Sherlock Holmes - La langue de l'amour
Title: La langue de l'amour
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Holmes confesses his feelings to Watson constantly. In French.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Possibly awful French.
Word Count: 500
Author's Notes: As always, apologies to any French speaking people for horribly mangling your poor, innocent language, if that is indeed what I have done. Written for this prompt on shkinkmeme.
“Je t'aime. Je veux te baiser, s'il te plait.”
Watson looked up to see Holmes looking at him very seriously on the other side of the morning paper. It was not the first time he'd uttered that sentence in the last few weeks, nor the first time he'd become annoyed with his friend's complete incomprehension. Watson wasn't entirely sure why Holmes seemed to think he was going to spontaneously learn French over night, but he suspected it was an experiment of some kind. Since it didn't involve any chemical substances of questionable provenance, he decided not to object.
~o0o~
“Je t'aime. Je veux te baiser, s'il te plait.”
Watson woke with a start, and noticed first that he was looking directly into a pair of very familiar eyes. “Oh, it's only you,” He relaxed back onto the settee, heart beating at a hundred miles an hour, but beginning to slow down, “something I can help you with, Holmes?”
“Je t'aime.” Holmes replied seriously.
“I'm sorry, old boy, but I haven't learned any French since yesterday.” Watson closed his eyes again, wondering when this odd mood would lift from his friend.
“Je veux te baiser.” The detective continued, the frustration in his voice clear even to his non-French-speaking friend.
“You'll just have to ask me in English, I'm afraid.”
“I can't.” Holmes' voice was so quiet that Watson thought he had imagined it for a moment, and when he opened his eyes again, the other man had disappeared.
~o0o~
“Je t'aime,” Holmes began one evening when both men were sitting quietly in front of the fire. Watson put a hand up to stop him.
“You've been repeating the same sentence for two weeks, Holmes, and I still don't understand it. If you're trying to get something across to me, you're going to have to try another method.”
Holmes sank into his chair and contemplated the fire, the possibility of acceptance, and the far greater and more frightening one of rejection. The options were putting the best relationship he'd ever had on the line for an even better one, or ignoring it and hoping it would go away. Neither was particularly attractive, since there was an element of completely incalculable risk to the first, and an element of intense frustration that he suspected would only worse before it got better, if it ever did, to the second.
After considering this for a period of time long enough for Watson to have forgotten about it, Holmes got up and leaned over his friend, who had progressed to lying on his back on the settee. “Je t'aime.” Holmes looked at Watson in a way that he hoped would make his meaning obvious.
Watson's eyes widened, and he swallowed, recognising the words for what they were now. “And the second part?”
Holmes smiled a tiny smile, and leaned in to kiss Watson softly. In a moment of bravery he usually reserved for the criminal classes, he pressed one hand firmly to Watson's crotch, cupping him gently. “Je veux te baiser,” he kissed him again, “s'il te plait,” and squeezed carefully.
Watson, who was at least not ignorant of this kind of language, swallowed thickly a few times before managing an answer, “all right.”
Author: ladylovelace
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Holmes confesses his feelings to Watson constantly. In French.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Possibly awful French.
Word Count: 500
Author's Notes: As always, apologies to any French speaking people for horribly mangling your poor, innocent language, if that is indeed what I have done. Written for this prompt on shkinkmeme.
“Je t'aime. Je veux te baiser, s'il te plait.”
Watson looked up to see Holmes looking at him very seriously on the other side of the morning paper. It was not the first time he'd uttered that sentence in the last few weeks, nor the first time he'd become annoyed with his friend's complete incomprehension. Watson wasn't entirely sure why Holmes seemed to think he was going to spontaneously learn French over night, but he suspected it was an experiment of some kind. Since it didn't involve any chemical substances of questionable provenance, he decided not to object.
~o0o~
“Je t'aime. Je veux te baiser, s'il te plait.”
Watson woke with a start, and noticed first that he was looking directly into a pair of very familiar eyes. “Oh, it's only you,” He relaxed back onto the settee, heart beating at a hundred miles an hour, but beginning to slow down, “something I can help you with, Holmes?”
“Je t'aime.” Holmes replied seriously.
“I'm sorry, old boy, but I haven't learned any French since yesterday.” Watson closed his eyes again, wondering when this odd mood would lift from his friend.
“Je veux te baiser.” The detective continued, the frustration in his voice clear even to his non-French-speaking friend.
“You'll just have to ask me in English, I'm afraid.”
“I can't.” Holmes' voice was so quiet that Watson thought he had imagined it for a moment, and when he opened his eyes again, the other man had disappeared.
~o0o~
“Je t'aime,” Holmes began one evening when both men were sitting quietly in front of the fire. Watson put a hand up to stop him.
“You've been repeating the same sentence for two weeks, Holmes, and I still don't understand it. If you're trying to get something across to me, you're going to have to try another method.”
Holmes sank into his chair and contemplated the fire, the possibility of acceptance, and the far greater and more frightening one of rejection. The options were putting the best relationship he'd ever had on the line for an even better one, or ignoring it and hoping it would go away. Neither was particularly attractive, since there was an element of completely incalculable risk to the first, and an element of intense frustration that he suspected would only worse before it got better, if it ever did, to the second.
After considering this for a period of time long enough for Watson to have forgotten about it, Holmes got up and leaned over his friend, who had progressed to lying on his back on the settee. “Je t'aime.” Holmes looked at Watson in a way that he hoped would make his meaning obvious.
Watson's eyes widened, and he swallowed, recognising the words for what they were now. “And the second part?”
Holmes smiled a tiny smile, and leaned in to kiss Watson softly. In a moment of bravery he usually reserved for the criminal classes, he pressed one hand firmly to Watson's crotch, cupping him gently. “Je veux te baiser,” he kissed him again, “s'il te plait,” and squeezed carefully.
Watson, who was at least not ignorant of this kind of language, swallowed thickly a few times before managing an answer, “all right.”