Sherlock Holmes Fic - Five Times Watson and Holmes Showed Public Displays of Affection and One Time
Five Times Watson and Holmes Showed Public Displays of Affection and One Time They Didn’t
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Spoilers: None
Summary: Pretty much what the title says.
Notes/Warnings: Fluffy fluffy fluff fluff.
Disclaimer: I don't own because I'm not Conan Doyle. Yet.
John Watson had to admit that he loved touching Sherlock Holmes in public. In fact, it was his favorite hobby. In the beginning he would merely ghost a finger across the detective’s shoulder or place a hand warmly around his wrist. Over the years, however, these public displays had gotten more apparent, apparently.
Watson would walk half a block with his hand on the small of Holmes’ back or would sit just a little too close to him to the point that their shoulders and arms were always in contact. Quite often when the two of them sat next to one another Watson would place a hand behind Holmes on the back of his chair. Whoever happened to be present in the room with them would cough awkwardly and try not to stare.
Holmes, for his own part, seemed to not notice, or at least not acknowledge, these rather obvious displays. That was until one balmy afternoon in the park when Holmes sat reading the newspaper on a bench and Watson sat silently beside him, legs crossed, hands clasped, watching children fly kites or play on the slide.
Holmes turned the page of his newspaper, folded one side over as to free his hand and rested said hand on top of Watson’s knee. Watson looked down at the hand that lay there as though it were the most natural place for it to be. He looked to Holmes who had not taken his eyes off the paper or even seemed to notice that he had moved his hand. Watson knew better than to believe such an act.
~*~
The touching only became worse overtime. Well, Watson was not exactly sure that worse was the right word, because really he did not mind the touching at all. It just became more progressive in a short span of time. A mere week after the incident in the park Holmes refused to walk anywhere without Watson’s hand in his, no matter how many people stared at them. Although Watson thoroughly enjoyed this, he did not care for the attention it seemed to draw.
The matter became infinitely more pronounced when a young, attractive lady was present. The moment any woman was in the immediate vicinity of Watson, flashing him a soft smile and batting eyelashes, Holmes would tighten his grip on Watson’s hand. If the woman failed to notice this as their hands were often covered by their coats (a compromise Holmes had come up with after Watson’s many complaints of being stared at), Holmes would momentarily release Watson’s hand to run it from the nape of his neck, down his back, and rest in just above his coattails.
“What have I told you about that?” Watson said irritably as one such woman made a hasty retreat.
“About what, my good man?” Holmes asked with a practiced innocence.
~*~
It seemed that Holmes had moved on to a more grand display of his affection for Watson. He had most recently begun to call Watson by terms of endearment in front of large and small groups of onlookers. Take for example, while investigating a rather peculiar murder Holmes was suddenly unable to light his own smoking pipe. He kept the pipe in his mouth and passed matches to Watson, who did not think twice about lighting it for him.
“Thank you, darling,” was Holmes’ reply before moving on to answer a question from the constable about the crime scene.
It started simple, but escalated throughout the day. Before they had left the crime scene Holmes had managed to call Watson “dear,” “sweetheart,” and “love.” When they left the scene and went to the market on a whim, Holmes claiming that he needed the bustle of the crowd to think clearly, Watson was sure that same crowd would keep Holmes from continuing his endearments.
“Anything spark you interest, my dear?” Holmes asked as they passed by various stands selling domestic and exotic amenities.
“Nothing yet, darling,” Watson retorted. There was a sudden change in Holmes’ countenance just then, Watson was looking at just the side of his face and so could not be sure what exactly it was, but was sure there was a twitch or a tick of displacement.
~*~
It should have been no surprise when Holmes shot a hand out to stop Watson as the two walked through London. But Watson was taken aback by the movement so much so that he had to reach a hand up to stop his hat from falling off his head from the sudden stop.
“Holmes, what in-”
“I love you.”
The words came out like a rushing waterfall as though it either burned the inside of Holmes’ throat and he could not wait to release them. Watson stared at him for a good thirty seconds before he felt the restraining hand fall away and saw a look of hurt rush over Holmes’ face. The crowd milled around them, some glancing over to the pair in curiosity.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”
“Shut up, Holmes,” Watson said, this time it was his turn to grab Holmes and pull him into a gentle hug. Watson leaned into his ear and whispered, “I love you.”
~*~
The case was getting more and more difficult by the moment. There were four dead bodies, all educated men with good standing in their neighborhoods. It completely baffled Holmes, and he was not one to abide by being baffled. The newest crime scene, the fifth one they had been to in just over the span of a week, was just as incomprehensible.
Holmes stood stoically next to Watson who was crouched on the floor where the newest victim lay. After a short examination of the corpse Watson stood and nodded to the police that they could take the body for a proper autopsy.
“Well?” Holmes asked, anxious for any kind of clue the doctor may have unearthed.
“The same as the other four, he was asphyxiated, most likely by rope judging from the markings around his neck,” Watson replied. Holmes moved closer to Watson as the police moved the body to the waiting cart outside. It was instinct for Watson to place an arm around Holmes until it rested on the hip opposite to him.
“Curious, very curious,” Holmes mumbled to himself. He turned to Watson and placed his pipe in his mouth, “Would you mind terribly going with the body to observe the autopsy?”
“I would not fathom to miss it,” Watson replied, beginning to walk away and follow the body and the police.
“Watson?” Holmes called to him before he was able to get more than a few steps away. Watson turned on his heels to look to his detective. “Forgetting something?”
Watson furrowed his brow in confusion to which Holmes cocked his head as though the answer should be obvious. Watson shrugged slightly and Holmes made a small motion with his head, indicating himself as the object of forgetting.
“Of course, forgive me,” Watson said, stepping back to Holmes.
“Not at all,” Holmes replied as Watson brought a hand to the back of his head, at the nape of his neck, burying his fingers into Holmes’ hair. Holmes leaned into the touch like oxygen, like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The push of lips against lips, although brief, set every piece of him on fire.
“Lunch, sweetheart?” Watson asked, running circles with his index finger in the scoop at the back of Holmes’ neck.
“Sounds lovely, lovely,” Holmes replied. A sudden cough from the door caught their attention, one of the bumbling officers stood there looking extremely uncomfortable. Neither Watson nor Holmes moved from their closeness and Watson only allowed his hand to move a mere inch to where Holmes’ neck met his back.
“The Inspector wishes to know if you are in need of a carriage to the autopsy, doctor,” the officer managed to squeak out.
“He does know us so well,” Holmes answered. Watson nodded to the poor officer who shuffled his feet and tried to look everywhere that was not the two men, but failed.
“Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” Watson smirked and released Holmes from his grasp, but not before Holmes grabbed his hand and kissed it softly.
“No promises.”
~*~
There was a soft intake of breath beside him in the darkness. He could barely register the tickle of air it left on the back of his shoulder blade. It made him shiver and pull himself closer into the warmth of the body behind him. A soft snort and a readjustment from the sleeping figure and an affectionate, possessive arm found its way around his waist. The arm squeezed, a nose nuzzled against skin, a hand skidded along a blanket-covered hipbone.
A voice mumbled in the night, “I love you, darling.”
A smile and a reply, “You better.”
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Spoilers: None
Summary: Pretty much what the title says.
Notes/Warnings: Fluffy fluffy fluff fluff.
Disclaimer: I don't own because I'm not Conan Doyle. Yet.
John Watson had to admit that he loved touching Sherlock Holmes in public. In fact, it was his favorite hobby. In the beginning he would merely ghost a finger across the detective’s shoulder or place a hand warmly around his wrist. Over the years, however, these public displays had gotten more apparent, apparently.
Watson would walk half a block with his hand on the small of Holmes’ back or would sit just a little too close to him to the point that their shoulders and arms were always in contact. Quite often when the two of them sat next to one another Watson would place a hand behind Holmes on the back of his chair. Whoever happened to be present in the room with them would cough awkwardly and try not to stare.
Holmes, for his own part, seemed to not notice, or at least not acknowledge, these rather obvious displays. That was until one balmy afternoon in the park when Holmes sat reading the newspaper on a bench and Watson sat silently beside him, legs crossed, hands clasped, watching children fly kites or play on the slide.
Holmes turned the page of his newspaper, folded one side over as to free his hand and rested said hand on top of Watson’s knee. Watson looked down at the hand that lay there as though it were the most natural place for it to be. He looked to Holmes who had not taken his eyes off the paper or even seemed to notice that he had moved his hand. Watson knew better than to believe such an act.
~*~
The touching only became worse overtime. Well, Watson was not exactly sure that worse was the right word, because really he did not mind the touching at all. It just became more progressive in a short span of time. A mere week after the incident in the park Holmes refused to walk anywhere without Watson’s hand in his, no matter how many people stared at them. Although Watson thoroughly enjoyed this, he did not care for the attention it seemed to draw.
The matter became infinitely more pronounced when a young, attractive lady was present. The moment any woman was in the immediate vicinity of Watson, flashing him a soft smile and batting eyelashes, Holmes would tighten his grip on Watson’s hand. If the woman failed to notice this as their hands were often covered by their coats (a compromise Holmes had come up with after Watson’s many complaints of being stared at), Holmes would momentarily release Watson’s hand to run it from the nape of his neck, down his back, and rest in just above his coattails.
“What have I told you about that?” Watson said irritably as one such woman made a hasty retreat.
“About what, my good man?” Holmes asked with a practiced innocence.
~*~
It seemed that Holmes had moved on to a more grand display of his affection for Watson. He had most recently begun to call Watson by terms of endearment in front of large and small groups of onlookers. Take for example, while investigating a rather peculiar murder Holmes was suddenly unable to light his own smoking pipe. He kept the pipe in his mouth and passed matches to Watson, who did not think twice about lighting it for him.
“Thank you, darling,” was Holmes’ reply before moving on to answer a question from the constable about the crime scene.
It started simple, but escalated throughout the day. Before they had left the crime scene Holmes had managed to call Watson “dear,” “sweetheart,” and “love.” When they left the scene and went to the market on a whim, Holmes claiming that he needed the bustle of the crowd to think clearly, Watson was sure that same crowd would keep Holmes from continuing his endearments.
“Anything spark you interest, my dear?” Holmes asked as they passed by various stands selling domestic and exotic amenities.
“Nothing yet, darling,” Watson retorted. There was a sudden change in Holmes’ countenance just then, Watson was looking at just the side of his face and so could not be sure what exactly it was, but was sure there was a twitch or a tick of displacement.
~*~
It should have been no surprise when Holmes shot a hand out to stop Watson as the two walked through London. But Watson was taken aback by the movement so much so that he had to reach a hand up to stop his hat from falling off his head from the sudden stop.
“Holmes, what in-”
“I love you.”
The words came out like a rushing waterfall as though it either burned the inside of Holmes’ throat and he could not wait to release them. Watson stared at him for a good thirty seconds before he felt the restraining hand fall away and saw a look of hurt rush over Holmes’ face. The crowd milled around them, some glancing over to the pair in curiosity.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”
“Shut up, Holmes,” Watson said, this time it was his turn to grab Holmes and pull him into a gentle hug. Watson leaned into his ear and whispered, “I love you.”
~*~
The case was getting more and more difficult by the moment. There were four dead bodies, all educated men with good standing in their neighborhoods. It completely baffled Holmes, and he was not one to abide by being baffled. The newest crime scene, the fifth one they had been to in just over the span of a week, was just as incomprehensible.
Holmes stood stoically next to Watson who was crouched on the floor where the newest victim lay. After a short examination of the corpse Watson stood and nodded to the police that they could take the body for a proper autopsy.
“Well?” Holmes asked, anxious for any kind of clue the doctor may have unearthed.
“The same as the other four, he was asphyxiated, most likely by rope judging from the markings around his neck,” Watson replied. Holmes moved closer to Watson as the police moved the body to the waiting cart outside. It was instinct for Watson to place an arm around Holmes until it rested on the hip opposite to him.
“Curious, very curious,” Holmes mumbled to himself. He turned to Watson and placed his pipe in his mouth, “Would you mind terribly going with the body to observe the autopsy?”
“I would not fathom to miss it,” Watson replied, beginning to walk away and follow the body and the police.
“Watson?” Holmes called to him before he was able to get more than a few steps away. Watson turned on his heels to look to his detective. “Forgetting something?”
Watson furrowed his brow in confusion to which Holmes cocked his head as though the answer should be obvious. Watson shrugged slightly and Holmes made a small motion with his head, indicating himself as the object of forgetting.
“Of course, forgive me,” Watson said, stepping back to Holmes.
“Not at all,” Holmes replied as Watson brought a hand to the back of his head, at the nape of his neck, burying his fingers into Holmes’ hair. Holmes leaned into the touch like oxygen, like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The push of lips against lips, although brief, set every piece of him on fire.
“Lunch, sweetheart?” Watson asked, running circles with his index finger in the scoop at the back of Holmes’ neck.
“Sounds lovely, lovely,” Holmes replied. A sudden cough from the door caught their attention, one of the bumbling officers stood there looking extremely uncomfortable. Neither Watson nor Holmes moved from their closeness and Watson only allowed his hand to move a mere inch to where Holmes’ neck met his back.
“The Inspector wishes to know if you are in need of a carriage to the autopsy, doctor,” the officer managed to squeak out.
“He does know us so well,” Holmes answered. Watson nodded to the poor officer who shuffled his feet and tried to look everywhere that was not the two men, but failed.
“Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” Watson smirked and released Holmes from his grasp, but not before Holmes grabbed his hand and kissed it softly.
“No promises.”
~*~
There was a soft intake of breath beside him in the darkness. He could barely register the tickle of air it left on the back of his shoulder blade. It made him shiver and pull himself closer into the warmth of the body behind him. A soft snort and a readjustment from the sleeping figure and an affectionate, possessive arm found its way around his waist. The arm squeezed, a nose nuzzled against skin, a hand skidded along a blanket-covered hipbone.
A voice mumbled in the night, “I love you, darling.”
A smile and a reply, “You better.”