30 Day OTP Challenge - Day 1: Holding Hands
WC: 1k~
Note: I tried to be funny. I hope it worked.
It is no great deviation from the average cycle of life between the walls of 221b Baker Street, that come daybreak Sherlock Holmes should be crouched over a grand array of chemical messes, all steaming and bubbling away in their beakers, seemingly unmoved from the very same position he had last been seen occupying some eight hours prior. Likewise, it is well within the bounds of that concept of normalcy to which he adheres that on occasion these study sessions should produce less than favourable results. In point of fact, Dr. John Watson might even go so far as to say that Sherlock Holmes is not only London's wisest mind, but also London's greatest fire-hazard.
We find ourselves now on one such night, or rather early on one such morning, admiring, even as we gasp for a fresh breath of air, just how apt Dr. Watson would be in his assessment. Indeed, the shining red edge of the sun is just now pulling itself free of that drowsy sheet of night which hangs across the city, as he too finds himself throwing aside his own covers to greet the day. If he, however, for all his troubles, is somewhat less cordial about it, well, one could very hardly blame him...
"Sherlock Holmes!"
They are the first two words that the good, if understandably irritated, doctor manages to cough out amidst the haze of lord-only-knows-what that clouds the air of their sitting room. The Great Detective sputters into the crook of his arm what might be an apology, what sounds vaguely like an apology, what had better for the love of all that is good, having woken John Watson at this ungodly hour, be an apology.
"What on earth," coughs the older man, as he makes to open any and every window in sight. "Have you gone and done this time, man?"
"I assure you--" begins his companion, only to be cut short by an ill-advised inhalation. Upon making his way to the window he recommences. "I assure you, my dear boy, I am on the verge of something pivotal."
"Work for a new monograph, perhaps?"
"Why in fact-"
"Subject: Most Effective Ways To Destroy Ones Flat Before Breakfast? Or perhaps Most Effective Methods Of Killing Ones Housemate As They Sleep?"
Sherlock Fire-Hazard Holmes seems shockingly immune to the doctor's razor sharp wit. He is in fact on the verge of making a remark very much to that effect when both men are suddenly distracted by a sound from the chemistry table which surely promises to raise tonight's results well above the realm of unfavorable and quite firmly into the realm of Holmes-If-You-Don't-Stop-This-Now-Mrs.-Hudson-Will-Quite-Literally-Murder-The-Both-Of-Us-And-Hide-The-Bodies-So-Well-Even-You-Couldn't-Find-Them.
"Holmes." He doesn't need to say much more. The "I'm fairly certain you're about to blow the flat to Kingdom Come, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not too terribly pleased about it." is implied.
"Don't move."
He says don't move. John Watson hears "We're about to either die or be horrifically disfigured." That's a fair bit more than he can handle before his first cup of tea.
He makes to cross the room, gather up the ominously gurgling beaker and either empty it into the sink, throw it from the window, or pour it down Holmes' throat. He hasn't quite decided. He is cut off before he has even had that chance when his companion rushes in front of him, arms extended, head cocked back to look at the experiment taking place over his shoulder.
"I assure you, doctor, it is quite alright."
It really doesn't seem to be.
Watson moves to step around his resident amateur chemist, and gets almost within an arms length of the table this time. He could indeed have claimed his target in just a moment, if not for Sherlock Holmes all but lunging at him, taking his outstretched hand in both of his own, and knocking him sideways and away from the table with his torso. There's something of what could almost be called a scuffle as one man tries to pry his hand free from the other's deathgrip only to end up with both hands trapped, all the while insisting that if the flat does in actual fact explode, then Sherlock Holmes can find someone else to help him pay the rent in the afterlife. Meanwhile Holmes manages, between issued reassurances, to twist himself backwards, so that he faces away from the doctor, while maintaining a grip on his less-and-less-inclined-to-struggle hands.
So this is the position they find themselves in at last, as Sherlock Holmes gapes expectantly at the reaction unraveling before him, and John Watson attempts to convince himself that dying in a chemical explosion at 5h30 in the morning while holding fast to his madman of a friend, is far from the worst way to go. For the moment, that's all they can do. There is at least a small sense of relief to be taken in the feeling of Holmes' grip loosening somewhat, and in fact, this really might not be such an awful way to go, he thinks, as his madman rubs small circles with his thumbs along the back of Watson's hands, as if to say "I promise you'll survive this."
And of course, he does.
It's only a moment longer before the ominous sound sputters into silence, and all goes frightfully still for a moment. Holmes' fingers grip tighter again.
Then, in a flash, the reaction is complete, and the steaming liquid changes from a putrid shade of green to a bright pinkish hue.
Holmes' grip tightens to an absolute vice, and he cocks his head back toward Watson, grinning fiendishly.
"By Jove, Watson, I've done it!"
Watson's not sure what exactly he's done, but he is fairly certain that he's fast losing all circulation in his fingers. He gives a tug, and his friend's expression changes to one slightly startled as he realizes ah yes, I've still got you, haven't I. He lets go, clears his throat and then turns back to his experiment, now clasping his own hands together in front of him.
"You see, Watson-" and already he's launching into an explanation of his latest scientific miracle. And already Watson is, of course, amazed. And when a few short moments later the beaker actually does explode, and even as Watson finds himself picking glass from his best friend's left arm, he is really, hardly very surprised. It is no great deviation from the Baker Street cycle of life after all.
Note: I tried to be funny. I hope it worked.
It is no great deviation from the average cycle of life between the walls of 221b Baker Street, that come daybreak Sherlock Holmes should be crouched over a grand array of chemical messes, all steaming and bubbling away in their beakers, seemingly unmoved from the very same position he had last been seen occupying some eight hours prior. Likewise, it is well within the bounds of that concept of normalcy to which he adheres that on occasion these study sessions should produce less than favourable results. In point of fact, Dr. John Watson might even go so far as to say that Sherlock Holmes is not only London's wisest mind, but also London's greatest fire-hazard.
We find ourselves now on one such night, or rather early on one such morning, admiring, even as we gasp for a fresh breath of air, just how apt Dr. Watson would be in his assessment. Indeed, the shining red edge of the sun is just now pulling itself free of that drowsy sheet of night which hangs across the city, as he too finds himself throwing aside his own covers to greet the day. If he, however, for all his troubles, is somewhat less cordial about it, well, one could very hardly blame him...
"Sherlock Holmes!"
They are the first two words that the good, if understandably irritated, doctor manages to cough out amidst the haze of lord-only-knows-what that clouds the air of their sitting room. The Great Detective sputters into the crook of his arm what might be an apology, what sounds vaguely like an apology, what had better for the love of all that is good, having woken John Watson at this ungodly hour, be an apology.
"What on earth," coughs the older man, as he makes to open any and every window in sight. "Have you gone and done this time, man?"
"I assure you--" begins his companion, only to be cut short by an ill-advised inhalation. Upon making his way to the window he recommences. "I assure you, my dear boy, I am on the verge of something pivotal."
"Work for a new monograph, perhaps?"
"Why in fact-"
"Subject: Most Effective Ways To Destroy Ones Flat Before Breakfast? Or perhaps Most Effective Methods Of Killing Ones Housemate As They Sleep?"
Sherlock Fire-Hazard Holmes seems shockingly immune to the doctor's razor sharp wit. He is in fact on the verge of making a remark very much to that effect when both men are suddenly distracted by a sound from the chemistry table which surely promises to raise tonight's results well above the realm of unfavorable and quite firmly into the realm of Holmes-If-You-Don't-Stop-This-Now-Mrs.-Hudson-Will-Quite-Literally-Murder-The-Both-Of-Us-And-Hide-The-Bodies-So-Well-Even-You-Couldn't-Find-Them.
"Holmes." He doesn't need to say much more. The "I'm fairly certain you're about to blow the flat to Kingdom Come, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not too terribly pleased about it." is implied.
"Don't move."
He says don't move. John Watson hears "We're about to either die or be horrifically disfigured." That's a fair bit more than he can handle before his first cup of tea.
He makes to cross the room, gather up the ominously gurgling beaker and either empty it into the sink, throw it from the window, or pour it down Holmes' throat. He hasn't quite decided. He is cut off before he has even had that chance when his companion rushes in front of him, arms extended, head cocked back to look at the experiment taking place over his shoulder.
"I assure you, doctor, it is quite alright."
It really doesn't seem to be.
Watson moves to step around his resident amateur chemist, and gets almost within an arms length of the table this time. He could indeed have claimed his target in just a moment, if not for Sherlock Holmes all but lunging at him, taking his outstretched hand in both of his own, and knocking him sideways and away from the table with his torso. There's something of what could almost be called a scuffle as one man tries to pry his hand free from the other's deathgrip only to end up with both hands trapped, all the while insisting that if the flat does in actual fact explode, then Sherlock Holmes can find someone else to help him pay the rent in the afterlife. Meanwhile Holmes manages, between issued reassurances, to twist himself backwards, so that he faces away from the doctor, while maintaining a grip on his less-and-less-inclined-to-struggle hands.
So this is the position they find themselves in at last, as Sherlock Holmes gapes expectantly at the reaction unraveling before him, and John Watson attempts to convince himself that dying in a chemical explosion at 5h30 in the morning while holding fast to his madman of a friend, is far from the worst way to go. For the moment, that's all they can do. There is at least a small sense of relief to be taken in the feeling of Holmes' grip loosening somewhat, and in fact, this really might not be such an awful way to go, he thinks, as his madman rubs small circles with his thumbs along the back of Watson's hands, as if to say "I promise you'll survive this."
And of course, he does.
It's only a moment longer before the ominous sound sputters into silence, and all goes frightfully still for a moment. Holmes' fingers grip tighter again.
Then, in a flash, the reaction is complete, and the steaming liquid changes from a putrid shade of green to a bright pinkish hue.
Holmes' grip tightens to an absolute vice, and he cocks his head back toward Watson, grinning fiendishly.
"By Jove, Watson, I've done it!"
Watson's not sure what exactly he's done, but he is fairly certain that he's fast losing all circulation in his fingers. He gives a tug, and his friend's expression changes to one slightly startled as he realizes ah yes, I've still got you, haven't I. He lets go, clears his throat and then turns back to his experiment, now clasping his own hands together in front of him.
"You see, Watson-" and already he's launching into an explanation of his latest scientific miracle. And already Watson is, of course, amazed. And when a few short moments later the beaker actually does explode, and even as Watson finds himself picking glass from his best friend's left arm, he is really, hardly very surprised. It is no great deviation from the Baker Street cycle of life after all.