Holmes/Watson/Mary domestic fluff fic (PG, 1,231 words)
written for a kinkmeme prompt: Holmes/Watson/Mary domestic fluff
Game of Shadows has made me completely and utterly obsessed with this OT3.
So yeaaahh, what the subject line says. Snippets and scenes from their daily lives with sickening amounts of fluff. Porn is optional, but also appreciated!
Hats and Biscuits: a Meditation Upon the Transference of Affection Within Non-Traditional Domestic Relationships
Curtains in the front window: straight and vibrant. Front steps recently swept. Door knocker polished. Mrs Watson has evidently let go her terrible maid and replaced her with a more assiduous employee. This may temporarily pose a problem.
"Sherlock Holmes. Is Watson in?" says Holmes when the maid (brunette, lazy eye, favors the left ankle, hands red from scrubbing, nails very clean) opens the door. He slithers through before she has time to answer.
"Sir? Sir!" Good pair of lungs on the woman. She follows him up the stairs with an admirable spryness, pattering upon each step while he takes them two at a time. Holmes adjusts his estimate of her age down by several years. Advanced wear in the face must be due to excess sun or emotion. Mrs Watson would not hire a drunk.
Holmes bursts into Watson's study: "Watson, I require your immediate assistance!"
The maid is close upon his heels: "I'm so sorry, sir. He ran up before I could stop him-"
Watson, standing before the fireplace, looks quite as he always does (today is the brown suit, shaving nick on the jaw, stiff collar slightly undone.) He is holding a heavy compendium, which he drops upon Holmes' entrance. He narrowly misses bashing Gladstone's brains out upon the hearth rug. Gladstone scampers away as quickly as his ill-proportioned limbs will allow and narrowly misses tripping Watson and bashing his brains out upon the mantle.
"Holmes-" says Watson. He intends to say something else, but does not. Watson is more careful in his speech around the gentler sex.
"That's who he said he was," says the maid. She sounds highly skeptical. Good girl. Blessed with common sense.
Holmes smiles at her.
Watson sighs heavily as he picks up the book. "Yes, Lizzie, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He is highly eccentric but despite that-" the glance he gives Holmes is familiar; it is a blend of pique and admiration to which Holmes has full claim "-he is always welcome in our household. Thank you."
Lizzie bows her head (several grey hairs emerging from the crown; excess emotion, then, or some other stress.) She lingers. One of the buttons on her uniform does not match the others.
"You left the front door open," says Holmes.
"Thought I might have to chase you right out of it," Lizzie replies brusquely, with an Irish flash in her pale eye. "Sir."
Holmes smiles again until she withdraws. She'll be a good employee; too bad she is taking care of an ill relative at home, and will be unable to devote her full energy to her duties here.
Watson passes by Holmes to shut the door behind her. "She's only been here for a day and a half," he mutters over Holmes' shoulder. "Couldn't you have waited before frightening her?"
"No time like the present," says Holmes. He inspects the shaving nick again; it is positioned on the left side of the face, and Watson is right-handed. The curve there is most natural and easy when running the straight-blade over one's own face; thus, Watson did not shave himself. There is a blonde hair snuggled into the weft of his tweed jacket. "Get your hat, Watson. I have need of you."
Mary intercepts them in the front hallway, just outside the door which leads to the kitchen.
"I thought I heard a commotion," she says. "Mr Holmes, so good to see you," she says, and takes his hands in hers. The flesh of her palm is warm and flushed; circulation enlivened by the pressure of a rolling pin.
"I apologize for interrupting your baking," says Holmes. "Soda biscuit or sourdough?"
Mary tilts her head in deference to his deduction. She wipes her hands against her skirt, where a line of flour marks the edge where her apron had been. "Soda biscuit," she says.
"Not sourdough? Are you sure?" Holmes presses, when she shakes her head. "It's my favorite."
"I know it is, but sourdough is for midweek," says Mary.
"I was busy last Wednesday," says Holmes.
"Then take a care to be free this Wednesday," she replies airily.
"Would you really deny a man sustenance for the mere sake of a calendar?" says Holmes.
"That's enough of that," says Watson, and nudges Holmes toward the front door. "I must go, darling," he says. "Holmes needs me on a case. It's quite urgent."
"Although we should be finished by early evening," Holmes puts in. "Surely that is enough time to whip up a batch. Half a dozen would suffice."
"Wednesday," says Mary. Her stern glance is interrupted when Watson puts his thumb to her chin to lift her face for a kiss. "Oh!" she says when his lips have left hers, and reaches up to take the hat from his head. "Look at this dust! Just a minute, John," she says.
"Mary, I haven't time-" Watson cries out, but Mary has disappeared already and taken the hat with her.
"Let it be," says Holmes.
"I thought you said we must go immediately," says Watson.
"You underestimate the importance of the state of a man's hat," says Holmes. "With such an accumulation of dust, if your wife allows you to go out in such a state, then she has surely ceased to love you."
Watson listens with great care. When Mary returns the hat to his hands, his eyes linger upon her smile as a blush lingers upon his cheeks.
Mary leans back in the stiff manner occasioned by a fully-boned corset, though there is some degree of freedom which indicates that she laces more loosely than other women for the sake of practicality. A habit meant only for housework, most likely; the pattern of creasing in her dress does not match the current width of her waist. She will lace more tightly before she leaves the house. "I shall be busy tonight, on the other side of London,” says Mary. “You'll be taking dinner on your own, then."
"I dread it," says Watson, tipping forward in pursuit of her mouth again.
"I'll have Lizzie set out something cold for the two of you," Mary says, nimbly avoiding his rude attentions.
Holmes, who has been examining the edges of his fingernails, interjects: "I don't suppose Lizzie could bake the sourdough?"
Watson's shoulders quiver with the laughter he has never been effective at concealing; Mary's presence in his life and in his arms has further diminished this capacity.
"Mr Holmes, if I could be assured of your presence at Tuesday supper, I may be convinced to-oh no, not yours as well!" Mary breaks off with an aggrieved cry. Shaking herself from Watson's arms, she leaps forward and snatches Holmes' hat from his head.
"Mrs Watson-" Holmes protests, but Mary interrupts:
"You don't need it dirty for a disguise, do you?" she asks, and twirls the hat deftly around her right forefinger.
A crack in the front curtains lays a bright stripe upon her cheek; Holmes is occupied for a moment by investigating whether her freckles are darker than usual, and to what extent that change is mirrored by the tan of the backs of her hands. Mary is accustomed to wear gloves on walks, but not when cycling; if Holmes can collect more precise data, it should be a simple algorithm to calculate the proportion of hours spent walking to riding.
The hat is inconsequential at the moment, so Holmes neglects to articulate a response.
Mary interprets his silence however she likes. With a final fondling of the brim, she disappears down the hallway again.
Watson carefully adjusts his waistcoat. "What was that you were saying about hats, Holmes?" His mustache, being so neatly trimmed, is a poor screen for the smirk which lies beneath it. After a moment of silence, he adds, “It's nice to see the two of you getting on.”
Holmes peers intently at the front door and does not answer.
Notes: This fic draws a lot of details from the bookcanon story "Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle." Most notable is this quote:
"But his wife -- you said that she had ceased to love him."
"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."
Game of Shadows has made me completely and utterly obsessed with this OT3.
So yeaaahh, what the subject line says. Snippets and scenes from their daily lives with sickening amounts of fluff. Porn is optional, but also appreciated!
Hats and Biscuits: a Meditation Upon the Transference of Affection Within Non-Traditional Domestic Relationships
Curtains in the front window: straight and vibrant. Front steps recently swept. Door knocker polished. Mrs Watson has evidently let go her terrible maid and replaced her with a more assiduous employee. This may temporarily pose a problem.
"Sherlock Holmes. Is Watson in?" says Holmes when the maid (brunette, lazy eye, favors the left ankle, hands red from scrubbing, nails very clean) opens the door. He slithers through before she has time to answer.
"Sir? Sir!" Good pair of lungs on the woman. She follows him up the stairs with an admirable spryness, pattering upon each step while he takes them two at a time. Holmes adjusts his estimate of her age down by several years. Advanced wear in the face must be due to excess sun or emotion. Mrs Watson would not hire a drunk.
Holmes bursts into Watson's study: "Watson, I require your immediate assistance!"
The maid is close upon his heels: "I'm so sorry, sir. He ran up before I could stop him-"
Watson, standing before the fireplace, looks quite as he always does (today is the brown suit, shaving nick on the jaw, stiff collar slightly undone.) He is holding a heavy compendium, which he drops upon Holmes' entrance. He narrowly misses bashing Gladstone's brains out upon the hearth rug. Gladstone scampers away as quickly as his ill-proportioned limbs will allow and narrowly misses tripping Watson and bashing his brains out upon the mantle.
"Holmes-" says Watson. He intends to say something else, but does not. Watson is more careful in his speech around the gentler sex.
"That's who he said he was," says the maid. She sounds highly skeptical. Good girl. Blessed with common sense.
Holmes smiles at her.
Watson sighs heavily as he picks up the book. "Yes, Lizzie, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He is highly eccentric but despite that-" the glance he gives Holmes is familiar; it is a blend of pique and admiration to which Holmes has full claim "-he is always welcome in our household. Thank you."
Lizzie bows her head (several grey hairs emerging from the crown; excess emotion, then, or some other stress.) She lingers. One of the buttons on her uniform does not match the others.
"You left the front door open," says Holmes.
"Thought I might have to chase you right out of it," Lizzie replies brusquely, with an Irish flash in her pale eye. "Sir."
Holmes smiles again until she withdraws. She'll be a good employee; too bad she is taking care of an ill relative at home, and will be unable to devote her full energy to her duties here.
Watson passes by Holmes to shut the door behind her. "She's only been here for a day and a half," he mutters over Holmes' shoulder. "Couldn't you have waited before frightening her?"
"No time like the present," says Holmes. He inspects the shaving nick again; it is positioned on the left side of the face, and Watson is right-handed. The curve there is most natural and easy when running the straight-blade over one's own face; thus, Watson did not shave himself. There is a blonde hair snuggled into the weft of his tweed jacket. "Get your hat, Watson. I have need of you."
Mary intercepts them in the front hallway, just outside the door which leads to the kitchen.
"I thought I heard a commotion," she says. "Mr Holmes, so good to see you," she says, and takes his hands in hers. The flesh of her palm is warm and flushed; circulation enlivened by the pressure of a rolling pin.
"I apologize for interrupting your baking," says Holmes. "Soda biscuit or sourdough?"
Mary tilts her head in deference to his deduction. She wipes her hands against her skirt, where a line of flour marks the edge where her apron had been. "Soda biscuit," she says.
"Not sourdough? Are you sure?" Holmes presses, when she shakes her head. "It's my favorite."
"I know it is, but sourdough is for midweek," says Mary.
"I was busy last Wednesday," says Holmes.
"Then take a care to be free this Wednesday," she replies airily.
"Would you really deny a man sustenance for the mere sake of a calendar?" says Holmes.
"That's enough of that," says Watson, and nudges Holmes toward the front door. "I must go, darling," he says. "Holmes needs me on a case. It's quite urgent."
"Although we should be finished by early evening," Holmes puts in. "Surely that is enough time to whip up a batch. Half a dozen would suffice."
"Wednesday," says Mary. Her stern glance is interrupted when Watson puts his thumb to her chin to lift her face for a kiss. "Oh!" she says when his lips have left hers, and reaches up to take the hat from his head. "Look at this dust! Just a minute, John," she says.
"Mary, I haven't time-" Watson cries out, but Mary has disappeared already and taken the hat with her.
"Let it be," says Holmes.
"I thought you said we must go immediately," says Watson.
"You underestimate the importance of the state of a man's hat," says Holmes. "With such an accumulation of dust, if your wife allows you to go out in such a state, then she has surely ceased to love you."
Watson listens with great care. When Mary returns the hat to his hands, his eyes linger upon her smile as a blush lingers upon his cheeks.
Mary leans back in the stiff manner occasioned by a fully-boned corset, though there is some degree of freedom which indicates that she laces more loosely than other women for the sake of practicality. A habit meant only for housework, most likely; the pattern of creasing in her dress does not match the current width of her waist. She will lace more tightly before she leaves the house. "I shall be busy tonight, on the other side of London,” says Mary. “You'll be taking dinner on your own, then."
"I dread it," says Watson, tipping forward in pursuit of her mouth again.
"I'll have Lizzie set out something cold for the two of you," Mary says, nimbly avoiding his rude attentions.
Holmes, who has been examining the edges of his fingernails, interjects: "I don't suppose Lizzie could bake the sourdough?"
Watson's shoulders quiver with the laughter he has never been effective at concealing; Mary's presence in his life and in his arms has further diminished this capacity.
"Mr Holmes, if I could be assured of your presence at Tuesday supper, I may be convinced to-oh no, not yours as well!" Mary breaks off with an aggrieved cry. Shaking herself from Watson's arms, she leaps forward and snatches Holmes' hat from his head.
"Mrs Watson-" Holmes protests, but Mary interrupts:
"You don't need it dirty for a disguise, do you?" she asks, and twirls the hat deftly around her right forefinger.
A crack in the front curtains lays a bright stripe upon her cheek; Holmes is occupied for a moment by investigating whether her freckles are darker than usual, and to what extent that change is mirrored by the tan of the backs of her hands. Mary is accustomed to wear gloves on walks, but not when cycling; if Holmes can collect more precise data, it should be a simple algorithm to calculate the proportion of hours spent walking to riding.
The hat is inconsequential at the moment, so Holmes neglects to articulate a response.
Mary interprets his silence however she likes. With a final fondling of the brim, she disappears down the hallway again.
Watson carefully adjusts his waistcoat. "What was that you were saying about hats, Holmes?" His mustache, being so neatly trimmed, is a poor screen for the smirk which lies beneath it. After a moment of silence, he adds, “It's nice to see the two of you getting on.”
Holmes peers intently at the front door and does not answer.
Notes: This fic draws a lot of details from the bookcanon story "Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle." Most notable is this quote:
"But his wife -- you said that she had ceased to love him."
"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."