More Holmes fic
Feb. 18th, 2009 08:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elabyMore fic! Not old, this time. I have all of these stories that just need the last five lines or so, and I just need to finish them f'god's sake.
Title: "A Treat for the Gods"
Rating: G
Words: 1248
Summary: The first time Watson hears Holmes truly play the violin, his reaction is stronger than he expected.
Notes: I'm fascinated lately by the idea of just-met Holmes and Watson, when they didn't really know each other yet and they were both pretty young. I think this may be Vasily Livanov's fault, because his performance as Holmes reminds me of the early stories. I find writing about their relationship when they're feeling it out at the beginning just as fun as when it's long-established :3
I am a sentimental man; Holmes would attest to this in the most long-suffering tones. It was a love of music that first brought us into sympathy with one another, in the early days of our friendship, before I got used to his erratic nature and he to my oft-bemoaned sentimentality. The first time I heard him play his violin – truly play, not the cacophonous sawing that so seemed to help him think or the rapid successions of popular music he would fly through to appease me afterward – we had been sharing rooms for less than two months. I did not relay this incident in "A Study in Scarlet," perhaps more because the memory carries with it some degree of embarrassment than because it was extraneous to the events in connection with that case. It was, however, a significant development in the understanding that grew between Holmes and me.
My nerves at the time were not what they are now, and I suppose that may have had something to do with it; but I think it was more that I was still in that liminal state between incapacitating illness and being well enough to occupy my time with active pursuits. Whatever it was, I confess to feeling wretched more often than not, although the distraction of trying to discover everything I could about my fellow lodger kept me in better spirits than I would have otherwise been.
The weather had been dreadful for several days, effectively imprisoning me in our sitting room, for the damp hurt my wound then even more than it does now. Holmes came and went on errands about which I knew nothing and he ventured nothing. Boredom gave way to brooding and melancholia. It was after six o'clock on a Thursday when I was startled out of my reverie by Holmes clumping up our stairs.
The image that impressed me the most when he came in and banged the door behind him was that of a large, wet bird. He was wearing an ulster and had somehow lost his hat, and his hair was plastered down by the rain. I watched him jerkily struggle out of his coat and shake it out, showering the surrounding area with droplets, and was convinced by those few movements that his mood was no better than mine. Without a word or a glance in my direction he went to his room and emerged shortly after in dry clothes.
I suppressed a sigh as I witnessed him open his violin case; whatever put him into these moods invariably required the kind of meditative scraping that would shatter any tenuous hold I had on amiability. He had barely set bow to strings before I was proven wrong.
I had never heard the song he played before and I was never to hear it again; I am convinced it was one of his own creation, perhaps even improvised. Whatever it was, I was prepared neither for its beauty nor for the skill with which he played it. I had seen something of his talent before this, but anything I found recognizable had seemed hurried, as if he played it with only half his attention. This – this was not for me. It was for him. Maybe it is only because I was so surprised to hear it, but I don't know that I've ever heard him play more beautifully.
What I do know, and freely confess, is that the music touched some unexpected chord within me. A chill of gooseflesh overtook me, not unlike that which accompanies some sudden marvel of nature, and it drew tears to my eyes. I sat spellbound as his performance stretched on, unsure whether he had even noticed me at all and unable to take my eyes from him. At some point, though, he did notice – in the natural movement of his playing he turned toward me, and then he stopped short in the middle of a note. I can only imagine what my face must have been like; when I blinked my vision clear he was staring at me with a startled expression that almost bordered on fright.
The silence was jarring in the wake of such sublimity, but I could not pull myself far enough out of my surprise and wonder to urge him to continue. In a split second Holmes was in motion again, setting his violin and bow in his chair and reaching for his coat.
"I really must be off, old fellow, I'm sure you'll forgive me," he said in a rush as he threw the ulster, still dripping, around his shoulders. He took his hat from the stand and was out the door and drumming down the stairs before I could rise.
I made it out onto the landing as he reached the front door. "Holmes!" He stopped with his hand on the latch and looked up at me. I swallowed and tried to counteract with carelessness the slightly frantic note that had crept into my voice. "It's... a rather bad night to be out, don't you think?"
He gave me a half smile, and it seemed to me that he relaxed. "Am I to take it that you're worried about my health, Doctor?"
"Well, I am." I wasn't particularly; I only hated the idea that my reaction might drive him off. I grasped for something to cover my embarrassment. "Besides, Mrs. Hudson said she'd be bringing dinner up at seven-thirty. She always looks so disappointed when you miss a chance at her cooking." It was immediately obvious that he saw through my tactic – Mrs. Hudson knew him well enough by now not to expect his regular attendance at meals – but he dropped his hand from the door and began climbing the stairs just the same. I remained on the landing, and as he passed me his eyes flicked up to mine and I was surprised to see an uncertainty in them that I had never beheld before.
Holmes talked about Catullus all through dinner as if nothing awkward had taken place, but afterwards, when I had settled into my chair and he was putting the violin back into its case, he said:--
"You must forgive me, Watson, if I upset you earlier. I am unused to playing for an audience."
"You misunderstand," said I, and suddenly wondered into what part of his secret world I had inadvertently intruded. He raised his eyebrows at me. "I believe I said when we first met that a well-played violin is a treat for the gods."
Holmes glanced up with a brief smile, and I recognized in it the same pleasure I saw when I expressed my admiration for his deductive genius. "Your praise today was more sincere still." He gave a little half shrug that again betrayed some uncertainty. "Though unexpected. Fancy a game of chess?"
"Very much," I said. As I fetched the chessboard and brought it to the table where Holmes was clearing space, I went on, somewhat shyly, "You were not the only one to be surprised."
Holmes glanced up with an amused smirk. "Yes, I did note some astonishment in your reaction."
I was relieved to feel a lessening of tension between us, and things seemed to turn in a more normal direction. "Well, what did you expect upon the revelation that your repertoire extends beyond dissonant scrapings and the occasional impatient Gilbert and Sullivan medley?"
He laughed, and we set out the chess pieces.
Title: "A Treat for the Gods"
Rating: G
Words: 1248
Summary: The first time Watson hears Holmes truly play the violin, his reaction is stronger than he expected.
Notes: I'm fascinated lately by the idea of just-met Holmes and Watson, when they didn't really know each other yet and they were both pretty young. I think this may be Vasily Livanov's fault, because his performance as Holmes reminds me of the early stories. I find writing about their relationship when they're feeling it out at the beginning just as fun as when it's long-established :3
I am a sentimental man; Holmes would attest to this in the most long-suffering tones. It was a love of music that first brought us into sympathy with one another, in the early days of our friendship, before I got used to his erratic nature and he to my oft-bemoaned sentimentality. The first time I heard him play his violin – truly play, not the cacophonous sawing that so seemed to help him think or the rapid successions of popular music he would fly through to appease me afterward – we had been sharing rooms for less than two months. I did not relay this incident in "A Study in Scarlet," perhaps more because the memory carries with it some degree of embarrassment than because it was extraneous to the events in connection with that case. It was, however, a significant development in the understanding that grew between Holmes and me.
My nerves at the time were not what they are now, and I suppose that may have had something to do with it; but I think it was more that I was still in that liminal state between incapacitating illness and being well enough to occupy my time with active pursuits. Whatever it was, I confess to feeling wretched more often than not, although the distraction of trying to discover everything I could about my fellow lodger kept me in better spirits than I would have otherwise been.
The weather had been dreadful for several days, effectively imprisoning me in our sitting room, for the damp hurt my wound then even more than it does now. Holmes came and went on errands about which I knew nothing and he ventured nothing. Boredom gave way to brooding and melancholia. It was after six o'clock on a Thursday when I was startled out of my reverie by Holmes clumping up our stairs.
The image that impressed me the most when he came in and banged the door behind him was that of a large, wet bird. He was wearing an ulster and had somehow lost his hat, and his hair was plastered down by the rain. I watched him jerkily struggle out of his coat and shake it out, showering the surrounding area with droplets, and was convinced by those few movements that his mood was no better than mine. Without a word or a glance in my direction he went to his room and emerged shortly after in dry clothes.
I suppressed a sigh as I witnessed him open his violin case; whatever put him into these moods invariably required the kind of meditative scraping that would shatter any tenuous hold I had on amiability. He had barely set bow to strings before I was proven wrong.
I had never heard the song he played before and I was never to hear it again; I am convinced it was one of his own creation, perhaps even improvised. Whatever it was, I was prepared neither for its beauty nor for the skill with which he played it. I had seen something of his talent before this, but anything I found recognizable had seemed hurried, as if he played it with only half his attention. This – this was not for me. It was for him. Maybe it is only because I was so surprised to hear it, but I don't know that I've ever heard him play more beautifully.
What I do know, and freely confess, is that the music touched some unexpected chord within me. A chill of gooseflesh overtook me, not unlike that which accompanies some sudden marvel of nature, and it drew tears to my eyes. I sat spellbound as his performance stretched on, unsure whether he had even noticed me at all and unable to take my eyes from him. At some point, though, he did notice – in the natural movement of his playing he turned toward me, and then he stopped short in the middle of a note. I can only imagine what my face must have been like; when I blinked my vision clear he was staring at me with a startled expression that almost bordered on fright.
The silence was jarring in the wake of such sublimity, but I could not pull myself far enough out of my surprise and wonder to urge him to continue. In a split second Holmes was in motion again, setting his violin and bow in his chair and reaching for his coat.
"I really must be off, old fellow, I'm sure you'll forgive me," he said in a rush as he threw the ulster, still dripping, around his shoulders. He took his hat from the stand and was out the door and drumming down the stairs before I could rise.
I made it out onto the landing as he reached the front door. "Holmes!" He stopped with his hand on the latch and looked up at me. I swallowed and tried to counteract with carelessness the slightly frantic note that had crept into my voice. "It's... a rather bad night to be out, don't you think?"
He gave me a half smile, and it seemed to me that he relaxed. "Am I to take it that you're worried about my health, Doctor?"
"Well, I am." I wasn't particularly; I only hated the idea that my reaction might drive him off. I grasped for something to cover my embarrassment. "Besides, Mrs. Hudson said she'd be bringing dinner up at seven-thirty. She always looks so disappointed when you miss a chance at her cooking." It was immediately obvious that he saw through my tactic – Mrs. Hudson knew him well enough by now not to expect his regular attendance at meals – but he dropped his hand from the door and began climbing the stairs just the same. I remained on the landing, and as he passed me his eyes flicked up to mine and I was surprised to see an uncertainty in them that I had never beheld before.
Holmes talked about Catullus all through dinner as if nothing awkward had taken place, but afterwards, when I had settled into my chair and he was putting the violin back into its case, he said:--
"You must forgive me, Watson, if I upset you earlier. I am unused to playing for an audience."
"You misunderstand," said I, and suddenly wondered into what part of his secret world I had inadvertently intruded. He raised his eyebrows at me. "I believe I said when we first met that a well-played violin is a treat for the gods."
Holmes glanced up with a brief smile, and I recognized in it the same pleasure I saw when I expressed my admiration for his deductive genius. "Your praise today was more sincere still." He gave a little half shrug that again betrayed some uncertainty. "Though unexpected. Fancy a game of chess?"
"Very much," I said. As I fetched the chessboard and brought it to the table where Holmes was clearing space, I went on, somewhat shyly, "You were not the only one to be surprised."
Holmes glanced up with an amused smirk. "Yes, I did note some astonishment in your reaction."
I was relieved to feel a lessening of tension between us, and things seemed to turn in a more normal direction. "Well, what did you expect upon the revelation that your repertoire extends beyond dissonant scrapings and the occasional impatient Gilbert and Sullivan medley?"
He laughed, and we set out the chess pieces.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 01:37 am (UTC)I needed a little fluff today - thanks!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 02:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 01:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 04:00 am (UTC)This made me think of Horatio Hornblower; the films had moments when someone would say something quite simple, and it would hang in the air, because his eyes were alive.
It's like Holmes to lay himself out to move Watson and want a reaction — and then not know what to do with it. And it's like Watson to be moved and then to accept a chess game he will probably lose as the price of Holmes' company.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 01:31 am (UTC)You are SO right about both Holmes and Watson, and I love hearing what you think about them!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 02:04 pm (UTC)*dances about*
So beautifully subtle and very right for them. You do SUCH a lovely job!
YAY Catullus! *SNERK* Which poems exactly?
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 01:36 am (UTC)The innocent ones, obviously! *snicker*
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 05:41 pm (UTC)I was still in that liminal state between incapacitating illness and being well enough to occupy my time with active pursuits.
I love this line; and as you pointed out later, this state does tend to lead to "brooding and melancholia" (and oh, how I love the use of that word - melancholia)
I remained on the landing, and as he passed me his eyes flicked up to mine and I was surprised to see an uncertainty in them that I had never beheld before.
Squee, squee, squee! Holmes and uncertainty? Squee!
I really love this. It's very well done. *snuggles*
More, please.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 01:40 am (UTC)(and oh, how I love the use of that word - melancholia)
That's a very Victorian word *laughs* I think they used it when they meant what we call depression now.
Squee, squee, squee! Holmes and uncertainty? Squee!
Haha, my intent exactly! *bwee* There's nothing I like more than seeing characters who are normally in control of everything slip for a split second.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-22 08:53 pm (UTC)Melancholia is exactly that. They often used it to describe Edgar Allan Poe; or Abraham Lincoln (as in, he had fits of melancholia). I just think it's a cooler-sounding word than "depression".
There's nothing I like more than seeing characters who are normally in control of everything slip for a split second.
Ooooh, yes. I can think of several. ;)
no subject
Date: 2009-02-21 01:32 pm (UTC)I LUV YOU!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-21 03:17 pm (UTC)Holmes/Watson FTW!
Date: 2009-02-24 12:28 pm (UTC)Re: Holmes/Watson FTW!
Date: 2009-02-24 11:25 pm (UTC)