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Winter Fic I
This is the first of two ficlets I have planned that feature Holmes and Watson in the winter :) I thought it would be very short, but it ended up a bit longer than I intended. Otherwise, though, it turned out the way I hoped.
Title: Musica Universalis
Rating: G. Oh, so very G. And fluffy.
Character(s): Holmes and Watson
Summary: Temperatures dip below freezing, and the town is transformed.
Warnings: None whatsoever.
Words: 1,627
Author's Notes: This was inspired by contemporary accounts of a snowbound London. It takes place in early 1896, probably - after "The Bruce-Partington Plans," at least.
It was the third morning in a row that I had awoken to find the water in my basin on the washstand frozen solid. As I was quite sure Mrs. Hudson would take exception to my smashing her pottery in an attempt to break up the ice, I dressed as quickly as humanly possible and wrapped myself in a housecoat. I could ask her for more water after breakfast, if indeed there was any to be had.
My bedroom window was so decorated with plumes and ferns and paintbrush-strokes of frost that I almost neglected to notice, as I passed, that there was a great deal less black-and-grey in proportion to white outside it. I stopped, rubbed a small circle and got a frozen palm for my curiosity, and discovered that last night it had snowed.
There were about six inches of it on the ground, and great fluffy flakes continued steadily to fall, looking the slightest bit grayish against the flat white sky. I did not linger, because the view from our sitting-room windows would be better, and there would be a fire in the grate down there in any case.
In the sitting room I could see my breath less, and although it was very early still Mrs. Hudson had already brought up breakfast. Holmes was hunched in his chair, ignoring it apart from a steaming cup of coffee around which he had curled his long fingers like a beggar's around a match. He looked up when I entered, gave me a brief smile, and then, as I gathered from his grimace, burnt his mouth on the coffee.
"How are you feeling?" I asked. Holmes had been confined to our rooms with a miserable cold for three days - those same three days that the temperatures had plummeted so that water-pipes all throughout the parish had burst, and there was now a constant line at every pump. Ours had been one of the lucky houses so far. I would not have recommended going out in such weather even if he were not feeling poorly, but as much as my friend was inclined to periods of reclusivity, he does not take well to involuntary confinement.
"Quite improved," Holmes answered bitterly, "naturally."
"I take it this displeases you?" I asked, seating myself at the table and tucking into the eggs – they were piping hot, God bless the woman.
Holmes shot me an annoyed glance and tried his coffee again. "It displeases me that I've been cooped up here for the better part of a week and now that I feel better, we find ourselves snowed in."
"I would hardly call half a foot on the ground 'snowed in'," I replied. "Are you going to have anything to eat?" He made a cross, noncommittal sound and huddled down further in his chair.
I finished my breakfast some minutes later and paused by the frost-covered window on the way to my desk. Snow was still falling steadily, but it was hardly a blizzard. I glanced at Holmes, still curled dejectedly in his chair, and tapped my fingers for a moment on the sill. Then I went to him and took his cup and saucer.
"Watson, I wasn't finished--"
"Come on," I said, putting the coffee aside. "Up you get." Holmes has perfected a certain glare to non-verbally express 'you're wasting my time,' but I have had sufficient experience in dodging it, and in any case it held no water here as his only current occupation was sulking. I held out both my hands and twitched my fingers in imitation of one of his more frequent impatient gestures. When he didn't move, I took his elbows and hauled him out of the chair. "We're going out."
"Where?" Holmes asked, but he shed his dressing gown and replaced it with a heavy coat and scarf.
"It doesn't matter. For a walk. If you feel well enough to be up and about, there's no reason we should let a little snow stop us." I attired myself similarly, pleased to see his energy so returned by my suggestion. Bundled in our winter clothes, we descended the stairs and emerged into the transformed world.
The first thing that struck me was the silence. The snowfall had made impossible any wheeled transport, and the street was devoid of cabs, carriages, wagons, and all other forms of large conveyance. Even the pedestrians were scarce; here and there, people passed soundlessly through the snow, wrapped to the nose with their hats pulled down. On any other day, at this time in the morning in Baker Street, the noise is substantial – hooves clattering, wheels rumbling, omnibus drivers shouting, bustle and motion, conversations being held at higher and higher volume to be heard over the lot of it. And added to all that are the clouds of dust kicked up by wheel, hoof, and foot alike. Now, everything was still, everything was clean, and as we stood there on our front step, a far off church-bell sounded, marking the hour.
We strolled down the street for a time, the only leisurely pair amongst the scanty foot traffic. A man scraped the pavement a few hundred yards ahead of us, and we stopped to look up at the snow-flecked sky.
"You have heard, Watson," Holmes said after a time, "of the musica universalis?"
I thought for a moment; the term recalled my far-off school days, but it had made a deep enough impression upon me to remember it. "The music of the spheres?"
"You know your Pythagoras, of course," Holmes said with a definitive nod.
I smiled. "I know my Dante." He favored me with a sidelong glance and a quirk of his lips, the scientist to the author acknowledging mutual territory.
"The continual lack of silence in London has precluded my thinking of it for years, but when I was a boy in the country, quiet was not such a commodity - instead we suffered an overabundance of it, and I had more than ample chance to get to know its nuances. Only in absolute silence like this, when all else is muffled, or in the noise-canceling rush of a downpour, did I entertain the notion that I could hear it: somehow toneless and in perfect harmony at the same time, all notes blending to make one note in the same way all colors blend to make white, just at the edge of audibility..." He paused to draw and exhale, and his breath unfurled in the snowy air. "The music of the spheres."
I said nothing. In truth, I was a little awestruck; not only did Holmes normally disdain the poetic, I had never before thought him capable of thinking via those pathways of imagery so familiar to my brain. That he had discovered this idea as a boy was tantalizing – Holmes never discussed his childhood, and I therefore had to piece together my picture of him from the few passing mentions he granted me. Though, I reconsidered, if anything could birth such poeticism in him, it was music.
When the wonder subsided, I found myself still silent, because I was listening. After a few moments, beneath the silence and very close to me, I detected a high rushing, almost reminiscent of the ocean. My physician's instincts immediately suggested several explanations, but for just a moment I ignored them and listened. It could, if I perceived it correctly, resemble music.
I glanced over at Holmes to see him with his face angled up at the sky, his eyes half-open and his gaze inward, attention focused. He apparently felt my gaze on him, for he gave a little tilt of his head toward me and the skin around his eyes crinkled. "You're listening."
I chuckled. Holmes knew me well enough by now that he needn't even to have asked. "This is all a rather romantic idea for you, Holmes."
"I suppose it is, but the idea is fascinating nonetheless: that the very movement of celestial bodies millions of miles away could create a music so omnipresent that no one hears it. To discover it myself - that is, to recognize the extraordinary in what others cannot distinguish from the trifles of everyday life, is not a foreign concept in my chosen profession." I smiled. It was amazing, and very suggestive of the way my friend's mind worked, that he could link the hard science of deduction to ancient philosophy and make it sound - well - elementary. Holmes joined me in smiling and returned his gaze to the sky, his shoulders relaxing. "I could never tell anyone else, you know. Mycroft would only laugh. And Lestrade... well, I dare say that he would either be excited beyond imagining that I had finally lost my grip on reality, or the poor fellow would do himself harm trying to work out what on earth I meant and why he couldn't keep up. The music of the spheres hardly falls into the realm of the 'practical,' after all."
"That leads me to ask: however did you notice it in the first place?"
"My brain works very busily, Watson," he said, "so busily that sometimes I must force it to be silent in order that I might stay sane."
It was curious; as much as I admired and studied Holmes's methods of thought, I seldom wondered what it would be like to constantly live with them in my own head. "Thank Heaven for snowy days, then."
Holmes regarded me with a warmth in his expression which, I am pleasantly surprised to note, I see with more frequency now-a-days. He slipped his arm into mine. "Indeed. Thank Heaven for them."
Title: Musica Universalis
Rating: G. Oh, so very G. And fluffy.
Character(s): Holmes and Watson
Summary: Temperatures dip below freezing, and the town is transformed.
Warnings: None whatsoever.
Words: 1,627
Author's Notes: This was inspired by contemporary accounts of a snowbound London. It takes place in early 1896, probably - after "The Bruce-Partington Plans," at least.
It was the third morning in a row that I had awoken to find the water in my basin on the washstand frozen solid. As I was quite sure Mrs. Hudson would take exception to my smashing her pottery in an attempt to break up the ice, I dressed as quickly as humanly possible and wrapped myself in a housecoat. I could ask her for more water after breakfast, if indeed there was any to be had.
My bedroom window was so decorated with plumes and ferns and paintbrush-strokes of frost that I almost neglected to notice, as I passed, that there was a great deal less black-and-grey in proportion to white outside it. I stopped, rubbed a small circle and got a frozen palm for my curiosity, and discovered that last night it had snowed.
There were about six inches of it on the ground, and great fluffy flakes continued steadily to fall, looking the slightest bit grayish against the flat white sky. I did not linger, because the view from our sitting-room windows would be better, and there would be a fire in the grate down there in any case.
In the sitting room I could see my breath less, and although it was very early still Mrs. Hudson had already brought up breakfast. Holmes was hunched in his chair, ignoring it apart from a steaming cup of coffee around which he had curled his long fingers like a beggar's around a match. He looked up when I entered, gave me a brief smile, and then, as I gathered from his grimace, burnt his mouth on the coffee.
"How are you feeling?" I asked. Holmes had been confined to our rooms with a miserable cold for three days - those same three days that the temperatures had plummeted so that water-pipes all throughout the parish had burst, and there was now a constant line at every pump. Ours had been one of the lucky houses so far. I would not have recommended going out in such weather even if he were not feeling poorly, but as much as my friend was inclined to periods of reclusivity, he does not take well to involuntary confinement.
"Quite improved," Holmes answered bitterly, "naturally."
"I take it this displeases you?" I asked, seating myself at the table and tucking into the eggs – they were piping hot, God bless the woman.
Holmes shot me an annoyed glance and tried his coffee again. "It displeases me that I've been cooped up here for the better part of a week and now that I feel better, we find ourselves snowed in."
"I would hardly call half a foot on the ground 'snowed in'," I replied. "Are you going to have anything to eat?" He made a cross, noncommittal sound and huddled down further in his chair.
I finished my breakfast some minutes later and paused by the frost-covered window on the way to my desk. Snow was still falling steadily, but it was hardly a blizzard. I glanced at Holmes, still curled dejectedly in his chair, and tapped my fingers for a moment on the sill. Then I went to him and took his cup and saucer.
"Watson, I wasn't finished--"
"Come on," I said, putting the coffee aside. "Up you get." Holmes has perfected a certain glare to non-verbally express 'you're wasting my time,' but I have had sufficient experience in dodging it, and in any case it held no water here as his only current occupation was sulking. I held out both my hands and twitched my fingers in imitation of one of his more frequent impatient gestures. When he didn't move, I took his elbows and hauled him out of the chair. "We're going out."
"Where?" Holmes asked, but he shed his dressing gown and replaced it with a heavy coat and scarf.
"It doesn't matter. For a walk. If you feel well enough to be up and about, there's no reason we should let a little snow stop us." I attired myself similarly, pleased to see his energy so returned by my suggestion. Bundled in our winter clothes, we descended the stairs and emerged into the transformed world.
The first thing that struck me was the silence. The snowfall had made impossible any wheeled transport, and the street was devoid of cabs, carriages, wagons, and all other forms of large conveyance. Even the pedestrians were scarce; here and there, people passed soundlessly through the snow, wrapped to the nose with their hats pulled down. On any other day, at this time in the morning in Baker Street, the noise is substantial – hooves clattering, wheels rumbling, omnibus drivers shouting, bustle and motion, conversations being held at higher and higher volume to be heard over the lot of it. And added to all that are the clouds of dust kicked up by wheel, hoof, and foot alike. Now, everything was still, everything was clean, and as we stood there on our front step, a far off church-bell sounded, marking the hour.
We strolled down the street for a time, the only leisurely pair amongst the scanty foot traffic. A man scraped the pavement a few hundred yards ahead of us, and we stopped to look up at the snow-flecked sky.
"You have heard, Watson," Holmes said after a time, "of the musica universalis?"
I thought for a moment; the term recalled my far-off school days, but it had made a deep enough impression upon me to remember it. "The music of the spheres?"
"You know your Pythagoras, of course," Holmes said with a definitive nod.
I smiled. "I know my Dante." He favored me with a sidelong glance and a quirk of his lips, the scientist to the author acknowledging mutual territory.
"The continual lack of silence in London has precluded my thinking of it for years, but when I was a boy in the country, quiet was not such a commodity - instead we suffered an overabundance of it, and I had more than ample chance to get to know its nuances. Only in absolute silence like this, when all else is muffled, or in the noise-canceling rush of a downpour, did I entertain the notion that I could hear it: somehow toneless and in perfect harmony at the same time, all notes blending to make one note in the same way all colors blend to make white, just at the edge of audibility..." He paused to draw and exhale, and his breath unfurled in the snowy air. "The music of the spheres."
I said nothing. In truth, I was a little awestruck; not only did Holmes normally disdain the poetic, I had never before thought him capable of thinking via those pathways of imagery so familiar to my brain. That he had discovered this idea as a boy was tantalizing – Holmes never discussed his childhood, and I therefore had to piece together my picture of him from the few passing mentions he granted me. Though, I reconsidered, if anything could birth such poeticism in him, it was music.
When the wonder subsided, I found myself still silent, because I was listening. After a few moments, beneath the silence and very close to me, I detected a high rushing, almost reminiscent of the ocean. My physician's instincts immediately suggested several explanations, but for just a moment I ignored them and listened. It could, if I perceived it correctly, resemble music.
I glanced over at Holmes to see him with his face angled up at the sky, his eyes half-open and his gaze inward, attention focused. He apparently felt my gaze on him, for he gave a little tilt of his head toward me and the skin around his eyes crinkled. "You're listening."
I chuckled. Holmes knew me well enough by now that he needn't even to have asked. "This is all a rather romantic idea for you, Holmes."
"I suppose it is, but the idea is fascinating nonetheless: that the very movement of celestial bodies millions of miles away could create a music so omnipresent that no one hears it. To discover it myself - that is, to recognize the extraordinary in what others cannot distinguish from the trifles of everyday life, is not a foreign concept in my chosen profession." I smiled. It was amazing, and very suggestive of the way my friend's mind worked, that he could link the hard science of deduction to ancient philosophy and make it sound - well - elementary. Holmes joined me in smiling and returned his gaze to the sky, his shoulders relaxing. "I could never tell anyone else, you know. Mycroft would only laugh. And Lestrade... well, I dare say that he would either be excited beyond imagining that I had finally lost my grip on reality, or the poor fellow would do himself harm trying to work out what on earth I meant and why he couldn't keep up. The music of the spheres hardly falls into the realm of the 'practical,' after all."
"That leads me to ask: however did you notice it in the first place?"
"My brain works very busily, Watson," he said, "so busily that sometimes I must force it to be silent in order that I might stay sane."
It was curious; as much as I admired and studied Holmes's methods of thought, I seldom wondered what it would be like to constantly live with them in my own head. "Thank Heaven for snowy days, then."
Holmes regarded me with a warmth in his expression which, I am pleasantly surprised to note, I see with more frequency now-a-days. He slipped his arm into mine. "Indeed. Thank Heaven for them."
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Also the line about Lestrade being giddy over Holmes losing his mind made me LOL. F'reals!
Awwww warm and fluffy!
Great even if there wasn't any ice skating!! XD
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My bedroom window was so decorated with plumes and ferns and paintbrush-strokes of frost
Mmmmm, lovely!
he had curled his long fingers like a beggar's around a match.
And again. You have the most wonderful way with metaphors and similies, and as Watson does too, it adds so much to your take on his voice.
seating myself at the table and tucking into the eggs – they were piping hot, God bless the woman.
Watson always does value the simple things (especially when comestible). It's part of what makes him so loveable, bless the man.
Holmes has perfected a certain glare to non-verbally express 'you're wasting my time,'
Eeeee! Another of those 'I can totally see it' moments that you do so well, for a Holmes who is simultaneously the Paget drawing and Jeremy Brett, which is a bit of a mindf%#k, I must say, what with the whole pen-and-ink to reality translation. In a good way, though XD In the same vein, I held out both my hands and twitched my fingers in imitation of one of his more frequent impatient gestures is the BEST.IMAGE.EVER. I love watching Watson imitate Holmes, in any way, but that in particular is just glorious.
Now, everything was still, everything was clean
You and this fic made me miss real winters so much. I grew up in the midwest and went to college in Massachusetts, so living in Washington D.C. is a major change on the winter front. Those moments, when the whole world is silenced and wiped clean by the snow, may be the thing I miss the very most. That combined feeling of solitude and connectedness that happens during a real snow is one of the most beautiful emotions there is, I think.
He favored me with a sidelong glance and a quirk of his lips, the scientist to the author acknowledging mutual territory.
I can't even begin to coherently discuss this line. It gives me raptures, for many, many reasons.
It was amazing, and very suggestive of the way my friend's mind worked, that he could link the hard science of deduction to ancient philosophy and make it sound - well - elementary.
...and it says equally amazing things about the way your mind works, for writing this!
I dare say that he would either be excited beyond imagining that I had finally lost my grip on reality
How did you just manage to write such a cruel thing about a character who we both adore and make it quite possibly my favorite line in the entire fic? This made me laugh out loud. And I love that Holmes cares whether or not Lestrade "does himself harm" :)
It was curious; as much as I admired and studied Holmes's methods of thought, I seldom wondered what it would be like to constantly live with them in my own head.
Poor Holmes! No wonder he has his chemistry and his monographs and his violin, side channels to divert some of his excess brainflow when the canal of his detective work is narrow or blocked altogether. It's such a good observation about the way his head works. And forces me to reevaluate my heretofore blithe acceptance of the Canonical version of the Sussex years...
And the ending, of course, is just as gorgeous in its emotions as your fics always are. *very happy sigh* This was such a wonderful Friday present-- thank you so much!
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I love your imagery...and that is a very true remark about forcing one's mind to stay silent.
Thank you,
Cat
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H&W.
Gorgeous Elaby fic.
*dies of sheer love*
Will review this later today when I'm more coherent. :D
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The first three paragraphs are so made of wonderful, I felt all warm and almost Christmassy just reading them. That's just how I feel when I wake up in the wintertime (although I am also grateful for my space heater, lol).
"Holmes was hunched in his chair, ignoring it apart from a steaming cup of coffee around which he had curled his long fingers like a beggar's around a match" Adorable mental image, and awesome simile - all in the same sentence. You've a remarkable talent for choosing not the right word, or a great word, but the perfect word, and that's why your stories are always a cut above the rest of us mere mortals. :P
Mrs. Hudson's care for the two of them on such a morning (when she herself would be getting older by this point in the timeline), and Watson's appreciating it, were also perfection, and very sweet. *needs to find synonyms for wonderful*
"I held out both my hands and twitched my fingers in imitation of one of his more frequent impatient gestures." -- I think this is where I melted into an insensible puddle, and it remains my favorite line of the whole thing. Watson imitating Holmes is adorable on its own, but when it's a conscious imitation, it's even more so. A gesture that would be mocking in another person is only affectionate here, and I LOVE it. *<3 <3 <3*
And then there is more snow-squee-inducing description, so much so that I just sighed and sat here for a few minutes wishing it were December here. And the bit about Pythagoras and Dante was brilliant, too, btw.
Then the "I could never tell anyone else, you know. Mycroft would only laugh. And Lestrade... well, I dare say that he would either be excited beyond imagining that I had finally lost my grip on reality, or the poor fellow would do himself harm trying to work out what on earth I meant and why he couldn't keep up." was inspired, I tell you. So sad, and sweet, and hilarious, all in one little bit of dialogue. *brain explodes*
And the last paragraph. *melts completely into snow-slush*
(looking back, I'm not sure that this is any more coherent than it would have been last night...)
Thank you for a lovely read!
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What can I say that hasn't already been expressed in previous comments?
Just the mention of the musica universalis concept itself made me rather giddy with joy but in this context it was even better!
Exploring Holmes's occassional poetic streak is always fascinating to me, Holmes being the mass of contradictions that he is. You explain the reasons for this side of him so well.
Also, Watson's reactions to it made me squirm with utter delight! I love that in this fic he knows Holmes well enought not to take any crap but can still be awed by him. It's actually incredibly romantic when you think about it.
My bedroom window was so decorated with plumes and ferns and paintbrush-strokes of frost
Already been mentioned but I thought I would also tell you how beautiful that is.
"My brain works very busily, Watson," he said, "so busily that sometimes I must force it to be silent in order that I might stay sane."
Yes, perfect way of putting it. Although I'm sure he would find that easier if he eased up on the cocaine.
So glad that I had time to sit and read it through properly, because it was wonderful. I've always found the silence during or immediately after snowfall to be pretty eerie.
*sigh* Just lovely.
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Glorious
Re: Glorious
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and in any case it held no water here as his only current occupation was sulking.
Hee! hee! Oddly enough this made me think of my late cat, and how she would sulk while being examined by the vet. It was quite comical; she'd just hunch into herself with the sourest look on her face. "Oh, grump grump grump!" the vet would say. No-one does sulking quite like cats, with the possible exception of cat-like Holmes.
"My brain works very busily, Watson," he said, "so busily that sometimes I must force it to be silent in order that I might stay sane."
You express very well--subtly but poignantly--the conception that Holmes sometimes finds it a struggle to maintain control of his prodigious mind. That idea always threatens to make me literally produce a wibbling sound, so I am glad this fic had a happy ending. :]
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Honestly? I've been using some of the imagery from this to get me through this awful heat we're having. :)
My bedroom window was so decorated with plumes and ferns and paintbrush-strokes of frost
Oh, yes. Oh, yes.
Now, everything was still, everything was clean, and as we stood there on our front step, a far off church-bell sounded, marking the hour.
For some reason, that's my favorite image in the whole piece. It's just so peace-inducing.
"You know your Pythagoras, of course," Holmes said with a definitive nod.
I smiled. "I know my Dante." He favored me with a sidelong glance and a quirk of his lips, the scientist to the author acknowledging mutual territory.
And there's my favorite piece of conversation. Brilliant.
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I've been reading "Planet Narnia" (not to mention C.S. Lewis's fiction and literary criticism) and I've been thinking about the music of the spheres. In fact, it's come up a lot recently--I guess that's what comes about being an aspiring Medievalist and/or Renaissance-ist. It really is a beautiful, (though sadly, as Lewis points out, Discarded) image, and I love when people use it in their work.
But I don't just like this because of the allusion. You really are a wonderful writer, in my opinion! I think that you should write original stuff that you could publish! :-)
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