Fic: Later. After.
Feb. 28th, 2011 04:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spacemutineerTitle: Later. After.
Author: spacemutineer
Word Count: 659
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/genres: fluff
Prompt: from shkinkmeme: "So, Holmes is used to running himself ragged and collapsing from exhaustion after a case ends. Write for me the first time this happens after Watson moves in. Holmes passes out, then wakes up 18 hours later and Watson has taken off his shoes and tucked him in and made him all comfy with his BAMF nurturing instincts."
Author's notes: A small experiment into mild fluff with questionable results.
The door. God, he could finally see the door. He'd been walking back from the Colonel's cabin for the better part of three hours across this wretched, wind-ravaged heath. Holmes shoved his hands down into his pockets and summoned the last spark of energy left in him to pick up his pace. He felt tired into his bones, exhaustion hanging on him like a cloak of steel chains.
He could remember what he'd eaten the last time he ate, but by now had forgotten which day that had been. When he had last slept was even harder to calculate. He had intended to break this focused austerity in a triumphant dinner back at Oswalt Manor, the Lady Oswalt's necklace in hand, laughing merrily with Watson over a bottle of excellent port and a fine roast pheasant. At the time that meal was to have taken place, Holmes was otherwise indisposed, being as he was in the midst of a rather nasty fistfight with the detestable and brutish Colonel Braithwaite. A fistfight he had won, by God.
The bulk of the heavy necklace in his breast pocket banged dully against his chest with every step. By the time he reached the threshold, he had barely the energy to sneak into the manor undetected. The house felt cold and dark this early in the morning. The last advanced thought he had was that there was no point to waking anyone. He would describe the conclusion of the case to Watson and the Lady later. After he slept. Whenever that was.
When he arrived at his guest bed, Holmes simply collapsed upon it and was lost to the world. His overcoat was splayed around his body, half open. His shoes, still on his feet, marked up the blankets beneath him. He had neither undressed nor even pulled back the covers. But he was at rest, at last.
...
A shaft of light from the setting sun cast a flickering shadow through the curtains and Holmes stirred for the first time. He groaned softly and turned over, tugging the quilt covering him back over his shoulders. Something felt wrong. He reflexively pawed at his breast pocket, expecting to feel a hard jeweled lump, but instead there was nothing, just a faint sound of crinkling paper as his fingers passed over.
He started, grasped desperately at the pocket and pulled out the small folded note. As soon as he opened it, his body relaxed again and he let his head fall back onto the embroidered pillow. Written in that familiar elegant script, the note read:
"The Lady Oswalt could not be made to wait for her bauble.
Congratulations, my friend. Rest well.
-JW"
Holmes chuckled quietly to himself and tucked the note back into his pocket. He pulled at the cotton quilt again, rubbed his bare feet together sleepily and yawned. Warm and comfortable, he nestled himself into a cozy position and closed his eyes. A split-second later, he reopened them, a sudden realization striking him. He wriggled his toes under the blanket and smiled. Watson had done this.
The good doctor had come to him while he was lost deep in utterly exhausted sleep, carefully removed his shoes and stockings, tucked a warm quilt around his tired body and let him rest. It was an extraordinary kindness he had not expected or even imagined. John Watson continued to surprise him every single day, which was an amazing thing in and of itself.
Holmes was rather unsure how to honor such an act of mercy and quality of character towards an undeserving soul like himself. He had an inkling the answer may involve that first-class bottle of port and decided then and there to test that theory. Later. After he awoke again. Whenever that was. Wrapped snug in the quilt, he rolled back over, fondly tapped the note his dear friend had left him in his breast pocket and promptly went back to sleep.
Thank you for reading! Your comments are always greatly appreciated. If you like, you can read more here at my master fic list.
Author: spacemutineer
Word Count: 659
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/genres: fluff
Prompt: from shkinkmeme: "So, Holmes is used to running himself ragged and collapsing from exhaustion after a case ends. Write for me the first time this happens after Watson moves in. Holmes passes out, then wakes up 18 hours later and Watson has taken off his shoes and tucked him in and made him all comfy with his BAMF nurturing instincts."
Author's notes: A small experiment into mild fluff with questionable results.
The door. God, he could finally see the door. He'd been walking back from the Colonel's cabin for the better part of three hours across this wretched, wind-ravaged heath. Holmes shoved his hands down into his pockets and summoned the last spark of energy left in him to pick up his pace. He felt tired into his bones, exhaustion hanging on him like a cloak of steel chains.
He could remember what he'd eaten the last time he ate, but by now had forgotten which day that had been. When he had last slept was even harder to calculate. He had intended to break this focused austerity in a triumphant dinner back at Oswalt Manor, the Lady Oswalt's necklace in hand, laughing merrily with Watson over a bottle of excellent port and a fine roast pheasant. At the time that meal was to have taken place, Holmes was otherwise indisposed, being as he was in the midst of a rather nasty fistfight with the detestable and brutish Colonel Braithwaite. A fistfight he had won, by God.
The bulk of the heavy necklace in his breast pocket banged dully against his chest with every step. By the time he reached the threshold, he had barely the energy to sneak into the manor undetected. The house felt cold and dark this early in the morning. The last advanced thought he had was that there was no point to waking anyone. He would describe the conclusion of the case to Watson and the Lady later. After he slept. Whenever that was.
When he arrived at his guest bed, Holmes simply collapsed upon it and was lost to the world. His overcoat was splayed around his body, half open. His shoes, still on his feet, marked up the blankets beneath him. He had neither undressed nor even pulled back the covers. But he was at rest, at last.
...
A shaft of light from the setting sun cast a flickering shadow through the curtains and Holmes stirred for the first time. He groaned softly and turned over, tugging the quilt covering him back over his shoulders. Something felt wrong. He reflexively pawed at his breast pocket, expecting to feel a hard jeweled lump, but instead there was nothing, just a faint sound of crinkling paper as his fingers passed over.
He started, grasped desperately at the pocket and pulled out the small folded note. As soon as he opened it, his body relaxed again and he let his head fall back onto the embroidered pillow. Written in that familiar elegant script, the note read:
"The Lady Oswalt could not be made to wait for her bauble.
Congratulations, my friend. Rest well.
-JW"
Holmes chuckled quietly to himself and tucked the note back into his pocket. He pulled at the cotton quilt again, rubbed his bare feet together sleepily and yawned. Warm and comfortable, he nestled himself into a cozy position and closed his eyes. A split-second later, he reopened them, a sudden realization striking him. He wriggled his toes under the blanket and smiled. Watson had done this.
The good doctor had come to him while he was lost deep in utterly exhausted sleep, carefully removed his shoes and stockings, tucked a warm quilt around his tired body and let him rest. It was an extraordinary kindness he had not expected or even imagined. John Watson continued to surprise him every single day, which was an amazing thing in and of itself.
Holmes was rather unsure how to honor such an act of mercy and quality of character towards an undeserving soul like himself. He had an inkling the answer may involve that first-class bottle of port and decided then and there to test that theory. Later. After he awoke again. Whenever that was. Wrapped snug in the quilt, he rolled back over, fondly tapped the note his dear friend had left him in his breast pocket and promptly went back to sleep.
Thank you for reading! Your comments are always greatly appreciated. If you like, you can read more here at my master fic list.
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no subject
Date: 2011-03-01 04:57 am (UTC)This was wonderfully in character, too. Watson was his sweet, kind and caring self, while Holmes was the sort to forget everything but the case as he worked. The bit where Holmes was proud of taking down the blackguard even though he was exhausted was adorable and so him, too.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-02 08:32 pm (UTC)Thank you for saying the characterization is good! That's something that's very important to me. And, yeah, I'm pretty fond of the bit about the fight too. :) (Bonus points to you for using "blackguard"! That was sublime.)
no subject
Date: 2011-06-27 03:34 am (UTC)It is very descriptive for being so concise. And I agree that it's in character. Also, I really like the title. I didn't notice it when I read it on the meme. The repeated line bookends the piece nicely.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-28 09:27 pm (UTC)Thank you for the kind words! Character is always my top priority, so I'm always glad to hear when it works. And I'm also happy to hear you like it being concise but still descriptive. That's something I really like to go for as well. Thanks!