Fic: If I Could, I Would Take Your Hand
I am still drowning in obligations over here, but I promise in mid-February I will be back to play and write again. In the meantime, I still have one more piece of fic leftover from the holiday rush to post. Gais, I wrote canon-verse Holmes!
Title: If I Could, I Would Take Your Hand
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (canon-verse, but could be construed as Granada or Ritchie-verse, I suppose)
Pairing:Holmes/Watson(ish)
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~730
Notes: Written for bullet2 for fandom_stocking, for the prompt "touch-starved."
Summary: Holmes must content himself with looking.
Holmes stood at the window, ostensibly turning over his current client’s recovered necklace in his left hand. That he’d been doing so for the better part of a quarter hour might have seemed unusual to a casual observer, but Watson had long since become accustomed to the occasional unorthodox method of gathering data, and so had been paying no attention.
In fact, Watson had made no comment at all in the past twenty-seven minutes, not since he’d poured them both a cup of tea. After that, he’d begun nodding over a pamphlet on a new treatment for scarlet fever.
Since Holmes could not conscience staring at his friend directly, he had dedicated the greatest part of his not inconsiderable attention to watching Watson’s reflection in the darkened window of their sitting room. Watson’s head lolled forward once, slowly, and then again. As his chin rested against his chest, his eyes drifted closed.
Holmes stayed at the window for the space of another minute, until he could be sure Watson slept. Then he turned, slowly, to drink in the scene in full colour: Watson in his shirtsleeves and braces, pamphlet abandoned on his lap, hands loosely folded.
Holmes approached silently and lowered himself on one knee at the side of the armchair. He could look his fill, now, and he did. The light from the fire chased over the shadows on Watson’s face. His chest rose and fell with his gentle breathing: a regular, soothing movement. A smear of soot marred his trousers, just below the right knee, from where he’d been shoved against the hearth in that dreary hotel to which the day’s investigations had led them.
A quick touch, just a brush of his fingers against Watson’s neck, would tell Holmes if the skin there was as warm as it looked. Holmes imagined reaching out to touch: the soft give of Watson’s skin, the firmness of his muscles beneath his shirt, the contours of his body telling stories Holmes had never before heard. But Holmes’ hands remained clasped firmly over his knee. He would not intrude. He would not touch, however much he longed to do so.
If such a thing were to be possible--and it was highly likely to be completely impossible, he reminded himself firmly--it must take place at Watson’s instigation, or not at all. Holmes had done too much to put his friend in the way of intrigue and danger; he would not permit himself to drag Watson into further indecency.
Holmes allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, securing this memory of Watson for future use, and then pushed to his feet, feeling unaccountably weary.
“Watson,” he said softly. Watson stirred but did not wake, and Holmes considered leaving him there. Then again, he’d be stiff when he awoke, and Holmes would not allow his friend to suffer if he could prevent it. “Watson,” he said, more loudly this time.
Watson’s head rose slowly. He turned to face Holmes, like a flower seeking the sun, even before he’d opened his eyes. He blinked twice, and his mouth curled up in a rueful grin half-hidden by his moustache. “I’d just begun to dream,” he said.
“Yes.” Holmes focused his eyes, but not his attention, back toward the window. “You had better turn in, or you’ll be absolutely useless for chasing down the jewel thieves in the morning.”
Holmes had been listening for Watson’s response, but he didn’t expect the warm fingers that curled around his wrist and sent a small thrill through the core of him.
Watson took firm hold of Holmes, and turned his wrist over. “I dreamt you’d reached into a fire to recover that necklace. You burnt your hand.”
“Really, Watson. Even your subconscious should know I have more sense than that.”
“I can't say what my subconscious knows.” Watson pushed himself to standing, and in the window Holmes caught the wince that ran through him as he put weight on his overtaxed leg. “Still, I’m glad you’re in one piece.” He pressed his thumb to Holmes’ palm, then released his hand. “Good night.”
As he listened to Watson’s steps carrying him further away, Holmes focused on the feeling of that press of fingers against his skin. The memory of that touch would carry him through, he told himself. He could do without more.
Title: If I Could, I Would Take Your Hand
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (canon-verse, but could be construed as Granada or Ritchie-verse, I suppose)
Pairing:Holmes/Watson(ish)
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~730
Notes: Written for bullet2 for fandom_stocking, for the prompt "touch-starved."
Summary: Holmes must content himself with looking.
Holmes stood at the window, ostensibly turning over his current client’s recovered necklace in his left hand. That he’d been doing so for the better part of a quarter hour might have seemed unusual to a casual observer, but Watson had long since become accustomed to the occasional unorthodox method of gathering data, and so had been paying no attention.
In fact, Watson had made no comment at all in the past twenty-seven minutes, not since he’d poured them both a cup of tea. After that, he’d begun nodding over a pamphlet on a new treatment for scarlet fever.
Since Holmes could not conscience staring at his friend directly, he had dedicated the greatest part of his not inconsiderable attention to watching Watson’s reflection in the darkened window of their sitting room. Watson’s head lolled forward once, slowly, and then again. As his chin rested against his chest, his eyes drifted closed.
Holmes stayed at the window for the space of another minute, until he could be sure Watson slept. Then he turned, slowly, to drink in the scene in full colour: Watson in his shirtsleeves and braces, pamphlet abandoned on his lap, hands loosely folded.
Holmes approached silently and lowered himself on one knee at the side of the armchair. He could look his fill, now, and he did. The light from the fire chased over the shadows on Watson’s face. His chest rose and fell with his gentle breathing: a regular, soothing movement. A smear of soot marred his trousers, just below the right knee, from where he’d been shoved against the hearth in that dreary hotel to which the day’s investigations had led them.
A quick touch, just a brush of his fingers against Watson’s neck, would tell Holmes if the skin there was as warm as it looked. Holmes imagined reaching out to touch: the soft give of Watson’s skin, the firmness of his muscles beneath his shirt, the contours of his body telling stories Holmes had never before heard. But Holmes’ hands remained clasped firmly over his knee. He would not intrude. He would not touch, however much he longed to do so.
If such a thing were to be possible--and it was highly likely to be completely impossible, he reminded himself firmly--it must take place at Watson’s instigation, or not at all. Holmes had done too much to put his friend in the way of intrigue and danger; he would not permit himself to drag Watson into further indecency.
Holmes allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, securing this memory of Watson for future use, and then pushed to his feet, feeling unaccountably weary.
“Watson,” he said softly. Watson stirred but did not wake, and Holmes considered leaving him there. Then again, he’d be stiff when he awoke, and Holmes would not allow his friend to suffer if he could prevent it. “Watson,” he said, more loudly this time.
Watson’s head rose slowly. He turned to face Holmes, like a flower seeking the sun, even before he’d opened his eyes. He blinked twice, and his mouth curled up in a rueful grin half-hidden by his moustache. “I’d just begun to dream,” he said.
“Yes.” Holmes focused his eyes, but not his attention, back toward the window. “You had better turn in, or you’ll be absolutely useless for chasing down the jewel thieves in the morning.”
Holmes had been listening for Watson’s response, but he didn’t expect the warm fingers that curled around his wrist and sent a small thrill through the core of him.
Watson took firm hold of Holmes, and turned his wrist over. “I dreamt you’d reached into a fire to recover that necklace. You burnt your hand.”
“Really, Watson. Even your subconscious should know I have more sense than that.”
“I can't say what my subconscious knows.” Watson pushed himself to standing, and in the window Holmes caught the wince that ran through him as he put weight on his overtaxed leg. “Still, I’m glad you’re in one piece.” He pressed his thumb to Holmes’ palm, then released his hand. “Good night.”
As he listened to Watson’s steps carrying him further away, Holmes focused on the feeling of that press of fingers against his skin. The memory of that touch would carry him through, he told himself. He could do without more.