spacemutineer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spacemutineer) wrote2011-03-30 01:43 am
spacemutineer) wrote2011-03-30 01:43 am
Fic: Steam
Title: Steam
Author: spacemutineer
Word Count: 1792
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings/genres: UST, H/C
Prompt from shkinkmeme: "Holmes and Watson play a game. It's wrapped around Hurt and Comfort. Holmes maybe allows himself to be injured a little too often, just to feel Watson's hands ghosting across his skin, just to feel him lean in close, his heart beating under his clothes and brow furrowed, attention concentrated just on him. Watson hates it when Holmes is injured. Hates it and loves it, even as he hates himself, because it means he gets to see that body stripped bare and he gets to touch without it being unseemly, feel the heat of it against his hands and pretend for just a moment that Holmes is his.
Teal Deer: H/C UST on both sides"
Author's notes: The idea for the unusual structure of this one made it both fantastically interesting to write and at the same time an enormous amount of frustration. In the end, it is much simpler than I originally had in mind, but that's probably a good thing and for the best.
The burst of steam erupts from the damaged valve with a split-second piercing wail and Holmes cries out to match it when the steam sears his hand. Across the room, Watson feels his heart clench in his chest. He is useless once more as the coward Lord Ivins turns to run.
Holmes is barely slowed by his injury, dashing forward to counter the contemptible lord. As Watson rounds the large laboratory table lit by the brilliant blue flame of a Bunsen burner, Holmes knocks Ivins clean out with the butt of his gun and the criminal falls to the floor with a thud. The detective stands over him triumphantly, but Watson is possessed by the sight of Holmes' burned hand and the clearly painful way it is held.
He reaches out for it, for Holmes. He has allowed his friend to be hurt yet again. Why is he seemingly always just a few too many steps behind when he is most needed? At the very least, he should have been there to put down that dog Ivins for him once he was hurt. The only thing he can do at this point is address the injury and quickly. Burns are nothing to be trifled with, particularly on a hand, especially when the hand in question is one of the extraordinary hands of the world's only consulting detective.
At the barest touch of Watson's fingers, Holmes yanks his arm away and turns back to address the figure on the floor, clearly annoyed at the continual unreliability of his companion. A dismissive wave from his good hand is all that Watson receives from him.
"It is nothing, I assure you."
The doctor has no intention of being so easily dissuaded, especially not when he thinks of the possibility of Holmes' hand, scarred and damaged, unable to detect the hidden clues that unlock their unusual crime scenes, unable to make the Stradivarius sing out with such devastating beauty. The thought chills him to the bone.
"A burn like this is not nothing. For God's sake, man, it's your hand!"
There is no response from Holmes. Watson's mind will not relent with thoughts of the violin and the hideous concept of Holmes possibly never again able to play it so elegantly during those dark wordless nights in their sitting room together. It is an unbearable notion and he lowers his voice for another plea.
"It's your bow hand, Holmes. You must let me see it."
The detective remains maddeningly silent. There is no denying at this point that he is beyond exasperated with his so-called friend. To even ignore the potential loss of his extraordinary abilities!
"Holmes. Please."
Finally, finally, Holmes sighs and with great reluctance extends his arm toward the waiting doctor without turning his head.
"Oh, if it will satisfy you, Watson. I am certain you will find it is of no real concern."
Watson wastes no time to reach for Holmes' arm. "Let me be the judge of that."
With great care not to touch or move the injured area, the doctor lifts Holmes' hand and winces. A thankfully relatively small second degree burn stands out angrily against flushed skin just below three knuckles. It surely must be quite painful but Holmes' hand is utterly still in his own. The man himself keeps his head down, watching for any motion from tonight's prey on the floor.
The unnatural warmth from Holmes' palm is sinking deeply into Watson's in a rather distracting manner. He will not allow himself to be distracted. This is serious and he is a professional. He is addressing a painful wound as a medical doctor, not holding hands with a young lover in the park!
But Holmes' nimble fingers still sit there, nestled underneath his own thumb. Without intending to, Watson rolls large slow circles with that thumb onto those fingers. And just like that, he is lost. Just as lost as he is every time his calling gives him an excuse to put his hands onto Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Lost in the sensation and lost in the thought, 'he is mine.'
Watson knows he should start dressing the wound with the gauze in his pocket. He knows that, but he is simply captivated by the scene before him. He is holding Holmes' hand. Tearing his eyes away at the moment would be impossible. In the end, it is only the detective himself breathing quite raggedly in obvious pain that finally catches away his attention.
The doctor could kick himself. All the while he has been indulging himself, admiring the view, absorbing the touch, Holmes has been suffering in silence with his rather nasty burn. Absolutely nothing has yet been done to address it. Some doctor Watson has been. In the next instant, the salve and gauze are out and Holmes' hand is carefully bandaged. Watson doesn't linger as he dabs cool healing salve on hot red skin. He doesn't dawdle as he wraps clever slender fingers together in a protective layer of cloth. This is serious and he is a professional.
"There you are. Keep it clean and wrapped. Tell me if you see any signs of infection, will you?"
Holmes, still quite annoyed, sighs again as his arm drops to his side. "Yes, yes, of course, Doctor, as you wish. Now, shall we take our quarry and be on our way?"
Watson could not possibly want anything more in that moment. He has been of so little use today that he is simply relieved Holmes still wishes his presence. They leave with their captive and continue as they always do, the detective and the doctor.
///////////////////////////////////
It's not exactly an accident when the steam bursts free from the damaged valve and sprays its searing contents across Holmes' arm and hand. It's not as if he didn't see the gauge pinging hard to the right as they entered the room. It's not as if he didn't notice the valve sputtering and vibrating next to him as they confronted the scoundrel in his laboratory. It's just that there was something else he saw in those moments: an opportunity. A move this simple and easy in the game is a thing not to be wasted.
The game. Their game. A game is supposed to have winners, of course. This game has none and can never have any as far as Holmes can see. Somehow that fact never seems to stop him from playing.
Holmes hisses in pain as the steam flashes in a torrent across his right arm and the bare flesh on the back of his hand. His overcoat prevents the worst damage as intended and he is still able to reach Lord Ivins before he escapes to drop him with one quick whip from his pistol with his uninjured left hand. Standing over his prone quarry, burned hand dangling loose beside him, he pauses to take a few quick breaths.
And in an instant, the doctor is there as he has been so many times before, immediately reaching out with both hands for the damaged limb, that irresistible look of concern and concentration furrowing his brow. Holmes tears his arm away and turns back toward their unconscious villain for his next move in the game.
"It is nothing, I assure you."
Watson's eyes are bright and as searing as the steam. "A burn like this is not nothing. For God's sake, man, it's your hand!" His voice pauses then drops low. "It's your bow hand, Holmes. You must let me see it."
The detective remains silent and still, eyes locked onto the blackguard on the floor even as the ominous mention of the violin hangs weighted and cold in the air. He cannot afford a misstep now, even for that. At his side, his hand throbs.
"Holmes. Please."
Holmes' throat clicks almost imperceptibly, and he abruptly turns toward the doctor with a heavy put-upon sigh, offering his hand in the most dispassionate manner he can muster.
"Oh, if it will satisfy you, Watson. I am certain you will find it is of no real concern."
The doctor frowns. "Let me be the judge of that."
When Watson takes Holmes' palm gently into his own, the most difficult play in the game becomes passivity. Watson's fingers move carefully and cautiously, angling Holmes' knuckles in the light for the best view of the wounds and all the while his thumb subtly strokes Holmes' fingers in a quiet act of solace. The detective watches every movement through the corner of his eye, every delicate touch, every tender motion.
How many times have they had this dance? How many of these undeserved kindnesses has Holmes received from the good doctor over their years together? How many times has he savored the sensation of Watson's skilled hands upon him, cradling his face to examine a black eye swollen shut or ghosting fingers across the tense muscles of his back to cautiously lay a neat line of stitches into a knife wound? How often has Holmes felt the wisps of Watson's breath on his skin as he leans in close, all of his attention tearing a hole straight through him?
It is a serious misplay to turn his head to view the doctor straight on, but it would take a stronger man than Holmes to resist the temptation. Watson's eyes remain fixed intensely on the bright red burns. They certainly look rather painful, but Holmes feels nothing now except the exquisite soft, slow circles being drawn on his fingers by Watson's thumb. The doctor's vest trembles with the anxious rhythm of his heart and Holmes cannot prevent his own breath from quickening unevenly at the sight.
With that, however, the spell is broken and the game begins slipping away from him. The doctor makes a small, strangled noise and immediately moves to pull out the stash of bandages he keeps tucked away in an inside pocket. He doesn't leave the house without it anymore, not with Holmes at his side at any rate. The wounds are wrapped securely with expert care. It takes but a minute and Watson's fingers pull away completely from Holmes' hand.
"There you are. Keep it clean and wrapped. Tell me if you see any signs of infection, will you?"
Holmes fails to contain another sigh, this one honest and unfeigned. The game is lost yet again. Who could know when the next opportunity will arise? It could be days. Or weeks.
"Yes, yes, of course, Doctor, as you wish. Now, shall we take our quarry and be on our way?"
Watson nods eagerly and they finish the job they came for. A criminal is arrested. A case is solved. The game continues on as ever and no one ever seems to win.
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: 1792
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: PG
Warnings/genres: UST, H/C
Prompt from shkinkmeme: "Holmes and Watson play a game. It's wrapped around Hurt and Comfort. Holmes maybe allows himself to be injured a little too often, just to feel Watson's hands ghosting across his skin, just to feel him lean in close, his heart beating under his clothes and brow furrowed, attention concentrated just on him. Watson hates it when Holmes is injured. Hates it and loves it, even as he hates himself, because it means he gets to see that body stripped bare and he gets to touch without it being unseemly, feel the heat of it against his hands and pretend for just a moment that Holmes is his.
Teal Deer: H/C UST on both sides"
Author's notes: The idea for the unusual structure of this one made it both fantastically interesting to write and at the same time an enormous amount of frustration. In the end, it is much simpler than I originally had in mind, but that's probably a good thing and for the best.
The burst of steam erupts from the damaged valve with a split-second piercing wail and Holmes cries out to match it when the steam sears his hand. Across the room, Watson feels his heart clench in his chest. He is useless once more as the coward Lord Ivins turns to run.
Holmes is barely slowed by his injury, dashing forward to counter the contemptible lord. As Watson rounds the large laboratory table lit by the brilliant blue flame of a Bunsen burner, Holmes knocks Ivins clean out with the butt of his gun and the criminal falls to the floor with a thud. The detective stands over him triumphantly, but Watson is possessed by the sight of Holmes' burned hand and the clearly painful way it is held.
He reaches out for it, for Holmes. He has allowed his friend to be hurt yet again. Why is he seemingly always just a few too many steps behind when he is most needed? At the very least, he should have been there to put down that dog Ivins for him once he was hurt. The only thing he can do at this point is address the injury and quickly. Burns are nothing to be trifled with, particularly on a hand, especially when the hand in question is one of the extraordinary hands of the world's only consulting detective.
At the barest touch of Watson's fingers, Holmes yanks his arm away and turns back to address the figure on the floor, clearly annoyed at the continual unreliability of his companion. A dismissive wave from his good hand is all that Watson receives from him.
"It is nothing, I assure you."
The doctor has no intention of being so easily dissuaded, especially not when he thinks of the possibility of Holmes' hand, scarred and damaged, unable to detect the hidden clues that unlock their unusual crime scenes, unable to make the Stradivarius sing out with such devastating beauty. The thought chills him to the bone.
"A burn like this is not nothing. For God's sake, man, it's your hand!"
There is no response from Holmes. Watson's mind will not relent with thoughts of the violin and the hideous concept of Holmes possibly never again able to play it so elegantly during those dark wordless nights in their sitting room together. It is an unbearable notion and he lowers his voice for another plea.
"It's your bow hand, Holmes. You must let me see it."
The detective remains maddeningly silent. There is no denying at this point that he is beyond exasperated with his so-called friend. To even ignore the potential loss of his extraordinary abilities!
"Holmes. Please."
Finally, finally, Holmes sighs and with great reluctance extends his arm toward the waiting doctor without turning his head.
"Oh, if it will satisfy you, Watson. I am certain you will find it is of no real concern."
Watson wastes no time to reach for Holmes' arm. "Let me be the judge of that."
With great care not to touch or move the injured area, the doctor lifts Holmes' hand and winces. A thankfully relatively small second degree burn stands out angrily against flushed skin just below three knuckles. It surely must be quite painful but Holmes' hand is utterly still in his own. The man himself keeps his head down, watching for any motion from tonight's prey on the floor.
The unnatural warmth from Holmes' palm is sinking deeply into Watson's in a rather distracting manner. He will not allow himself to be distracted. This is serious and he is a professional. He is addressing a painful wound as a medical doctor, not holding hands with a young lover in the park!
But Holmes' nimble fingers still sit there, nestled underneath his own thumb. Without intending to, Watson rolls large slow circles with that thumb onto those fingers. And just like that, he is lost. Just as lost as he is every time his calling gives him an excuse to put his hands onto Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Lost in the sensation and lost in the thought, 'he is mine.'
Watson knows he should start dressing the wound with the gauze in his pocket. He knows that, but he is simply captivated by the scene before him. He is holding Holmes' hand. Tearing his eyes away at the moment would be impossible. In the end, it is only the detective himself breathing quite raggedly in obvious pain that finally catches away his attention.
The doctor could kick himself. All the while he has been indulging himself, admiring the view, absorbing the touch, Holmes has been suffering in silence with his rather nasty burn. Absolutely nothing has yet been done to address it. Some doctor Watson has been. In the next instant, the salve and gauze are out and Holmes' hand is carefully bandaged. Watson doesn't linger as he dabs cool healing salve on hot red skin. He doesn't dawdle as he wraps clever slender fingers together in a protective layer of cloth. This is serious and he is a professional.
"There you are. Keep it clean and wrapped. Tell me if you see any signs of infection, will you?"
Holmes, still quite annoyed, sighs again as his arm drops to his side. "Yes, yes, of course, Doctor, as you wish. Now, shall we take our quarry and be on our way?"
Watson could not possibly want anything more in that moment. He has been of so little use today that he is simply relieved Holmes still wishes his presence. They leave with their captive and continue as they always do, the detective and the doctor.
///////////////////////////////////
It's not exactly an accident when the steam bursts free from the damaged valve and sprays its searing contents across Holmes' arm and hand. It's not as if he didn't see the gauge pinging hard to the right as they entered the room. It's not as if he didn't notice the valve sputtering and vibrating next to him as they confronted the scoundrel in his laboratory. It's just that there was something else he saw in those moments: an opportunity. A move this simple and easy in the game is a thing not to be wasted.
The game. Their game. A game is supposed to have winners, of course. This game has none and can never have any as far as Holmes can see. Somehow that fact never seems to stop him from playing.
Holmes hisses in pain as the steam flashes in a torrent across his right arm and the bare flesh on the back of his hand. His overcoat prevents the worst damage as intended and he is still able to reach Lord Ivins before he escapes to drop him with one quick whip from his pistol with his uninjured left hand. Standing over his prone quarry, burned hand dangling loose beside him, he pauses to take a few quick breaths.
And in an instant, the doctor is there as he has been so many times before, immediately reaching out with both hands for the damaged limb, that irresistible look of concern and concentration furrowing his brow. Holmes tears his arm away and turns back toward their unconscious villain for his next move in the game.
"It is nothing, I assure you."
Watson's eyes are bright and as searing as the steam. "A burn like this is not nothing. For God's sake, man, it's your hand!" His voice pauses then drops low. "It's your bow hand, Holmes. You must let me see it."
The detective remains silent and still, eyes locked onto the blackguard on the floor even as the ominous mention of the violin hangs weighted and cold in the air. He cannot afford a misstep now, even for that. At his side, his hand throbs.
"Holmes. Please."
Holmes' throat clicks almost imperceptibly, and he abruptly turns toward the doctor with a heavy put-upon sigh, offering his hand in the most dispassionate manner he can muster.
"Oh, if it will satisfy you, Watson. I am certain you will find it is of no real concern."
The doctor frowns. "Let me be the judge of that."
When Watson takes Holmes' palm gently into his own, the most difficult play in the game becomes passivity. Watson's fingers move carefully and cautiously, angling Holmes' knuckles in the light for the best view of the wounds and all the while his thumb subtly strokes Holmes' fingers in a quiet act of solace. The detective watches every movement through the corner of his eye, every delicate touch, every tender motion.
How many times have they had this dance? How many of these undeserved kindnesses has Holmes received from the good doctor over their years together? How many times has he savored the sensation of Watson's skilled hands upon him, cradling his face to examine a black eye swollen shut or ghosting fingers across the tense muscles of his back to cautiously lay a neat line of stitches into a knife wound? How often has Holmes felt the wisps of Watson's breath on his skin as he leans in close, all of his attention tearing a hole straight through him?
It is a serious misplay to turn his head to view the doctor straight on, but it would take a stronger man than Holmes to resist the temptation. Watson's eyes remain fixed intensely on the bright red burns. They certainly look rather painful, but Holmes feels nothing now except the exquisite soft, slow circles being drawn on his fingers by Watson's thumb. The doctor's vest trembles with the anxious rhythm of his heart and Holmes cannot prevent his own breath from quickening unevenly at the sight.
With that, however, the spell is broken and the game begins slipping away from him. The doctor makes a small, strangled noise and immediately moves to pull out the stash of bandages he keeps tucked away in an inside pocket. He doesn't leave the house without it anymore, not with Holmes at his side at any rate. The wounds are wrapped securely with expert care. It takes but a minute and Watson's fingers pull away completely from Holmes' hand.
"There you are. Keep it clean and wrapped. Tell me if you see any signs of infection, will you?"
Holmes fails to contain another sigh, this one honest and unfeigned. The game is lost yet again. Who could know when the next opportunity will arise? It could be days. Or weeks.
"Yes, yes, of course, Doctor, as you wish. Now, shall we take our quarry and be on our way?"
Watson nods eagerly and they finish the job they came for. A criminal is arrested. A case is solved. The game continues on as ever and no one ever seems to win.
Thank you for reading! Your comments are always greatly appreciated. If you like, you can read more here at my master fic list.