Fic written a few weeks ago
May. 1st, 2009 07:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elabyI wrote this fic a couple of weeks ago for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
watsons_woes challenge, and now that it's all over, I thought I'd post it in my own journal as well. I won second place :3 *joy like whoa* And the prize was an extremely gorgeous background made by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
endgegner07!
Title: The Derbyshire Street Workhouse
Rating: G
Character(s): Holmes and Watson
Summary: The challenge was to use the prompt I did not dare look at him or even move, and could only hope that he would not notice my reaction. If my secret were discovered, undoubtedly his face would sport the mocking half-smile he bestowed upon a cowardly client. And he would be right; a man such as he would find my fear ridiculous...
Warnings: Not much. Social commentary?
Word Count: 2,734
Author's Notes: This involves a fairly early Holmes and Watson, still getting to know each other a few years into their acquaintance. It also explores a little bit of Watson's time in medical school. I <3 my Victorian London reference books.
In the early spring of '83, several eventless weeks were followed hard upon by disappointment when Holmes took a case that appeared promising at the outset, but which he managed to solve, if my recollections are correct, within seven minutes of viewing the crime scene. This brief break in the monotony did not serve to alleviate my friend's restless agitation; instead, it compounded it with a severe sense of anticlimax. I confess that by now, my own moods were starting to become dependent on Holmes's, and I had not yet learned to moderate them in response to him as I would later in our intimacy. With this in mind, one may be able to understand my relief when Holmes burst into the sitting room one day before noon clutching a letter from Scotland Yard.
I was reading on the sofa, and he cleared the pile of newspapers I had collected off onto the floor and fairly bounced down beside me. I admit I felt as excited as he looked; a bored Sherlock Holmes is no pleasant roommate, and besides I had little to occupy my own time. An interesting case would bestow the double virtue of returning Holmes to good humor and providing me with something I could do; I never felt more helpless than when in his boredom he alternated between fits of occasionally destructive energy and the most abject depression.
Holmes spread the note out on his knee and it was a testament to his excitement that he did not bother to read it aloud, but instead began outlining the case as it stood.
"You see, Watson, I have for some time been under the impression that an underworld ringleader of sorts has been operating out of Bethnal Green. He is a minor ringleader, to be sure, but he has been annoying the official force with his efforts and today they received an anonymous tip as to his whereabouts. Due to the nature of his position, Scotland Yard would have some difficulty gaining the necessary evidence against him, let alone effecting his arrest. They have therefore requested my assistance." He paused, giving me a sidelong secretive smile, and I was at the same time amused and somewhat nettled by his theatricality.
"Well, for heaven's sake, you are going to tell me, aren't you?" I asked. "Who is this man and where are we to find him?"
"His personal details I have yet to discover, except that he goes by the name of Horner. I can describe him easiest by saying I'm certain that he was behind the Winchester Street affair and the mystery of Alfred Longfellow's missing sister, and was most likely the villain who murdered Sir James Fontaine. He was also, I firmly believe, involved in the fatal robbery of the antique store in Tottenham Court Road."
"Good heavens." The fellow was dangerous, then; and cunning, if he had eluded Holmes thus far. We ourselves had only investigated the murder of Sir James, but Lestrade had consulted Holmes on both the robbery and kidnapping, the latter of which had happily ended in the police's retrieval of the girl, but the perpetrator in both cases went uncaught.
"In this note," said Holmes, brandishing it, "they tell me that Horner is masquerading as an inmate at the Derbyshire Street workhouse. You may know that this particular workhouse is funded by a high-ranking member of the clergy. The police cannot very well go storming the place without very good reason, and they're depending on me to procure that reason."
Holmes's unwitting allusion to what I may know - and did know - about that particular East End workhouse sent an unexpected shock of nausea through me. I did not dare look at him or even move, and could only hope that he would not notice my reaction. If my secret were discovered, undoubtedly his face would sport the mocking half-smile he bestowed upon a cowardly client. And he would be right; a man such as he would find my fear ridiculous. Even I found it ridiculous, through the lens of ten years and a wealth of experience. And yet I cannot deny the power of the emotion, even after so long and after all I had done to overcome it, for it affected me as sharply as if I were an naive medical student again.
Holmes had stopped speaking, and I wrenched myself back into the present. The uncomfortable silence which filled the room intruded itself upon me, and I realized that he must have said something and expected an answer. Before I could think of anything suitably relevant, he asked: "Watson, were you listening?"
"Ah..." I said, and then, much to my dismay in hindsight, panic took over any good sense I had and I got to my feet. "Holmes, I'm frightfully sorry, but there's something I-- I've neglected to-- I promised to meet a friend, you see. I really am very sorry." Holmes gazed at me for a half-second as if I'd lost my mind, and then he schooled his features.
"Of course, old fellow, off you go. I'm quite capable of taking care of this on my own." If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he almost looked disappointed, but even were that not a ridiculous notion I was far too preoccupied to give it much thought. I snatched my hat and coat and was out the door before I could convince myself that this might not be my only alternative.
Outside, despite the chaos of the street, I felt a little calmer. I also felt very foolish. I could not return home for some time, though, so I headed south and then west on Oxford Street, toward Hyde Park. Once there, the sight of society's finest parading in full display on their horses and in their carriages further settled my nerves. That in itself caused me some degree of shame even as I was comforted by the respectable, clean, impeccably dressed people and the ease with which we all ignored those ragged unfortunates hovering at the edges. It was the smell of the workhouse that stayed in my memory the longest - illness and dirty bodies, a cesspit that the night-soil men had not visited in a year or more, desperation and hopelessness. It certainly had not looked as if it were well-funded, clergyman or not. And the people matched their lodgings. The hopelessness pervaded them more thoroughly than the dirt, and it was worst of all to see the ones that clung to their past respectability - shabby top hats, heavily repaired satin dresses, all unable to mask malnutrition and disease.
The smell could revert me to my younger days in an eyeblink, but it was the memory of the woman - her tears, her wailing, the raw accusation in her voice - that never failed to turn my blood cold. My hands were trembling; it was ridiculous. I could not remember the wretched woman's name, but I would go to my grave without forgetting her voice as she called me a murderer.
After a decent amount of time in which one could have hypothetically visited with a friend, I returned to Baker Street to find Holmes absent, as expected. I managed to occupy myself all evening so efficiently that I kept thoughts of the Derbyshire Street workhouse at bay. Holmes did not return until very late that night, and I suppose it was morbid curiosity that compelled me to wait up for him. It was as well for him that I did.
Even in those early days I was not surprised to see Holmes enter our sitting room dressed in tatters and utterly filthy. I remember thinking him somewhat unsteady as he removed his overcoat, but at the time I assumed it to be all part of the character. I did not suspect anything was amiss until I realized that the dried blood on his face was too realistic even for his talents in the art of disguise paint. I was on my feet in an instant with my hand under his elbow, and when he let me take his weight for a moment I truly began to worry. He threw me a tight smile then, and said, before I could speak:--
"Just help me to a chair, Watson, there's a good fellow."
I sat him on the sofa and fetched my medical bag, pulling our breakfast-table with me as I returned. "What on earth happened?"
Holmes wriggled out of the musty coat he wore, and I added that I would be obliged if he would please sit still. He bit back a smile and let me clean the blood away. It was not a deep cut, but it was ugly, and it must have pained him more than his cavalier attitude let on. "Oh, you should have been there, Watson. It was superb. Horner has a more volatile temper than one would expect from so experienced a criminal. It took very little goading indeed by a fellow denizen of the workhouse to make him lose his cool, and once he did, his true nature--" Holmes gestured up at the gash I was tending, "--revealed itself. Luckily I had already got my evidence. The wardens have their eye on him now, you can be sure; if he still hopes to operate undetected, he may have to move to a different workhouse. But he will not. It was a wretched place all the same, and I'm not sorry to be gone. Not only was it overcrowded, but dozens were confined to the infirmary with some intestinal inflammation."
My stomach gave a horrible twist of fear and Holmes jerked his head away. "Watson--"
"I'm sorry--" I began, convinced I had hurt him in my sudden lapse of attention, but instead of scolding me Holmes seized my hand with both of his.
"For heaven's sake," he said, looking up at me with gentle exasperation, "it's only a scratch. The way you're trembling you'd think I'd been shot."
I stared at him without comprehension for merely the passage of a few heartbeats, but it was long enough for him to see that he had misconstrued my distress. A fleeting look that could almost have been embarrassment passed over his face and was replaced by firm scrutiny. "Something else, then."
"It's nothing," I said, and with a tilt of his head and an eloquent glance he wordlessly requested that I not treat him like an idiot. I sighed. "But your--"
"It's fine. Sit."
I obeyed, feeling quite hot with shame. "I suppose you have deduced the cause already," I said. I was torn between dreading the derision I fully expected from him if that were true and hoping he had, since it would relieve me of the task of explaining.
"No. I could have, but I didn't." He paused, and by increments I became aware that he was drawing his thumb lightly back and forth over my palm as he held my hand in both of his. It was a soothing sensation, if unexpected, and it must have been an unconscious one, for when he saw that I noticed it he released me with a start and went on, quickly, "I have cultivated my powers for the detection of crime, not to invade the privacy of my friends. I would only ask you to tell me if it had some important bearing upon the case."
"It hasn't," I said, but I was surprised, and touched; in the past Holmes had taken every possible opportunity to show off his deductive genius with little regard for those he might offend. "I hope your work there is done?"
"No, I shall be going back once more to make the arrest."
"Not alone, I hope."
"The police will of course accompany me."
Considering that Holmes himself had not emerged from his encounter with this criminal in one piece, the extent to which I trusted the police to keep him safe was practically nil. "And I will as well."
"You're sure?" he asked. As much as I dreaded the thought of seeing that place again, I dreaded more that harm might come to Holmes when I could prevent it. But if I were to come - and I was resolved to - he deserved to know why this Bethnal Green workhouse in particular threw me into such a state that I resorted to escaping our rooms rather than face the idea of returning.
"I should have put it past me long ago," I said, and Holmes's eyes lit with the attentive curiosity that accompanied only the most unique cases. I felt an encouraging warmth; that look meant more to me than even his praise. "Early in my medical studies, it was the practice of the masters at University to assign young students to visit the workhouse infirmaries. The physicians who work there aren't paid very well, you see, and they need all the help they can get. Besides, it was good experience that the schools didn't have to pay for. The Derbyshire Street workhouse was where I experienced something all medical men strive never to undergo - a patient's death by my own negligence." I hesitated unwittingly, but I knew that if I did not make myself go on, I would find some excuse to avoid this altogether. Holmes made no motion, only listened, and that set me more at ease than any gesture could have.
"There was a boy - a young man, really, almost sixteen - who I treated for intestinal inflammation." Holmes gave a soft 'ah' but said nothing more. "I prescribed aloes in the hopes that a purgative would clear his system, and I went on my way. When I came back, a week later..." I shrugged, still reluctant to voice it. "He'd died. Dehydration. I should have known. His mother screamed at me - shrieked - telling me I'd murdered her son. And I had, unintentional though it was. I fairly fled the place, horrified beyond reason. I ended up joining friends for dinner and drinking far more than I ought to have, and swearing that I would give up the medical profession altogether. Of course I never truly meant such foolishness. And I trained myself over the years, as a physician must, to take death as a part of my work, but I cannot think of that workhouse without a shudder." I cast a sheepish glance at Holmes. "More than a shudder, it seems."
"Think nothing of it, my dear fellow." Holmes was silent for a moment, and in his eyes I could see the inward expression he was wont to assume in his more philosophical moments. "On the surface, it would seem that our professions are quite different. Yours is rooted in life, in the preservation of it, whereas mine quite often results in a hanging - at least, the successes do. But my failures can result in death just as surely as yours. We have not been acquainted long enough, my dear Watson, for you to see the aftermath of such a failure. I assure you that my ennui-induced melancholia is nothing in comparison. Therefore I cannot blame you for your reluctance."
Having seen the depths of Holmes's depression when his overactive intellect was not stimulated, I felt something of a chill at the idea that he was subject to even darker moods. Though I did not dare to say it, I hoped I might offer some comfort in such a situation - more than he would find alone, at the very least. I nodded gratefully, not quite sure how best to express my appreciation for this unexpected kindness.
"I really ought to see to your head now," I said, and Holmes made a gesture of acquiescence.
"I might venture to say, however," he went on, as I applied a sticking plaster to the cut on his head, "that any weakness one might be able to accuse you of would be negated by the fact that you readily volunteered to accompany me on my return." The inclination of his head, due to my scrutiny of the wound, gave him a peculiarly unsure air as his eyes flicked up to mine. "It is a truer courage that faces such a fear."
I smiled, relief and gratitude steadying my hands at last. "Well, you see, the company I'll be keeping has a decidedly strengthening effect on that courage."
watsons_woes challenge, and now that it's all over, I thought I'd post it in my own journal as well. I won second place :3 *joy like whoa* And the prize was an extremely gorgeous background made by endgegner07!Title: The Derbyshire Street Workhouse
Rating: G
Character(s): Holmes and Watson
Summary: The challenge was to use the prompt I did not dare look at him or even move, and could only hope that he would not notice my reaction. If my secret were discovered, undoubtedly his face would sport the mocking half-smile he bestowed upon a cowardly client. And he would be right; a man such as he would find my fear ridiculous...
Warnings: Not much. Social commentary?
Word Count: 2,734
Author's Notes: This involves a fairly early Holmes and Watson, still getting to know each other a few years into their acquaintance. It also explores a little bit of Watson's time in medical school. I <3 my Victorian London reference books.
In the early spring of '83, several eventless weeks were followed hard upon by disappointment when Holmes took a case that appeared promising at the outset, but which he managed to solve, if my recollections are correct, within seven minutes of viewing the crime scene. This brief break in the monotony did not serve to alleviate my friend's restless agitation; instead, it compounded it with a severe sense of anticlimax. I confess that by now, my own moods were starting to become dependent on Holmes's, and I had not yet learned to moderate them in response to him as I would later in our intimacy. With this in mind, one may be able to understand my relief when Holmes burst into the sitting room one day before noon clutching a letter from Scotland Yard.
I was reading on the sofa, and he cleared the pile of newspapers I had collected off onto the floor and fairly bounced down beside me. I admit I felt as excited as he looked; a bored Sherlock Holmes is no pleasant roommate, and besides I had little to occupy my own time. An interesting case would bestow the double virtue of returning Holmes to good humor and providing me with something I could do; I never felt more helpless than when in his boredom he alternated between fits of occasionally destructive energy and the most abject depression.
Holmes spread the note out on his knee and it was a testament to his excitement that he did not bother to read it aloud, but instead began outlining the case as it stood.
"You see, Watson, I have for some time been under the impression that an underworld ringleader of sorts has been operating out of Bethnal Green. He is a minor ringleader, to be sure, but he has been annoying the official force with his efforts and today they received an anonymous tip as to his whereabouts. Due to the nature of his position, Scotland Yard would have some difficulty gaining the necessary evidence against him, let alone effecting his arrest. They have therefore requested my assistance." He paused, giving me a sidelong secretive smile, and I was at the same time amused and somewhat nettled by his theatricality.
"Well, for heaven's sake, you are going to tell me, aren't you?" I asked. "Who is this man and where are we to find him?"
"His personal details I have yet to discover, except that he goes by the name of Horner. I can describe him easiest by saying I'm certain that he was behind the Winchester Street affair and the mystery of Alfred Longfellow's missing sister, and was most likely the villain who murdered Sir James Fontaine. He was also, I firmly believe, involved in the fatal robbery of the antique store in Tottenham Court Road."
"Good heavens." The fellow was dangerous, then; and cunning, if he had eluded Holmes thus far. We ourselves had only investigated the murder of Sir James, but Lestrade had consulted Holmes on both the robbery and kidnapping, the latter of which had happily ended in the police's retrieval of the girl, but the perpetrator in both cases went uncaught.
"In this note," said Holmes, brandishing it, "they tell me that Horner is masquerading as an inmate at the Derbyshire Street workhouse. You may know that this particular workhouse is funded by a high-ranking member of the clergy. The police cannot very well go storming the place without very good reason, and they're depending on me to procure that reason."
Holmes's unwitting allusion to what I may know - and did know - about that particular East End workhouse sent an unexpected shock of nausea through me. I did not dare look at him or even move, and could only hope that he would not notice my reaction. If my secret were discovered, undoubtedly his face would sport the mocking half-smile he bestowed upon a cowardly client. And he would be right; a man such as he would find my fear ridiculous. Even I found it ridiculous, through the lens of ten years and a wealth of experience. And yet I cannot deny the power of the emotion, even after so long and after all I had done to overcome it, for it affected me as sharply as if I were an naive medical student again.
Holmes had stopped speaking, and I wrenched myself back into the present. The uncomfortable silence which filled the room intruded itself upon me, and I realized that he must have said something and expected an answer. Before I could think of anything suitably relevant, he asked: "Watson, were you listening?"
"Ah..." I said, and then, much to my dismay in hindsight, panic took over any good sense I had and I got to my feet. "Holmes, I'm frightfully sorry, but there's something I-- I've neglected to-- I promised to meet a friend, you see. I really am very sorry." Holmes gazed at me for a half-second as if I'd lost my mind, and then he schooled his features.
"Of course, old fellow, off you go. I'm quite capable of taking care of this on my own." If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he almost looked disappointed, but even were that not a ridiculous notion I was far too preoccupied to give it much thought. I snatched my hat and coat and was out the door before I could convince myself that this might not be my only alternative.
Outside, despite the chaos of the street, I felt a little calmer. I also felt very foolish. I could not return home for some time, though, so I headed south and then west on Oxford Street, toward Hyde Park. Once there, the sight of society's finest parading in full display on their horses and in their carriages further settled my nerves. That in itself caused me some degree of shame even as I was comforted by the respectable, clean, impeccably dressed people and the ease with which we all ignored those ragged unfortunates hovering at the edges. It was the smell of the workhouse that stayed in my memory the longest - illness and dirty bodies, a cesspit that the night-soil men had not visited in a year or more, desperation and hopelessness. It certainly had not looked as if it were well-funded, clergyman or not. And the people matched their lodgings. The hopelessness pervaded them more thoroughly than the dirt, and it was worst of all to see the ones that clung to their past respectability - shabby top hats, heavily repaired satin dresses, all unable to mask malnutrition and disease.
The smell could revert me to my younger days in an eyeblink, but it was the memory of the woman - her tears, her wailing, the raw accusation in her voice - that never failed to turn my blood cold. My hands were trembling; it was ridiculous. I could not remember the wretched woman's name, but I would go to my grave without forgetting her voice as she called me a murderer.
After a decent amount of time in which one could have hypothetically visited with a friend, I returned to Baker Street to find Holmes absent, as expected. I managed to occupy myself all evening so efficiently that I kept thoughts of the Derbyshire Street workhouse at bay. Holmes did not return until very late that night, and I suppose it was morbid curiosity that compelled me to wait up for him. It was as well for him that I did.
Even in those early days I was not surprised to see Holmes enter our sitting room dressed in tatters and utterly filthy. I remember thinking him somewhat unsteady as he removed his overcoat, but at the time I assumed it to be all part of the character. I did not suspect anything was amiss until I realized that the dried blood on his face was too realistic even for his talents in the art of disguise paint. I was on my feet in an instant with my hand under his elbow, and when he let me take his weight for a moment I truly began to worry. He threw me a tight smile then, and said, before I could speak:--
"Just help me to a chair, Watson, there's a good fellow."
I sat him on the sofa and fetched my medical bag, pulling our breakfast-table with me as I returned. "What on earth happened?"
Holmes wriggled out of the musty coat he wore, and I added that I would be obliged if he would please sit still. He bit back a smile and let me clean the blood away. It was not a deep cut, but it was ugly, and it must have pained him more than his cavalier attitude let on. "Oh, you should have been there, Watson. It was superb. Horner has a more volatile temper than one would expect from so experienced a criminal. It took very little goading indeed by a fellow denizen of the workhouse to make him lose his cool, and once he did, his true nature--" Holmes gestured up at the gash I was tending, "--revealed itself. Luckily I had already got my evidence. The wardens have their eye on him now, you can be sure; if he still hopes to operate undetected, he may have to move to a different workhouse. But he will not. It was a wretched place all the same, and I'm not sorry to be gone. Not only was it overcrowded, but dozens were confined to the infirmary with some intestinal inflammation."
My stomach gave a horrible twist of fear and Holmes jerked his head away. "Watson--"
"I'm sorry--" I began, convinced I had hurt him in my sudden lapse of attention, but instead of scolding me Holmes seized my hand with both of his.
"For heaven's sake," he said, looking up at me with gentle exasperation, "it's only a scratch. The way you're trembling you'd think I'd been shot."
I stared at him without comprehension for merely the passage of a few heartbeats, but it was long enough for him to see that he had misconstrued my distress. A fleeting look that could almost have been embarrassment passed over his face and was replaced by firm scrutiny. "Something else, then."
"It's nothing," I said, and with a tilt of his head and an eloquent glance he wordlessly requested that I not treat him like an idiot. I sighed. "But your--"
"It's fine. Sit."
I obeyed, feeling quite hot with shame. "I suppose you have deduced the cause already," I said. I was torn between dreading the derision I fully expected from him if that were true and hoping he had, since it would relieve me of the task of explaining.
"No. I could have, but I didn't." He paused, and by increments I became aware that he was drawing his thumb lightly back and forth over my palm as he held my hand in both of his. It was a soothing sensation, if unexpected, and it must have been an unconscious one, for when he saw that I noticed it he released me with a start and went on, quickly, "I have cultivated my powers for the detection of crime, not to invade the privacy of my friends. I would only ask you to tell me if it had some important bearing upon the case."
"It hasn't," I said, but I was surprised, and touched; in the past Holmes had taken every possible opportunity to show off his deductive genius with little regard for those he might offend. "I hope your work there is done?"
"No, I shall be going back once more to make the arrest."
"Not alone, I hope."
"The police will of course accompany me."
Considering that Holmes himself had not emerged from his encounter with this criminal in one piece, the extent to which I trusted the police to keep him safe was practically nil. "And I will as well."
"You're sure?" he asked. As much as I dreaded the thought of seeing that place again, I dreaded more that harm might come to Holmes when I could prevent it. But if I were to come - and I was resolved to - he deserved to know why this Bethnal Green workhouse in particular threw me into such a state that I resorted to escaping our rooms rather than face the idea of returning.
"I should have put it past me long ago," I said, and Holmes's eyes lit with the attentive curiosity that accompanied only the most unique cases. I felt an encouraging warmth; that look meant more to me than even his praise. "Early in my medical studies, it was the practice of the masters at University to assign young students to visit the workhouse infirmaries. The physicians who work there aren't paid very well, you see, and they need all the help they can get. Besides, it was good experience that the schools didn't have to pay for. The Derbyshire Street workhouse was where I experienced something all medical men strive never to undergo - a patient's death by my own negligence." I hesitated unwittingly, but I knew that if I did not make myself go on, I would find some excuse to avoid this altogether. Holmes made no motion, only listened, and that set me more at ease than any gesture could have.
"There was a boy - a young man, really, almost sixteen - who I treated for intestinal inflammation." Holmes gave a soft 'ah' but said nothing more. "I prescribed aloes in the hopes that a purgative would clear his system, and I went on my way. When I came back, a week later..." I shrugged, still reluctant to voice it. "He'd died. Dehydration. I should have known. His mother screamed at me - shrieked - telling me I'd murdered her son. And I had, unintentional though it was. I fairly fled the place, horrified beyond reason. I ended up joining friends for dinner and drinking far more than I ought to have, and swearing that I would give up the medical profession altogether. Of course I never truly meant such foolishness. And I trained myself over the years, as a physician must, to take death as a part of my work, but I cannot think of that workhouse without a shudder." I cast a sheepish glance at Holmes. "More than a shudder, it seems."
"Think nothing of it, my dear fellow." Holmes was silent for a moment, and in his eyes I could see the inward expression he was wont to assume in his more philosophical moments. "On the surface, it would seem that our professions are quite different. Yours is rooted in life, in the preservation of it, whereas mine quite often results in a hanging - at least, the successes do. But my failures can result in death just as surely as yours. We have not been acquainted long enough, my dear Watson, for you to see the aftermath of such a failure. I assure you that my ennui-induced melancholia is nothing in comparison. Therefore I cannot blame you for your reluctance."
Having seen the depths of Holmes's depression when his overactive intellect was not stimulated, I felt something of a chill at the idea that he was subject to even darker moods. Though I did not dare to say it, I hoped I might offer some comfort in such a situation - more than he would find alone, at the very least. I nodded gratefully, not quite sure how best to express my appreciation for this unexpected kindness.
"I really ought to see to your head now," I said, and Holmes made a gesture of acquiescence.
"I might venture to say, however," he went on, as I applied a sticking plaster to the cut on his head, "that any weakness one might be able to accuse you of would be negated by the fact that you readily volunteered to accompany me on my return." The inclination of his head, due to my scrutiny of the wound, gave him a peculiarly unsure air as his eyes flicked up to mine. "It is a truer courage that faces such a fear."
I smiled, relief and gratitude steadying my hands at last. "Well, you see, the company I'll be keeping has a decidedly strengthening effect on that courage."
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no subject
Date: 2009-05-02 12:41 am (UTC)New unwritten cases!!! *adores*
The hopelessness pervaded them more thoroughly than the dirt
Mmmm, what a lovely phrase...
"Just help me to a chair, Watson, there's a good fellow."
The paragraph preceding this line is perfectly done-- didn't somebody once say that the joy of reading the Canon comes from being way behind Holmes but a step ahead of Watson?-- and unfolds just right. And then we get this sentence :) Not only is it thoroughly Holmesian, but it contains H calling W a "good fellow," which always makes me squee for reasons unbeknownst even to myself.
"For heaven's sake," he said, looking up at me with gentle exasperation, "it's only a scratch. The way you're trembling you'd think I'd been shot."
Eeeeeeeeee! And his embarrassment afterwards! Oh, and DEVI, and oh! This is so entirely wonderful, because it's slash of a variety that actually shows up in the Sacred Works, and so it results not only in squealing for its own sake, but in a "their love is so Canon!" backlash which is equally delicious XD
an eloquent glance he wordlessly requested that I not treat him like an idiot.
*snerk* Perfect!
became aware that he was drawing his thumb lightly back and forth over my palm
*sigh* It was already obvious from Baker Street, 3:25 AM that you write the best handsmut. Giving us all another taste is dangerous, dahling. You'll have crowds of fangirls beating on your inbox day and night, demanding more.
Holmes speech about the similarity of their professions... oh. Just...oh. So lovely, and so Holmesian, and so right.
Your Holmes voice is in top form here-- spot-on and beautiful to boot. And you put such a consistently delicious spin on their relationship, whether one reads it as friendship or slash. To put it simply: I positively loved this fic.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-02 01:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-02 07:50 am (UTC)The scene with Holmes is rather beautiful too and I totally agree with
Also, your caring Holmes makes me wibble. I love caring Holmes but he never wants to play when I'm writing *sulk*
I could say a hundred more things probably but I'll just end with, I loved this very much!
no subject
Date: 2009-05-02 01:29 pm (UTC)New unwritten cases!!! *adores*
Oh, phew! I was kind of worried about being such a tease, but I needed to establish some authority for this bad guy.
The paragraph preceding this line is perfectly done-- didn't somebody once say that the joy of reading the Canon comes from being way behind Holmes but a step ahead of Watson?-- and unfolds just right.
I love trying to pull off this trick, and I'm really glad it worked! Thank you ^_^
This is so entirely wonderful, because it's slash of a variety that actually shows up in the Sacred Works, and so it results not only in squealing for its own sake, but in a "their love is so Canon!" backlash which is equally delicious XD
This makes me so, so happy, because I really love the canon slashiness and I try to reproduce it as best I can. Did I mention thank you?
It was already obvious from Baker Street, 3:25 AM that you write the best handsmut.
Oh no, madame, I don't approach you in that area :) *floats off into a little reverie thinking of the bit from Chronology chapter 3*
our Holmes voice is in top form here-- spot-on and beautiful to boot.
And again, phew, because I really worried about that part. I feel like I have handle on Watson, but Holmes continually eludes me and I waffle about what would be too much for him to say. Thank you all over again!
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Date: 2009-05-02 01:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-02 01:39 pm (UTC)The description of how Watson behaved immediately after the incident was very in character and believable.
Oh, I'm so glad, because I was kind of worried about how people would react to his momentary "This is too scary, I quit!" I know he'd never go through with it, but it seemed like something a young student would think (I most certainly couldn't have stuck it out, even now, let alone in that era).
I'm rather in awe of your ability to write fic that could be slashy or could just be a friendship fic.
Awww, thank you *blushes* The ambiguous stuff is my very favorite, especially if it's leaning toward the slashy.
I have a really hard time writing Holmes being as calculating andd thinky and in-character the way you do, and so the admiration is mutual :)
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Date: 2009-05-02 02:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-02 03:22 pm (UTC)I think it's just like Watson to take it to heart. He and Holmes are very alike in that respect.
The ambiguous stuff is my very favorite, especially if it's leaning toward the slashy.
It's brilliant, isn't it? If I'm honest I do rather love it when things are just hinted at...not that I'm averse to more explicit content though ;)
I have a really hard time writing Holmes being as calculating and thinky and in-character the way you do, and so the admiration is mutual
My turn to blush now. It's always nice when a talented writer compliments your work!
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Date: 2009-05-02 09:56 pm (UTC)I definitely think you're right. Failure would strike both of them hard, I think.
If I'm honest I do rather love it when things are just hinted at...not that I'm averse to more explicit content though ;)
That's exactly how I feel! ^_^
It's always nice when a talented writer compliments your work!
That's another reason I like getting your comments :)
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Date: 2009-05-02 10:53 pm (UTC)Early on Saturdays is not a happy time for brains. *sympathizes*
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Date: 2009-05-02 11:37 pm (UTC)*floats off into a little reverie thinking of the bit from Cryptology chapter 3*
*Grin* Thank you, I'm glad you liked that bit! But yours is always unexpected, Unresolved Handsexual Tension, and it is swoonworthy, truly. Clearly we need to team up to write an epic on the hands of the Holmesian universe and what they get up to together when nobody's looking. It will be the hottest thing this side of the sun XD
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Date: 2009-05-03 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-03 08:42 pm (UTC)The first paragraph totally drew me in with the idea of Holmes solving a case in seven minutes. And the picture I have in my mind of Holmes bouncing down upon the sofa beside Watson just fills me with glee for some reason.
I also have to, as always, note your very detailed and well-researched description of Victorian life, in this case, the workhouse.
Excellent job, as always. *loves*
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Date: 2009-05-03 11:11 pm (UTC)I'm really glad you liked it ^_^ Holmes bouncing on the couch is a favorite bit of mine too XD And the "solved in seven minutes" thing was a very canon-like thing for me to do.