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5 am

Fandom: Lewis

Paring: Lewis/Hathaway, unrequited.

Rating: PG at most. There's a dead body mentioned, and one very quick suggestion of possible innuendo. There's probably one image that could be described as grotesque.

Categories: Angst and character study. I like to think that the ending is sort of cheerful.

Summary: Hathaway is hardly the most cheerful person in the world, especially not at 5 am when there's a body in someone's hen house.

Author's Note: I've been reading Ulysses for a course, and I decided to give focalisation a go. In other words, we're sort of in Hathaway's head. A huge huge thanks to garonne, who got me into this fandom accidentally, and then beta'd my fic, and also to thesmallhobbit who beta'd for me. They were amazing! Also, to the whole fandom for the 'chook pen' debate. There were many answers, but I chose 'hen house', because it sounded the poshest to me.

Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. Also, poems quoted - John Donne The Sun Rising, John Clare I Am, Samuel Taylor Coleridge Dejection: An Ode. The Nazgul are, of course, from Lord of the Rings. There's also a popular saying in there, which I have no beef with, but I imagine that Hathaway in a fowl mood would look upon less kindly.

Onward! Collapse )

British Friends! Hulp!

Hi Guys!

Does anyone know the name of a British store you could get cheap crappy t-shirts from, like Australia's K-mart, or America's Walmart (I think). A big chain type of thing. In London.

If you could name one for me, that would be sooo helpful (and I may or may not have thought that in BBC Moriarty's 'sooo changeable' voice). 


Fandom: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Disclaimer: I'm not entirely sure I like the implication that I'm quite that old! :P

Paring: Holmes/Watson Kind of UST, but kind of not. 

Rating: G

Categories: I think of this as crack. It's probably not crack by most people's estimation, but the entire time I was writing this, I was all
, 'oh dude, you so silly!' so I guess it's kind of crack... 

Warnings: This has not been beta'ed. It may be beta'ed in the near future, but I'm not entirely sure, and I'm procrastinating a lot, so I thought I'd procrastinate a bit longer by posting. 

Summary: It's all in the title really. 

Author's Note: Okay, so this is for flawedamythyst because I was not entirely satisfied with my holmesfest entry for her, and it probably suits her requests better anyway. I was originally writing this for the fest, but it was getting progressively sillier and I couldn't control my brain, so I abandoned it! I hope she likes it! Also, if anyone could tell me how to control these fonts (see categories for an example of how much difficulty I'm having) I will be your friend forever! 

Also, it has now been beta'd by the wonderful tripleransom! All remaining mistakes are mine of course!

He Knows That I Know That He Knows I Love Him, and Therefore We Understand Nothing.


I deposited myself heavily on the couch while Holmes strode over to the sideboard to pour me a brandy.

“Here old friend,” he said, handing me the drink and settling down on the floor beside me with my medical bag, “let me see to your wound.”

I drew breath to protest that I was the medical expert, but the graze would be difficult to reach from my angle and I had no real desire to move.

“It will only need to be washed,” I told him, “and wrapped with a small bandage – yes, that one will do nicely thank you Holmes – and then I’ll be able to make my way upstairs and sleep it off.”

Holmes was fastidious but gentle with the cleaning, and so I closed my eyes and leant back into my chair. It was easier that way; not only because of my natural squeamishness at watching someone work on my injury, but also because of Holmes’ amazing declaration at the Garrideb home earlier. If I did not know better, I would entertain the idea that he returned the full scope of my affection, but I do know better, and so I will… I must simply be content to know that he loves me as deeply as he is able.

You see, if you are to be in love with a man, there is one great advantage to having that man be Sherlock Holmes. I will never have any uncertainty; there is no impetus for foolish hope and there will be no awkward conversation to reveal me; Holmes misses nothing, and therefore I know that he knows, and thus his inaction speaks volumes.

Because I know he knows, and he does nothing, I know that he wishes for me to be silent on the matter, so that we can continue as we always have, and I could ask for no greater kindness than this. Of course, being Holmes, he knows that I know he knows, and so we’ve reached a mutual agreement without saying a word; we never speak of romance to one another if we can avoid it, and we leave a slightly greater distance between us than society dictates we must if we are to be seated in close quarters. Other than this, we carry on as if nothing is amiss.

This is why I must keep my eyes closed now, because if I look down into those grey eyes, my heart will show in my face, and that would violate the unspoken agreement between us.


I cleaned and dressed Watson’s wound more gently than I would have my own, and then settled into my armchair across from him with a nightcap and my pipe. I could see that his cheeks were a little too pink for their colour to be explained away by the heat of the fire, but that was unsurprising following my foolish declaration in the house of the Garridebs.

To see him fall after the gunshot had plunged my heart into ice, and the thought of how close the bullet had been to an artery left me breathless and flustered even now; but that did not excuse the looseness of my tongue.

Watson undoubtedly knew of my ungentlemanly feelings towards him, so there was no danger of my actions revealing me, but I have upset our careful equilibrium and I do not know how to put it back to rights.

What had given my regard away remained a mystery, but his smallest action told me everyday that he had not forgotten. He maintained a conscious distance between us at all times, and was kind enough to never speak of romance when I was about, as if careful not to pain me. Upon occasions when we come face to face in our finest clothes, I am greeted with sad little crooked smile and a note of resigned understanding in his eyes, and I know he has observed my breathlessness at the sight of him.

I could not have asked for a kinder friend that Watson; he’s a rare man to treat my condition with sympathy rather than anger and disgust.

This understanding between us is painful at times, but it is for the best. I know, as sure as I know my own name that Watson is aware of my improper regard for him, and I also know that he knows that I know he knows, and because of this we are able to dance around the issue without stepping on each other’s toes.

Still, my thoughtless words today have proved that this agreement did not account for all eventualities, and now Watson was sitting across from me staring determinedly at the ceiling. I wondered briefly if the wisest option was to remain silent until the trouble passed, but the obvious tension in his face when he glanced in my direction made me feel compelled to apologise.

“Watson,” I began awkwardly, gripping my glass perhaps harder than was required, “I am terribly sorry if my words earlier caused you any discomfort. I… I merely forgot myself when I thought you might have been hurt.”

“Oh no Holmes, there was no harm done; I would never be as presumptuous as that.”

His words and his flustered expression stopped me short. I suddenly felt less sure of my position, and my mind began to flicker through the innumerable reasons we could be talking cross-purposes, until I felt quite dizzy with them.

“Presumptuous…?” I asked carefully, not allowing myself to look away from his face for a moment for fear of missing some vital expression, while anchoring myself to the room by gripping the glassware tighter still.

“I understand that I am dear to you as a friend, and therefore your words earlier did not cause me any uncertainty in regards to your… regard.” he responded quietly with a despondent shrug, smiling bitterly down at his pipe.

I stared at him, faint with shock. Surely I had misunderstood. He looked sheepish and contrite; too sheepish, in fact, for it to be attributed to his sympathy for my discomfort. I felt I rush of doubt, followed by the most treacherous emotion of all; hope.

“Watson, my dear friend; what the devil do you mean!?" 


Fandom: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Disclaimer: I'm not entirely sure I like the implication that I'm quite that old! :P

Paring: It’s pretty ambiguous really... If you have slash goggles, you’ll probably see slash. If not, you won’t.

Rating: Maybe PG for mature concepts? If you think it needs a higher rating, tell me.

Categories: Angst! Lots and lots and lots of angst!

Warnings: I'm new to livejournal, so despite my best efforts I have no beta. You have been warned, and if you'd like to correct anything here, please, be my guest. Also, it’s better if you don’t look behind the cut, I promise there’s minimal violence and no sex-things! There is a
major character death
! Also, mental illness warning-ish.

Summary: He writes himself to the brink of madness until the writing is his only respite. Ooh, sounds dramatic! :)

Although I am not normally a particularly gifted writer, my grasp of imitation does not extend only to my numerous disguises. This, combined with my ability to pick out infinitesimal flaws in order to recognise a copy, give me the ability to carry off the perfect fraud when given time to continually review my handiwork, modifying a letter, or a story until it could fool even I.

This was a useful skill in the years before Baker Street, as my well documented habits made it difficult to procure any form of testimony about my merits as a lodger that would not hurt my case beyond repair and leave me homeless. This skill fell into disuse when I met my dear doctor, and we took residence at Baker Street together; he made an honest man of me with his presence, but that change did not linger in his absence, for now I write in another man’s hand in every spare moment, scribbling and revising for hours without rest until every story is perfect.

The Yarders still accept my help, and indeed, Lestrade seems to bring me more cases than ever (and I often wonder if this is deliberate; a form of pity), but they all think me mad. I can read it in their countenance; they tread around me as if the ground is littered with eggshells, or as if I might suddenly shatter before their eyes.

I wish they were right. I long to believe the fantasy I create, and share with the world. I wish with the sincerity that readers of The Strand doubt I possess, that just one of those dinners at Simpson’s that I write could be real; or that I could believe it was real.

With his pen, I wrote myself dead at Reichenbach Falls, so that it could end as it should have, with my doctor safe and able to return to his wife. I wrote that he grieved me a reasonable amount, because it would reflect badly upon him if he did not, but no more than was absolutely necessary, as he had given up too much for me already. Then Mary died, and I realised he would be alone, so I wrote myself alive again. I had him forgive me, because if it were all a cruel trick, and he knocked on the sitting room door tomorrow, I would never hold it against him.

Of course, I know that it is no trick. Moriarty had a knife. They fell over the edge together, but the good doctor had been fatally wounded moments before they fell. I watched him fall, and when they found his body a few days later, the knife was still buried in his heart.

The adventures of Sherlock Holmes went on after his fall, lonely but soothing, until Lestrade remarked that it would be a shame the case of the Norwood builder would go unwritten. That night I took his ink and began to copy out the story in my best imitation of his writing, inserting him in where I could. From then on, it was my obsession.

It was, for the most part, merely a way of creating his presence and preserving him, but this was not always the case. I had myself nearly kill him in The Devil’s Foot, because I was responsible for his death, and London ought to blame me, even if they didn’t know why they should. Then in the adventure of the three Garridebs I wounded him, so that I could ensure the man I was creating knew how deeply I cared, and so that London new he was worth my tears. I wrote his banter and his concern, because the absence of those pained me, and I began to plot out the ways I would bring him into the story while I solved the case. In this way, I brought him on my adventures with me, as I began to write him into my life without a pen, with some small part of me always dedicated to wondering how my dear Boswell would react.

I am so close to madness. He follows me now, and I cannot make myself stop creating him, even in the most innocuous and dull moments of my existence. I hear his echo everywhere, but I am not fooled. I created these delusions, but I cannot believe them, and so I curse my logician’s mind daily that its grasp of reality was too firm to let me slip into this madness. I take the interesting cases that come to me, and I am treaded politely, though warily by those who know me, and the ghost I constructed haunts me quietly so that I am perpetually caught between two worlds, only one of which is real. The cocaine blurs the lines between them, but I only feel whole and sane when I write in his hand, as then he is entirely confined to fiction

A Thousand Smiles – Empty Dwellings

Fandom: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - EMPT

Disclaimer: I'm not entirely sure I like the implication that I'm quite that old! :P

Paring: Holmes/Watson eventually

Rating: G - not even kisses yet.

Categories: pre-slash, angst, return fic, URST(Holmes), 

Warnings: I'm new to livejournal, so despite my best efforts I have no beta. You have been warned, and if you'd like to correct anything here, or even offer suggestions on more Watson-ish wording, be my guest. Also, the Victorian era homophobia is starting to creep in a little here, although it's not really central. 

Summary: This is because I'm always left wishing fics drew out the 'getting-together' phase a little longer. This is still basically a return fic, only, before the hiatus, Holmes told Watson about his feelings and was rejected. Now the boys are having to readjust.

This is part one - An Unusual Reunion. 

Anywho, onward to the goodies. 

Waiting in the empty house with Holmes for the capture of Colonel Moran was exhilarating, and to find myself suddenly in the same space as the man who had hunted my dear friend for three years made my blood boil. The result of this, and having no great involvement in the small scuffle that led to his arrest, left my body restless while my mind was exhausted. I left Holmes to accompany Lestrade to Scotland Yard, and took the walk back to my lodgings as a temporary respite from the intensity of the last few days.

I chose a detour through my favourite part of London over a more direct route, and thus found myself in no particular hurry back to my empty dwellings. My wanderings allowed me to contemplate the day in a way I never could have done under the threat of Holmes’ scrutiny. I reflected that I had no idea that I would be at all affected by the sight of Baker Street now that I knew Holmes was alive and well, but I found myself giddy with longing when I saw our old rooms. Perhaps, I mused, a widower without children could return to the habits he kept as a bachelor. Mycroft had, after all, seen that the flat was maintained as Holmes had left it, and despite us both being wealthy enough to afford out own digs now, I knew we enjoyed each others company enough overlook that fact.

I hardly gave Holmes’ confession a thought; after all, he had implied that it was a longstanding affliction, and therefore we’d lived under the same roof under those same conditions for years. With all of that on my mind, I wandered home humming merrily to myself and considering how to bring the matter up with him.

The perfect opportunity presented itself when he dined at my residence that night. My housekeeper fixed us a lovely meal, although I found myself anticipating Mrs Hudson’s pie in future, and Holmes enthusiastically discussed the day’s excitement with me. He was immaculately dressed, filling my sitting room with tobacco, and he greeted my promise to write up his return for The Strand warmly, although not without some gentle teasing. In fact, Holmes was so much himself, and so very familiar I found my nerves about breaching the idea of moving back to Baker Street fading, and I launched into the conversation at the first opportunity.

“I suppose you’ll be returning to our old rooms at Baker Street now, given that Mycroft had Mrs Hudson keep them for you?” I asked him as I poured us both a brandy.

Homes smiled into his glass as he nodded.

“That was the intention, yes.”

I chuckled at his droll tone, knowing how Holmes disliked having to say anything that was blindingly apparent.

“Would it be too great of an imposition to ask if I might join you again in rooming there?”

All of a sudden Holmes went very still, and his slender hands tightened on the glass that held his brandy. His grey eyes flicked up and locked onto my face, and his expression, although deliberately neutral, was intent.

“Watson, did you not mark what I said in Switzerland?” he asked carefully.

I was surprised that he meant to address the issue, but I found that it was not too difficult to answer, having already thought the matter over.

“It did not seem to matter. After all, we shared digs for many years without any difficulty.”

At this, Holmes nodded slowly, and lowered his eyes down to his hands, which were gripping his brandy even tighter than before. He seemed to be considering his next words very carefully, and I was beginning to feel less confident in the outcome of the conversation.

“That is very noble of you,” he murmured, swallowing hard, “especially considering what your medical background must have to say on the matter.”

During this pause, his eyes flickered up to me briefly, and he gave me a charming smile, but I could not fail to notice his knuckles going white as he prepared to continue, speaking very slowly and quietly.

“However,” he went on “as much as there were no difficulties for you, the same cannot be said for me.”

At this point he turned his head up and began stare intently at the ceiling rather than his fingers, but he continued on before I felt the need to interrupt him.

“I couldn’t have hoped for a kinder response from you; however it matters a great deal to me. I hope you will understand then, that I would rather not take you up on that offer.”

I was too shocked to respond, and so distracted by my confusion that I only vaguely saw him lift himself gracefully from his seat and slip from the room with a quiet ‘good-night’. 

Characterture - drabble


: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes 

Disclaimer: I'm not entirely sure I like the implication that I'm quite that old! :P

Paring: Holmes/Watson 

Rating: G

Categories: slash, HolmesPOV, hiatus, drabble, angst

I found this little paragraph in a half-finished fic I'll probably never do anything with and thought it could be a little stand-alone drabble. 

While on my travels, I met a man who wore an uncanny characterture of my Watson’s smile. It left me feeling quite possessive, but I was also fascinated, and struck by such an intense longing that it took my breath away. He was an affable sort of fellow, as anyone to share that expression must be, but he could not hide how puzzled he was by the oddly intense and overly friendly banker who made his acquaintance.

I lingered in that town far longer than I had intended, and when I left, I fled as if the devil himself had met me there.



: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes 

Disclaimer: I'm not entirely sure I like the implication that I'm quite that old! :P

Paring: Holmes/Watson 

Rating: PG

Categories: slash, HolmesPOV, romance, humour

Warnings: I'm new to livejournal, so despite my best efforts I have no beta. You have been warned. Also, humour in this context is definitely subjective; I wouldn't say go so far as to say it's not silly at all, but it's not a crack fic! 

Summary: Holmes is aware that his vanity played no small part in his affection for Watson. 

I am a vain creature. Many of you may be, to some degree aware of this, having read my dear companion’s accounts of me in the Strand and no doubt detected therein, a little gentle teasing Watson loves to slip in on the subject. Believe me, however, when I say you have no idea of quite how vain I can be.

Indeed, if there were a mirror that, instead of allowing one to look upon their own face, made it possible to engage oneself in conversation, I might die as Narcissus; bent over my own image having forgotten the rest of world.

The great pity of all this is the part my vanity played in the inception of my regard for my Boswell. I wish, with all of the sincerity I possess, that I could tell you of my heart stirring so ferociously upon our first meeting that I could feel its echo in my ears, or that it took me mere days to recognise and catalogue all that is exceptional about him; but this was not the case. Watson is the finest example of an English gentleman that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting, but that is not to say that he is especially striking.

The truth is that I barely saw Watson when Stanford introduced us, as I was utterly sidelined by my own brilliance in having made progress in my haemoglobin experiment, and he served little purpose to me other than being an audience to my gloating. Beside the fact of my taking rooms with him, I’d forgotten him entirely by the time he’d left my sight.

Indeed, I did not notice Watson’s intrinsic value for quite some time; more than a year if I recall correctly. I began inviting him out as an assistant on the better mysteries I was offered; only because he was the most unabashed audience I’d ever encountered. Any affection I had for him was simply an extension of my regard for myself.

It was this arrogance that paved the way for more earnest regard; my perception of him became irretrievably attached to my identity, until I loved him in a possessive capacity, if an insincere one. Somehow, despite my terrible self-absorption, my regard for the doctor – my doctor – became more complex. His loyalty and respect for me made me preen for him, and I relished in having an audience for my brilliance. Gradually, his kindness, patience and quiet intelligence turned my love of his attention into a love of the man himself. This is not a reflection of any existential changes on my part, but rather a consequence of Watson’s impossibly good nature. No man can pay him any attention without being swept off their feet by his sweetness; and even as irredeemably selfish as I am, I could not fail to fall hopelessly in love.

Over the space of a year, I went from disguising a blush of pride whenever I made him to smile, to feeling a blossom of warmth at every quirk of his lip, regardless of the cause. I have the fortune of being an unstoppable force, and although I am sadly lacking in virtue, I have my own charms, so it was not difficult to win him once I realised the depth of my desire. The ability to read the man like a book also helped, and I won my prize still too young to fully appreciate his value. It would be many years before I realised myself humbled by the strength of his presence.

Watson will never know the whole story of my affections. Although I am sure the sordid tale of my arrogance would never be enough for him to leave me, it would pain me to see him hurt. All that remains to be said is that, despite being as vain as I ever was, I now know my Boswell to be the best and wisest man I have ever met, including myself, and that is a tall order indeed.

It is probably fortunate for Watson that our affair is quite illegal, as if it were not; I would parade him about like the mother of a young prodigy. After all, how could a man such as myself resist the temptation to flaunt their connection to the best man in England?

Gah! Does anyone know how to coerce livejournal into formatting the gaps between paragraphs properly? It's just squashed all of mine together! 
Except for this line apparently. Fabulous! -.-'


Fandom: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - EMPT

Disclaimer: I'm not entirely sure I like the implication that I'm quite that old! :P

Paring: Holmes/Watson eventually, mentions Watson/Mary

Rating: G - not even kisses yet.

Categories: pre-slash, URST(Holmes), 

Warnings: I'm new to livejournal, so despite my best efforts I have no beta. You have been warned. Also, spoilers for the return from hiatus. 

Summary: Holmes, being Holmes notices Watson's nature almost immediately, but decides he's not pretty enough for Watson to ever have improper feelings for him, and therefore it doesn't matter

It was not long after we had first made our acquaintance that I realised Watson was an invert. It became clear to me when we met a former dalliance of his while on a case, and the young man’s cheeks turned pink. Watson is a striking man, so I could not have been sure if the boy’s reaction was to fantasy or reality had my dearest friend’s answering gesture of a tiny stiffening of posture not given him away. He was very subtle, but not so subtle as to escape my notice, but I buried my surprise, and didn’t think of it until I had my pipe, a glass of whiskey and my own company that night.

With skills of deduction like mine, you go about noticing indiscretions everywhere, many of which are terrible things, but nothing the scope of the law can deal with, and many which seemed petty at best, yet there was still a chance for prosecution. These I ignored, and Watson’s inversion fit very easily into the latter category. The more pressing question was; would I be in any danger from his ardour? I did not know if such men felt any affection for each other, but it occurred to me that in a moment of loneliness and boredom, Watson could put me into a rather compromising position if he were to proposition me; if he were caught afterwards, it would be difficult to deny knowledge of his activities. I realised quickly, however, that it was a very unlikely scenario. Even during those early days when he was still quite ill from war, he was an unusually handsome figure, and could no doubt charm the pants off anyone he pleased. I, on the other hand, look like a scrawny brat with the face of an old man. Despite my most meticulous grooming, with my excess of limbs I can never really look neat, let alone elegant, and instead must rely on my harsh features to make me appear commanding when I wish to be taken seriously. For once my confounded appearance would work in my favour, as my body, no doubt, held little appeal to anyone, let alone someone with the pick of the litter.

My mind made up, I greeted him at breakfast with a smile, and brushed the fact ‘Watson is an invert’ to a dusty corner of my mind, continuing on with our friendship as if I had never made the observation.

It was some years before it came up again because of a case. A man had been killed by being run through by the point of a broken chandelier, and his neighbour seemed to me to be disproportionately distraught, and trying too hard to compose himself, as if he knew his reaction was severe, and wanted to hide it. It occurred to me that his affection for our victim might not be entirely legal, and I decided to ask Watson if it was possible for men in that position to hold feelings for each other in the same manner as a gentleman and a lady. I had no qualms about using his unusual field of knowledge, but I was a little apprehensive of frightening him with the request to be candid.

I didn’t address the matter until we sat in our living room, with Watson buried in his case notes, and Miss Hudson had gone off to bed. I even waited until my dear friend had drank half a glass of whiskey, before I turned to him and said,

“My dear fellow, please don’t be alarmed, but I need to ask you something of a personal nature so I can understand a particular in this case.”

Watson looked up from his notes carefully, one of his eyebrows twitching.

“I think I should be alarmed if you warn me first, given the things you seem to believe need no warning.” He chuckled. “Should I fetch myself the smelling salts?”

“I’m sure the whiskey will do fine.” I told him, shifting in my seat, and taking a deep breath before plunging on. “I have been aware for quite some time, and you must know that it does not affect my opinion of you in the slightest, indeed you are my closest friend despite this and I should never wish to hurt you, so believe me, your secret is, and always has been, safe with me, but you are an invert are you not?”

Watson drew in a sharp breath when the word ‘invert’ left my mouth, but otherwise remained stoic; however he did not meet my eyes when he nodded. His silence seemed strained, and I found myself at a loss for what to say. “Watson?”

Finally, still staring down at his hands in his lap, a little crooked smile wandered across his lips, and he responded quietly. “I’d been wondering about that for a while. I realised that your deductive abilities would have made not noticing impossible, but you never seemed to have any idea…”

I had to get rid of the strain between us, and the only way I knew how was to finish this unpleasant business as quickly as possible, so I moved on to the heart of the matter, having not forgotten why I brought the matter up.
“In any case, I am in need of your expertise to settle a matter. Is it possible for men involved in that kind of relationship to develop feelings for each other beyond the physical?” I asked, remembering my abandoned pipe in my hand, and drawing it to my mouth.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Watson muttered, cheeks reddening, as he turned back to his notes, but the room was already fading away as I turned my concentration inward to the curious manner of our neighbourly concern.

I did not notice Watson’s continuing discomfort until after the brother of the deceased’s widow was arrested for his murder.

“She was a foolish girl for telling such a hot-headed man she suspected her husband of being quite in love with somebody else.” I told him, and with my focus on the case gone, I finally saw that he did not quite meet my eyes when he replied. It distressed me a great deal to think that he had been so uncomfortable for the entire duration of the case, and so I let the words rush out of my mouth unchecked.

“Oh Watson, I am sorry I had to put you through all this, and I will be sorrier still if our companionship cannot be mended. Please, let me take you out to Simpson’s tonight, as an apology.”

I suspect that it was the earnest concern in my tone that won him over more than any words I could have said, and I was so glad when those gentle hazel irises met mine, that I took his arm in mine, and decided to walk back to Baker Street with him rather than call on a hansom, so I could enjoy his company again.

It wasn’t until his wedding that it ever seemed to matter again. I was looking between Mary in her lacy white dress and her sweet rosy cheeks, and Watson’s smile, which lit up his honest, handsome face so that he was breathtaking, and it struck me that they were the most beautiful couple I’d ever seen. I felt suddenly bitter about Mary’s loveliness; that it should allow her to stand by his side, while I, his closest friend could not, and catching this thought, I realised that I wanted to be someone with a face and form attractive enough to win Watson’s regard.

The priest asked for objections, and I bit my tongue, and sat, still as the dead except for my shaking hands, through the ceremony.

God save me - a misfit with an illegal love for a beautiful man. 

A Thousand Smiles - Forgotten Sensations

Fandom: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - EMPT

Disclaimer: I'm not entirely sure I like the implication that I'm quite that old! :P

Paring: Holmes/Watson eventually, mentions Watson/Mary

Rating: G - not even kisses yet.

Categories: pre-slash, angst, return fic, URST(Holmes), 

Warnings: I'm new to livejournal, so despite my best efforts I have no beta. You have been warned. Also, this one is quite short. I'm not really sure why, but it is.  

Summary: This is because I'm always left wishing fics drew out the 'getting-together' phase a little longer. This is still basically a return fic, only, before the haitus, Holmes told Watson about his feelings and was rejected. Now the boys are having to readjust.

This is part one - An Unusual Reunion.

Anywho, onward to the goodies. 

When Holmes asked me what I’d been doing with myself in the last few months, knowing me well enough to guess that I had found a distraction to keep myself too manic to notice that I dined alone, I was proud to show him the wall I’d dedicated to the gratitude of strangers. I saw him observe the whole room while keeping his eyes subtly averted from my bed, and I privately wondered if that was for my sake or his. When his gaze finally fell upon the source of my strength, he turned every faucet of his attention to it, seeing to read each note, and no doubt deducing more about the people I’d tended to than I would ever know.

“Oh Watson,” he breathed, “the finest artist in the world could not create a piece as beautiful as the tracks you leave through London.”

I laughed at his sentiment. “Clearly you’ve been around me too long already, if you’re waxing poetic.” I saw him shift uncomfortably at this, and bite his lip.

“Indeed Watson, I’ve no one to blame but you.” He said, schooling his features into a gentle smile, but not soon enough that I didn’t recognise the second meaning behind his words. His confession, I observed, was going to prove harder to ignore than I fear either of us first thought.

We went out to dinner that night, Holmes explaining that he wished himself to be seen, and I actually tasted the food in front of me for the first time in months. The forgotten sensation was exquisite, and so I ate all of my meal rather quickly and eventually finished off more than half of Holmes’.

At some point in the evening, Holmes told a story about a lingual mix up he’d overheard while abroad, and I laughed. The shape that mirth made with my lips felt so terribly unpractised, and I suddenly realised I hadn’t laughed since Mary’s death. Holmes saw right through me, observing my shock and deducing its source, so he treated the rest of our outing as an experiment in the number of chuckles, guffaws and giggles he could elicit from me.

By the time we returned to my sitting room, quite some time later that night, I felt as if the evening would be branded onto my face in the form of the fine smile-lines we grow around our eyes as we age, and my cheeks were beginning to ache. Still, as if to make up for the time we’d lost while Holmes was gallivanting off around the world, we settled ourselves in with pipes and whiskey, and began to fill the room with smoke. We spoke of many things, including Holmes’ plan for the capture of Colonel Sebastian Moran, before settling into a comfortable silence. I closed my eyes then, laying my head back on a cushion, content to nurse my pipe and drink.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Holmes start, and quickly advert his eyes, which roused me into wakefulness quicker than any deliberate ploy ever could, reminding me that things were not as they always had been; Mary was dead, and Holmes did not think of me in quite the same fashion as I did him. I turned to Holmes, who now reclined in the position I had been keeping before I opened my eyes, and wished him goodnight, very deliberately not wondering about his decision to keep his eyes closed.

The troubles I was only just beginning to understand weighed heavily on me as I trudged upstairs to my bed, but every worry that could possibly come bundled with my friend could not undo the healing every smile, both his and mine, had brought me.