)You cannot imagine how I squeed at this - however, this made me simply jump up and down in my seat:
Then he closed his eyes and let out a breath, and said: "I have never truly apologized to you for those three years."
Good god, woman! I hardly know these two, and yet you can reduce me to a puddle of goo.
Holmes remained perfectly still for a moment and then broke our gaze, but the tension was gone from around his eyes.
I love this. Love. it. You convey more in a subtle hint than most do with hitting one straight in the face. The whole thing is brilliant. :)
no subject
Date: 2008-11-01 08:38 pm (UTC)You cannot imagine how I squeed at this - however, this made me simply jump up and down in my seat:
You delight me!
Good god, woman! I hardly know these two, and yet you can reduce me to a puddle of goo.
That makes me SO happy! I can't even express it! I'm really, really glad that the things I wanted to get across get across without it being too blatant.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-05 03:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-05 11:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-10 12:34 am (UTC)This is beyond lovely.
Those three years, as he put it, were not something we discussed
They really don't, and it cannot be good for them, really. Poor boys. I love that you explored Holmes' anguish too-- though I'm still not sure I forgive him enough to feel sorry for him :)
how empty and bleak even the busiest London street had seemed when I thought of the world – of my life – without him. That I had taken him for granted, that I had thought him invincible, and when that delusion shattered, how I had to meticulously, piece by piece, reconstruct my picture of reality.
Oh, goodness, the wibbling. 'Most nothing I read makes me cry, but this came darned close. There was definite teariness. And the phrasing is so gorgeous...
"Don't let it trouble you," I said huskily, and at that he almost laughed. The sound was surprisingly fragile. He tilted his head toward me and I felt immense relief at meeting his gaze again.
Gah, yes, so them! All the little details of this passage are just so spot on, and so beautiful.
no subject
Date: 2009-06-10 10:34 pm (UTC)I'm so happy you quoted back that bit about Watson having to reconstruct his picture of reality, because I loved that bit and I worked really hard on it, and I don't remember anyone else pointing it out. <3
Thank you so much! *glee*