Fic: Patience
Mar. 18th, 2009 10:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elabyMore fic! Yes, that's just about all I do these days.
I wrote this for the new community![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
watsons_woes, which is, as you may be able to guess, a hurt/comfort community.
Title: Patience
Rating: G
Character(s): Watson and Holmes, slashy if you want
Word Count: 1407
Author's Notes: Shameless angst. Possible fluff, depending on how you define it. This is sort of an alternate scene from the end of "The Empty House" when Holmes and Watson come back to Baker Street after Holmes's return and Colonel Moran's arrest.
My friend has no patience for emotional displays.
He is courteous to his clients, of course, and in his own way he comforts them; but it is not hard, when you have lived with a man as long as I had lived with Holmes, to recognize the difference between sympathy and placation. He sees it as a conspicuous sign of weakness, and one must put up with weakness in the people upon whom one depends to make a living.
I remember one incident, a few years before my marriage, when a clerk from City and Suburban Bank broke down in tears asking us to help him find his missing wife. My heart went out to the young man; Holmes gave him every assurance, but few people aside from myself could have recognized how distinctly uncomfortable the situation made him. When the clerk left, and I remarked on what a trying time this must be for the poor fellow, Holmes said with a grimace:--
"'Give me that man that is not passion's slave,' eh, Watson?"
It was for this reason that I controlled myself as well as I did on that afternoon in the April of 1894 when the ghost of a thousand waking nightmares revealed himself in my consulting room. I did not insist that he never leave my sight, as tempting as it was, because the Holmes I knew would only laugh if I told him I truly doubted the reality of his return. It was that unreality, I think, that carried me through the evening as calmly as if he had only been on a very long holiday. It is much easier to accept the impossible when you doubt your own sanity entirely. The truth was always lurking just beneath the surface, but I managed somehow to keep from confronting it; strange that the very thing for which I had futilely wished was what threatened to undo me.
It was our return to Baker Street in the evening that brought the truth home, to use a cliche I nevertheless find surprisingly apt in this situation. I had not been up to our sitting room; I had visited Mrs. Hudson, of course, on several occasions, but I could not bring myself to set foot in the rooms we had shared for so many years, where I had left Holmes to his solitude and his needle when I married my wife. It had been awkward enough to visit him when I no longer lived there, to see the traces of my existence with him left untouched – my chair arranged where I always had it, my desk dust-covered. I attributed this to his laziness, as sentimentality was of course out of the question, but I could not face seeing both our possessions in such disuse.
Nothing was changed when Holmes ushered me into the sitting room. Aside from the wax bust by the window, it was as if we had stepped three years back in time. I admit to being somewhat stunned by the sight; Holmes put me in my chair and stood by the fireplace with his elbow on the mantle as he had done countless times, expounding the story behind the evening's events while with nervous fingers he toyed with his unlit pipe.
I found it difficult to listen. There he stood, clearly worse for wear but undeniably alive; and here I sat, in my usual place and my usual role, listening to the genius unfold his reasoning. In that strange suspended bubble in time, I could almost believe that every excruciating day of the past years had never happened; as if we had never gone to Switzerland, as if I had not returned alone, as if I had not watched my Mary succumb to disease while I scribbled stories on foolscap by her bedside and dreamed of churning water. It would be so easy to give in to that siren call and forget what I had failed to come to terms with even after the passage of three years. At times I wondered how living without them hadn't killed me already. To pretend that I never had, to wind back the clock...
It was madness even to contemplate, but I wanted so badly for it to be so, and all of a sudden I could scarcely breathe through the emotion that had taken me by the throat. I registered dimly that Holmes's voice faltered. The look he wore was alarmed, but I only caught a glimpse of it – and the trace of some realization that seemed to horrify him – before the tears obscured my vision completely. My breath hitched in my chest and I put my head in my hands, while mortification warred with the onslaught I had spent the evening struggling against.
I heard him say my name with a sort of dull shock in his voice, but I could not speak for fear of breaking down completely. There was silence in the room while I endeavored to pull myself together, but it was really no use. Then I felt Holmes's knees brush against mine and he was crouching before me. I managed some sort of apology but I'm sure it did nothing to reassure him.
"Watson," he said again, "I have been unforgivably stupid." The strangeness of such a statement coming from my friend caused me to look up, pride or no. "I should have known better than to surprise you like I did this afternoon, but I had no idea bringing you here would--" he stopped, then shook his head angrily. The lines on his face seemed even deeper than they had before, the shadows darker. "But I should have considered, Watson; I... I simply didn't think."
He deserved an answer. I knew, probably better than anyone would, how significant such a confession was. But I could not put two words together, and even if I could, I doubt if they would have come out with any semblance of composure. Holmes watched me anxiously, and then, to my surprise, he lifted his hand and I felt the ghost of his fingers against my cheek. I needed no further encouragement; I put my arms around his shoulders and embraced him with all the fierceness of three years' despair. Holmes jumped and went rigid, and I feared for a split second that I had taken an unpardonable liberty. Then a tremor went through him and I felt his arms encircle me, softly, holding more than clinging desperately as I did.
I'm not sure how long we stayed like that, but by the time I relinquished my grip I could breathe normally again. Holmes hesitated before letting me go, and then he moved to sit beside me on the sofa. He didn't take his hand from my back. After a little while Holmes got up and poured us both a glass of brandy. I took the opportunity while his attention was elsewhere to collect myself.
"I am sorry, old fellow," I said with what must have been a weak smile as he handed me my glass. Holmes gave me a warning look that clearly indicated how he felt about the necessity of such apologies.
"Watson," he said as he sat, "I have been on my own far too long to begrudge you anything." He stretched his legs out and let his head fall back, looking very relieved and very weary.
"I feel the same," I said, just as the clock on the mantle began to chime. I confess I felt a wave of dread as it did; I did not relish the thought of returning alone to my house exhausted as I was. The last chime rang out and left the silence colder and more brittle than before.
When I shifted, Holmes said, without moving, "Please don't think of getting up." I settled back, and he went on, "I have taken the liberty of asking Mrs. Hudson to put fresh linens on your bed upstairs when she saw to mine. I could not be sure how long we would have to wait for the Colonel, you see, and I could hardly ask you to accompany me and then thrust you out the door. I hope I haven't been too presumptuous."
"No," I said with considerable relief. "Not at all."
"Good," said Holmes. "We have much to talk about." Perhaps, I reconsidered, his capability for patience operated on a different scale where I was concerned.
**
(("Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee."
- Hamlet to Horatio, Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2))
I wrote this for the new community
watsons_woes, which is, as you may be able to guess, a hurt/comfort community.Title: Patience
Rating: G
Character(s): Watson and Holmes, slashy if you want
Word Count: 1407
Author's Notes: Shameless angst. Possible fluff, depending on how you define it. This is sort of an alternate scene from the end of "The Empty House" when Holmes and Watson come back to Baker Street after Holmes's return and Colonel Moran's arrest.
My friend has no patience for emotional displays.
He is courteous to his clients, of course, and in his own way he comforts them; but it is not hard, when you have lived with a man as long as I had lived with Holmes, to recognize the difference between sympathy and placation. He sees it as a conspicuous sign of weakness, and one must put up with weakness in the people upon whom one depends to make a living.
I remember one incident, a few years before my marriage, when a clerk from City and Suburban Bank broke down in tears asking us to help him find his missing wife. My heart went out to the young man; Holmes gave him every assurance, but few people aside from myself could have recognized how distinctly uncomfortable the situation made him. When the clerk left, and I remarked on what a trying time this must be for the poor fellow, Holmes said with a grimace:--
"'Give me that man that is not passion's slave,' eh, Watson?"
It was for this reason that I controlled myself as well as I did on that afternoon in the April of 1894 when the ghost of a thousand waking nightmares revealed himself in my consulting room. I did not insist that he never leave my sight, as tempting as it was, because the Holmes I knew would only laugh if I told him I truly doubted the reality of his return. It was that unreality, I think, that carried me through the evening as calmly as if he had only been on a very long holiday. It is much easier to accept the impossible when you doubt your own sanity entirely. The truth was always lurking just beneath the surface, but I managed somehow to keep from confronting it; strange that the very thing for which I had futilely wished was what threatened to undo me.
It was our return to Baker Street in the evening that brought the truth home, to use a cliche I nevertheless find surprisingly apt in this situation. I had not been up to our sitting room; I had visited Mrs. Hudson, of course, on several occasions, but I could not bring myself to set foot in the rooms we had shared for so many years, where I had left Holmes to his solitude and his needle when I married my wife. It had been awkward enough to visit him when I no longer lived there, to see the traces of my existence with him left untouched – my chair arranged where I always had it, my desk dust-covered. I attributed this to his laziness, as sentimentality was of course out of the question, but I could not face seeing both our possessions in such disuse.
Nothing was changed when Holmes ushered me into the sitting room. Aside from the wax bust by the window, it was as if we had stepped three years back in time. I admit to being somewhat stunned by the sight; Holmes put me in my chair and stood by the fireplace with his elbow on the mantle as he had done countless times, expounding the story behind the evening's events while with nervous fingers he toyed with his unlit pipe.
I found it difficult to listen. There he stood, clearly worse for wear but undeniably alive; and here I sat, in my usual place and my usual role, listening to the genius unfold his reasoning. In that strange suspended bubble in time, I could almost believe that every excruciating day of the past years had never happened; as if we had never gone to Switzerland, as if I had not returned alone, as if I had not watched my Mary succumb to disease while I scribbled stories on foolscap by her bedside and dreamed of churning water. It would be so easy to give in to that siren call and forget what I had failed to come to terms with even after the passage of three years. At times I wondered how living without them hadn't killed me already. To pretend that I never had, to wind back the clock...
It was madness even to contemplate, but I wanted so badly for it to be so, and all of a sudden I could scarcely breathe through the emotion that had taken me by the throat. I registered dimly that Holmes's voice faltered. The look he wore was alarmed, but I only caught a glimpse of it – and the trace of some realization that seemed to horrify him – before the tears obscured my vision completely. My breath hitched in my chest and I put my head in my hands, while mortification warred with the onslaught I had spent the evening struggling against.
I heard him say my name with a sort of dull shock in his voice, but I could not speak for fear of breaking down completely. There was silence in the room while I endeavored to pull myself together, but it was really no use. Then I felt Holmes's knees brush against mine and he was crouching before me. I managed some sort of apology but I'm sure it did nothing to reassure him.
"Watson," he said again, "I have been unforgivably stupid." The strangeness of such a statement coming from my friend caused me to look up, pride or no. "I should have known better than to surprise you like I did this afternoon, but I had no idea bringing you here would--" he stopped, then shook his head angrily. The lines on his face seemed even deeper than they had before, the shadows darker. "But I should have considered, Watson; I... I simply didn't think."
He deserved an answer. I knew, probably better than anyone would, how significant such a confession was. But I could not put two words together, and even if I could, I doubt if they would have come out with any semblance of composure. Holmes watched me anxiously, and then, to my surprise, he lifted his hand and I felt the ghost of his fingers against my cheek. I needed no further encouragement; I put my arms around his shoulders and embraced him with all the fierceness of three years' despair. Holmes jumped and went rigid, and I feared for a split second that I had taken an unpardonable liberty. Then a tremor went through him and I felt his arms encircle me, softly, holding more than clinging desperately as I did.
I'm not sure how long we stayed like that, but by the time I relinquished my grip I could breathe normally again. Holmes hesitated before letting me go, and then he moved to sit beside me on the sofa. He didn't take his hand from my back. After a little while Holmes got up and poured us both a glass of brandy. I took the opportunity while his attention was elsewhere to collect myself.
"I am sorry, old fellow," I said with what must have been a weak smile as he handed me my glass. Holmes gave me a warning look that clearly indicated how he felt about the necessity of such apologies.
"Watson," he said as he sat, "I have been on my own far too long to begrudge you anything." He stretched his legs out and let his head fall back, looking very relieved and very weary.
"I feel the same," I said, just as the clock on the mantle began to chime. I confess I felt a wave of dread as it did; I did not relish the thought of returning alone to my house exhausted as I was. The last chime rang out and left the silence colder and more brittle than before.
When I shifted, Holmes said, without moving, "Please don't think of getting up." I settled back, and he went on, "I have taken the liberty of asking Mrs. Hudson to put fresh linens on your bed upstairs when she saw to mine. I could not be sure how long we would have to wait for the Colonel, you see, and I could hardly ask you to accompany me and then thrust you out the door. I hope I haven't been too presumptuous."
"No," I said with considerable relief. "Not at all."
"Good," said Holmes. "We have much to talk about." Perhaps, I reconsidered, his capability for patience operated on a different scale where I was concerned.
**
(("Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee."
- Hamlet to Horatio, Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2))
