| Birthday fic for Elaby |
[Nov. 18th, 2009|10:01 pm] |
Here's a clip from an upcoming, rather DARK fic...Um...dark enough that I'm forcing Gorrlaus to proof through it first...
But...happy birthday...
In this excerpt, Holmes celebrates Watson's marriage by dragging a long, long-suffering detective over half of London to identify a criminal. And look for a placebo...
He showed himself after I sent off the last of the wires. By then I was wondering if I could possibly find a train to get me to the other side of London because there’s no such thing as a sane cab-driver on the East side this late at night.
As for him…he didn’t look like the man who’d just lost his best friend to the marriage altar at nine in morning and jumped straight to tracking the worst sort of criminal fourteen hours later. Me, I wasn’t feeling very tolerant as I am like normal people and need a bit of sleep between my wild goose-chases…
“Come, Lestrade.” He was using that voice again. Only it sounded gentler, like he actually knew he’d stepped over my lines and…even stranger, it mattered to him. “I have a ride to Baker Street. You look in need of a hot supper.”
“Even your housekeeper wouldn’t have supper ready this late…or this early.” I stayed put on the bench and half-hoped someone would try to cobble me. It would feel very good to truncheon someone right now.
“I made arrangements in advance.” He answered. “She is away for the night and her cooking is waiting for us in the coals.”
There’s a good rule about going off with strange men—and Mr. Holmes is strange without a doubt. But I broke the rule anyway. As bad as my day was, I couldn’t see it getting much worse, and I would be back on duty at seven anyway. I thought he might let me sleep on his couch once I ate, and I’d be ready to go if wrinkled in the morning.
If Mr. Holmes had planned a seduction, his set-up of food, wine and firelight had been dumped over in favor of an oversized settee.
And I fell asleep on the way over. He shook me awake and steered me like a boat inside the hallway. By then I was just putting one foot in front of the other because that was what you were supposed to do, but I couldn’t tell you when we got to his living room. It was warm as July when we stepped in, and I fell into that self-promised settee before I realized somehow the man had taken my hat and coat off at the front door without my knowing it.
But he had supper ready, and it was blessedly normal hearth-bread with watercress soup. In the absence of women he served it in large mugs like sailors and I woke up halfway through it. It was hot; curry spice might be mother’s milk to a Hindoo, but it will wake up any Englishman.
We must have talked for an hour as we went through the motions of supper. Looking back it must have been a little bit of everything, but the small things are missing in my head. I answered questions about my life. I know that much. I remember wondering why he even wanted to know when he never asked before, or maybe it’s just not in him to ask when he can’t deduce.
Somehow it was just natural that night that we’d both be sitting at the settee with a half-finished bottle of some kind of toff wine between us, watching the flames dance in the fire. Normally I’d be sitting there with Dr. Watson, but he wasn’t there any longer.
It got quiet at the end. My head was spinning and I was pulling away from the worst parts of the day. I was accepting that my old mates were dead. But acceptance doesn’t make it softer, and I was probably getting a little close to self pity when Mr. Holmes sits up and says something in a bosh of Latin.
“What was that, Holmes?” I asked him. It’s not often I forget the “mister” but tonight it felt natural.
“All grass must grow from grains that are dead.”
I still didn’t understand, but I’m sure if he slowed that locomotive in his skull and made it grind backwards for a few painful miles, explaining all the way, I’d see what he was getting at.
Then again, he was probably just having a human moment.
“He won’t stop being your friend, you know.” I spoke to my wineglass, watching him fill it up past the polite point again. “He’s married. He’s moved to the natural part of his life.”
“He’s moved on, you mean.”
“You can’t fault him for being happy.” God help us, a man who took on this one as a friend deserved a season pass to the Heavenly Choir. With box tickets.
“Happy.” He repeated at me. He gave me that fish-eyed look again, the one that makes me glad I’m not exotic and venomous and small enough to fit under his damned microscope. “You think the pursuit of happiness is so simple?”
“It’s supposed to be.” I protested. “Not that it is. But…” I shrugged, came close to spilling the glass, and solved the problem by drinking it down. “It’s a simple rule.” All of a sudden, I didn’t want any more bloody wine. I put the goblet down and it’s a good thing it didn’t crack on the table. “Simple. He wouldn’t blame you for doing whatever makes you happy, you know.”
It’s not a good idea to issue a challenge to men who are much smarter than yourself. Or for that matter, stronger, richer, more connected, and in possession of much more nerve and little to lose. All I can say is…I didn’t know it was a challenge at the time.
I was set arights when again I felt those hands come up from behind me, and this time I was off the settee and onto the bearskin rug. It wanted a good cleaning; it smelled of his tobacco even more than he did. I was just drunk enough that my head was pulling back from the reality and making a string of observations just as absurd as that one: interesting vintage, was one thought. And don’t ask me how Gregson’s snide voice chose that moment to pop into my head then, because that’s the kind of thing he says.
I knew what he wanted. All men like us can see the signs even if we can hide it to the rest of the world.
But the problem of it is, the other sort of men, men like Dr. Watson who prefer the company of women…they imagine that just because we prefer the company of other men, we’d just simply latch on to each other at every chance. It doesn’t work that way, you know. Mr. Holmes is as far out of my reach as I’m as far from the reach of a millworker. His like doesn’t see to my like. We’re not nearly enough alike.
But, God, as ashamed as I am to say this, lying would make it worse. He seemed so damn sure of himself, and at that moment, I wanted someone to be sure of something. I wanted someone to be sure of me. So I let him take over…I let him and I helped him. Kissing is something you don’t do among the dollymops. The Nancys put their mouths wherever the pence was but not there. As soon as I felt his lips against mine, all I wanted was more of it. I’d never been touched there before. And he was the one doing it. It was like being offered a drug and being given two by mistake.
I was already into the most intimate moment of my entire life and he’d just started.
He started it, and he finished it. It was him all the way through. His hands on the buttons and cuffs and skin…his doing of everything and I didn’t care so long as I stayed inside his arms. |
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