Two Sparrows Sold for a Farthing
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: 'practically canon. :I
Summary: A short story of how Holmes came to be in control of Watson's finances.
Word Count: 701
Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.
His eyes snapped open before his dream ended. He fought to regain control over his racing pulse. Bile burned the back of his throat. The weakly flickering light of the gas lamps on the barren street fought its way through the curtains to illuminate his palms. He was almost surprised by the fact that, although they were trembling, they were clean and bloodless. Yet, even as his breathing slowed, he could not rid himself of the feeling that the sea was rising fearfully and that the Earth was giving way beneath his feet.
Rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.
He felt like a criminal sneaking down the narrow stairs to the drawing room. The sound of each of his footsteps was magnified by the silence and total darkness of the slumbering house. It was not just the gambling parlor to which he was stealing away. For him, it was a place of worship for a soul in doubt. He made it all the way to the door by memory and touch alone. He had his hand on his jacket before he noticed he was not alone in the room. By the mantle, a match seemed to strike itself.
“Stay,” his partner's face and the smoke ghosting away from the pipe he was starting were all he could see, “We can play here.”
He had said it before and he would say it again, “Holmes, if this were a different time you would have been burned for a witch.”
Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?
The lamp was lit. They sat in the pool it cast around the dining table. Watson's tired eyes refused to adjust. It gave him the feeling that they were on the only island of solid ground left in a sea of darkness.
“Put it away. I am not interested in your money.”
“What's on the line?” he tried in vain to focus on the detective's eyes rather than the cards his long, nimble fingers were skillfully shuffling.
“Your dignity.”
He knew he wanted it as well as he knew he needed to show Holmes he don't need it. Temptation was cruel. It caused his pulse to rush for an entirely new reason. He felt alive. He could feel the excitement like an electric current through his fingertips. Denying it was hopeless. The voice of reason rang out and was muffled like a dead bell.
He gave in, “Fine.”
One of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
Win or lose, it did not matter. What mattered was the choice. These were bets that were not thrust upon him but that he elected himself. It was somehow both intoxicating and reassuring. He lost himself in the rhythm of his partner's swift hands as they dealt and flipped and gathered the cards.
But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
“One more. Double or nothing.”
He watched his lips twist into a wry smile, “Are you sure? Sixty years is a long time.”
The fact that this could be the last bet he would ever make was so exhilarating it took his breath away. He could only nod, yes. He bit his lip and took in a shaking breath as he watched the cards slide across the table. They felt better in his hands than ever before.
“Hit me.”
Holmes's eyebrow quirked. He flipped the card in one languid movement, as though he too was savoring this moment. His fingers went numb and an overwhelming buzz flooded his ears as he read the numbers.
“Why do you look so shocked? You know the odds are always against you in blackjack.” The other man laughed when he slipped the checkbook from his grasp. His gray eyes danced with playful glee in the pre-dawn light. Watson was not sure if his joke was meant to be comforting. Somehow it was, “Now you'll never be rid of me.”
Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.
Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: 'practically canon. :I
Summary: A short story of how Holmes came to be in control of Watson's finances.
Word Count: 701
Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.
His eyes snapped open before his dream ended. He fought to regain control over his racing pulse. Bile burned the back of his throat. The weakly flickering light of the gas lamps on the barren street fought its way through the curtains to illuminate his palms. He was almost surprised by the fact that, although they were trembling, they were clean and bloodless. Yet, even as his breathing slowed, he could not rid himself of the feeling that the sea was rising fearfully and that the Earth was giving way beneath his feet.
Rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.
He felt like a criminal sneaking down the narrow stairs to the drawing room. The sound of each of his footsteps was magnified by the silence and total darkness of the slumbering house. It was not just the gambling parlor to which he was stealing away. For him, it was a place of worship for a soul in doubt. He made it all the way to the door by memory and touch alone. He had his hand on his jacket before he noticed he was not alone in the room. By the mantle, a match seemed to strike itself.
“Stay,” his partner's face and the smoke ghosting away from the pipe he was starting were all he could see, “We can play here.”
He had said it before and he would say it again, “Holmes, if this were a different time you would have been burned for a witch.”
Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?
The lamp was lit. They sat in the pool it cast around the dining table. Watson's tired eyes refused to adjust. It gave him the feeling that they were on the only island of solid ground left in a sea of darkness.
“Put it away. I am not interested in your money.”
“What's on the line?” he tried in vain to focus on the detective's eyes rather than the cards his long, nimble fingers were skillfully shuffling.
“Your dignity.”
He knew he wanted it as well as he knew he needed to show Holmes he don't need it. Temptation was cruel. It caused his pulse to rush for an entirely new reason. He felt alive. He could feel the excitement like an electric current through his fingertips. Denying it was hopeless. The voice of reason rang out and was muffled like a dead bell.
He gave in, “Fine.”
One of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
Win or lose, it did not matter. What mattered was the choice. These were bets that were not thrust upon him but that he elected himself. It was somehow both intoxicating and reassuring. He lost himself in the rhythm of his partner's swift hands as they dealt and flipped and gathered the cards.
But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.
“One more. Double or nothing.”
He watched his lips twist into a wry smile, “Are you sure? Sixty years is a long time.”
The fact that this could be the last bet he would ever make was so exhilarating it took his breath away. He could only nod, yes. He bit his lip and took in a shaking breath as he watched the cards slide across the table. They felt better in his hands than ever before.
“Hit me.”
Holmes's eyebrow quirked. He flipped the card in one languid movement, as though he too was savoring this moment. His fingers went numb and an overwhelming buzz flooded his ears as he read the numbers.
“Why do you look so shocked? You know the odds are always against you in blackjack.” The other man laughed when he slipped the checkbook from his grasp. His gray eyes danced with playful glee in the pre-dawn light. Watson was not sure if his joke was meant to be comforting. Somehow it was, “Now you'll never be rid of me.”
Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.