elaby | Ficlet for KCS (Reply)

I've written my first drabble (ficlet, actually) from my post yesterday! That quick, too. I hope to actually get all of these done in a timely manner, unlike that first kiss meme where I took over a year to write

minyan's Horatio and Laertes fic ^^;;

This one is for the marvelous and talented

kcs2008! It's Holmes and Watson friendship, with a rainy night and hugging and I truly hope warm fuzzies. The angst sort of got away from me, but I think it ended with warmth :) It's a missing scene from "The Five Orange Pips," the night after Holmes and Watson find out that Openshaw's been murdered.

In case anyone hasn't read this story, here's what you need to know: On a stormy night, John Openshaw came to Holmes because he received a threatening letter from the KKK, who had killed his uncle and father. His uncle had been involved with them while living in America, and brought incriminating papers back to England with him. The surviving members, not knowing he'd burned the papers in England, came after him and killed him and Openshaw's father. Holmes advises Openshaw to go back home, follow the instructions in the letter, and explain that the incriminating papers were no more. The next morning, Openshaw is found dead in London, never having reached the train station.

736 words, rated G. The only possible warnings I can think of are slight darkness and Holmes having self-destructive thoughts. I entertained the idea of trying this in the third person, but I apparently fail at that, so it's Watson's POV, as usual. I hope you like it! :D

The rain returned that night. We'd got a small reprieve from it in the morning – the sun shone cheerily on our breakfast table while I read Holmes the paper's account of Openshaw's death, as if nature were laughing at us in our ineffectuality – but that night, the storm rolled back through the city in all its fury. All of the energy Holmes had displayed in his near-frenzied quest for vengeance that day seemed to have been absorbed by the elements, leaving him in a state of melancholy that quite frankly alarmed me.

He stood by the window while the rain lashed at the glass with such ferocity it made the pane rattle. I wished he would come away; as if the strength of the storm were not enough, I sensed some perverse desire in him to submit to the destruction. As absurd as it sounds, I feared that any moment he would fling open the window and let it unleash itself upon him.

I saw my own reflection in the darkened glass as I approached him, but if the movement caught his attention he gave no sign. I doubt very much he saw anything at all – after knowing him this long I could see easily when his gaze had turned inward instead of out.

"Holmes, you mustn't torture yourself."

"And why not, pray?" he asked, quick and low, disproving my assumption that he was less aware than usual of his surroundings.

"You did everything you could."

"No, Watson. I realize you are only trying to comfort me, but lying is not the way to go about it. Between this morning and now, I devised no less than nine courses I could have taken that would have been more likely to result in our client's survival. Not the least of which were, one, going with him, and two, keeping him here until morning." He ticked these off on his long fingers as he spoke, his voice tight with a harsh cynicism that stung somewhat in spite of my knowledge that it was by no means directed toward me.

"But last night you thought it imperative that he go back to Horsham," I said. "Returning the remains of those papers as they demanded was the only way to ensure his safety."

"I underestimated them. I assumed them slower than they were. I may have even thought – heaven help me – that they would rather wait for the return of those blasted papers than kill the only man left who knew of their existence."

"You only did what you thought would save him."

"And a fine job I did of it, too." Sudden anger rippled through him, shattering the listlessness, and he struck the flat of his fist against the window. Instinctively I grabbed his hand, although I knew he hadn't hit hard enough even to bruise it, and brought him round. A look of utter weariness flew over his face, masking something close to desperation.

"What sort of man is it, Watson, who upon hearing of the death of someone he had been charged to protect thinks only 'How could I have made such a mistake? I?' Not 'Poor Openshaw.' Not 'What cruel and terrible men these murderers must be.' Only 'How on earth could they have outsmarted me?'"

I moved my hands to his shoulders; for a moment it looked as if he needed help standing. "The same man who I fear will never forgive himself for this." I held his gaze firmly and hoped to heaven my sincerity was enough to combat his self-reproach. "Please, Holmes."

All at once his shoulders went slack, and before I knew what I was doing my arms were around him. I'm not sure whether I truly believed I was catching him or whether that was merely the excuse; probably the latter. How Holmes managed to feel both tense and exhausted in my embrace I'll never know, but after a few anxious moments in which I began to doubt the wiseness of this impulse, he dropped his head onto my shoulder and let out a ragged breath.

"I suppose," he said after a time, "if you are good enough to be so free with your forgiveness, I can but try to follow your example."

I closed my eyes and breathed easier, and was simply thankful that he let me hold him.