Fic for thesmallhobbit: Portraits
Jun. 17th, 2012 08:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmesticeTitle: Portraits
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thesmallhobbit
Author:alone_dreaming
Beta: My long-suffering boyfriend. Many thanks.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Eh, lots of Watson reminiscence and not much chatting
Words: 2250ish
Author’s Note: I hope you like it. I tried to put in the whole beginning, middle, and end and a little h/c and a lot of friendship.
My friendship with Sherlock Holmes was never a simple one.
Though Sherlock Holmes had warned me early on of his taciturn tendencies and odd hours of concert, the man I spent those first few months with tended towards jubilance and excitement over brooding and depression. It took time for us to discover the worst of each other: my quick temper and appreciation (over appreciation, Holmes would say) for the female figure, his cynical distaste for anything or anyone who did not live up to his standards and fits of melancholy drug abuse. The best of friends (and, indeed, we came to discover that ours was a great friendship, not simply tolerant cohabitation) can find fault with each other after enough time has passed and, yet, still love each other.
Over the years, however, I began to paint an image of him in my stories that only portrayed this rough, irritating edge I was privy to every time I returned to 221B Baker Street. I cannot claim complete innocence for even unintentional slander is slander, but I can say I never intended to create a picture of faults contrasted by mere intellect. Each story, each mystery, should have shown the smaller moments where Sherlock Holmes was not only please by his own intelligence but companionable. While he never gave unwarranted praise or prattled about frivolous things, he did provide debates and commentary that we both enjoyed immensely. All his insufferable moments did not compare to the pleasant times together discussing his experiments or medicine, or his gentle tutelage in the art of observation.
He never was a man of endearments. This is something I feel I portrayed correctly in my tales. Affirmations of his affections came rarely and, to my other companions, always seemed cold or unclear. I never perceived them this way but I never clarified why his lack of emotions didn't cause me concern.
Holmes was, is, a man of actions. Emotions do him little good in deduction. They interfere with his impartiality and cloud his judgment. The only time I saw him well and truly bested (and not simply lacking in clues and leads) was by a woman that he may have felt attraction to. With this came a personality that was simply not given to emotional displays. His brother, Mycroft, showed similar detachment and though I never met any of their extended family, I would have to assume their parents did as well.
And so, Holmes did things. He solved mysteries, experimented, played the violin, explored the London streets, invented tools to propagate his actions. He had the potential to rise into politics and avoided it, more interested in the freedom of exploration than the confines of power. He showed what he felt through his actions more than his feelings.
He did this for me in hundreds of small ways, so much that I never questioned our friendship.
I should elaborate. A good argument contains appropriate support. I could provide a list of small things: the times he allowed me silence while I grieved, the times he slowed his pace when my leg pained me, the times I came home to a cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson was out, the times he went through great efforts to teach me his ways; they are all actions, far more meaningful than casual words or assurances, and all expressed a great attachment. I could detail how he continually encouraged my return to Baker Street when I fell out with a woman (or, laid her to rest, in sadder cases) and never called my repeated romantic failures into question. But all of these appear vague, uncertain justifications by a man who wants to defend years of abuse.
It was June and handsome out. The weather had changed rapidly, presenting a clear blue sky with only the slightest fluffs of clouds. The temperature had risen to a respectable degree that didn't require an overcoat but did not bring up a sweat. The typical climate had retired for a brief moment to allow us a day of comfort.
I was abed due to injuries acquired on a case Holmes expressly forbid me to write about. This has happened on occasion, but usually for a clearly defined reason. For instance, there have been cases where the circumstances were so depraved that both Holmes and I agreed no one needed to know they happened. Other times, Holmes had influential clients who wished to remain completely anonymous. Rarer, the case was so widely publicized that it did not need further attention.
This case did not fit any of these parameters.
Even detailing it would betray his trust and, yet, at the time, I could not understand his decision. Though my faculties were impaired by morphine and malaise as only serious injury can bring, I could think clearly enough to know that this case -- vaguely publicized but with a strong following in London -- would be wildly successful if it was shared. I had even thought to ask Holmes to write about it, as it would be more interesting from his point of view, but when the words fell from my lips, his visage had darkened.
“No one else needs to know of this,” he said, retreating from my bedside so he could sit in my desk chair.
“I think--“
“No.” He pulled his pipe from his jacket so roughly that the pocket tore. “No, Watson. I must ask you to never speak of this case again.”
I had plenty of time to contemplate as I regained my strength. By the time I had recovered enough to maneuver from my room to our sitting room, I had come up with a number of viable answers.
One, I had embarrassed him so greatly with my involvement that he did not want the public to know the truth. It only worked from the perspective of business and reputation. However, Holmes cared little for the public’s good opinion and further pondering reminded me that it also went against his character to worry about money.
Two, he did not want his name attached to the case. This worked only on the vaguest of levels. The case had been bloody and had acquired a high body count (my own almost one) before Holmes had solved it. Holmes did care about his perceived intellect. Though he had solved the case ludicrously fast by comparison to any other man, it was still not fast enough by his standards.
Three, and most plausible, by withholding viable information from him, I had lost his faith and trust. I had known things about the history of this case, important clues that later led to Holmes’s conclusion, and I had kept silent. I had utterly refused to betray old confidences in the face of violence and death due to what I considered honor and Holmes considered stubborn foolishness. I cannot deny some embarrassment over the past indiscretions played a role but it did not stop me from handing him a pivotal piece of evidence with what I assumed what would be my last breath.
Those three were the forerunners in increasingly deluded explanations of my friend’s reticence. I must say the situation ate at me and while it did not hinder my physical recovery, it made me question my welcome. After our conversation, Holmes had retreated from my room and spent little time with me as though I had offended him. I saw him only irregularly over the following week, sometimes missing him by only the shortest moment as I made my way downstairs.
It was June and handsome out.
I had managed to dress and achieve some manner of propriety in my physical appearance. My skin still lacked color and my hair still lay lank and at odd lengths, but I felt more presentable than I had in weeks. The trip down to the sitting room led to a mild winding instead of lightheadedness and nausea. It was still a relief to lower myself into my chair but I felt heartened by the improvement. My initial outlook had been bleak -- I had known the moment the villain had struck me down -- but I had prevailed.
Mrs. Hudson had opened the windows and pulled the drapes so the breeze blew in and brought sunlight in its wake. The remains of Holmes’s meal sat on his desk but it looked cold, as though he had long since departed. In his chair lay the paper and the broken remains of a pen.
I had not kept up with the news since my injury except for some pieces that Holmes read to me when he visited. With limited entertainment available to me, it seemed best to discover what the rest of the world had done in my absence. I reached for the paper and just managed to retrieve the paper.
I never got past the first article.
Holmes found me brooding. This was at some point in the early afternoon, after Mrs. Hudson had tried tempting me with food and failed. She had insisted on setting out tea and bread, but had the good sense to leave me in silence rather than tempting my ire with inquiries.
Holmes entered in a quiet fashion, leaving the door open behind him. He looked tired, and with good reason according to the news, and he folded himself into the chair next to mine without removing his shoes. His eyes caught the paper and my expression and he had no reason to ask questions.
“You’ve taken my job,” he said, taking my untouched teacup for himself. “Putting the Valkyrie out of sorts.”
“Holmes,” I began, my voice tight with building anger and frustration. “What have you --“
“But she’ll calm, as she usually does,” Holmes continued without pause. “She intends to cook a special supper tonight in celebration of your recovery despite your behavior.”
“You cannot have possibly said --“
“Until that time, I suggest we enjoy the weather. It would do you good.”
“Holmes,” I said so loudly that he finally stopped. “What have you done?”
I held up the paper, having folded it down to the article about the case. The trial was nearly over. The culprit had been found mentally unstable and would be put into an asylum for the rest of his days. In the article was a brief summary of the events leading up to the arrest, including my injury, Holmes’s hand in the capture, and the detective’s testimony at the trial. But all of the details of my involvement and the pivotal turning point did not appear. In fact, Holmes’s testimony not only eliminated my background with the victims outside of military service; it had made my injuries sound like a heroic effort to defend him. According to the writer, I had entered the house, found the killer waiting to cause my friend harm, and been attacked. If not for me, he may have succeeded in killing the detective.
“Nothing,” he said, his voice firm. He had drained a full cup of tea and was gaining his feet again. “Come, we have a day to enjoy.”
It was a blatant attempt to distract me but I acquiesced and allowed him to help me into my shoes. I thought once we left, I would badger him until he told me the truth. After all, I knew myself to be the target of the killer, not Holmes. My withholding of evidence would cause some uproar, no doubt, but I had initially believed I would testify in the case and explain myself. Deprived of that chance, if I came forward now, I could face jail time for impeding a case and Holmes could face jail time for lying under oath. Holmes could possibly find a lawyer who would defend his actions as omissions of unnecessary information but the fact remained that he had not only laid his career on the line but also his freedom.
I found it difficult to harass him once we had made it down the street. My focus on remaining upright consumed me. Holmes’s mood, reminiscent of his playful and excited personality from our first case together, pierced my gloom and concern until I found myself smiling. He observed everyone, commented on everything, described his latest experiment (deciphering bee dances), subtly caught my elbow every time I stumbled. When I could not take another step, I discovered he had guided me to a small park and a bench.
We sat together, he describing how the interaction between the man and woman walking away from us depicted a lascivious love triangle. The sun shone warm on my face and though my injuries pained me and my legs shook even without any weight upon them, I felt more refreshed than I had in days.
“Why would you do it, Holmes?” I asked. I could not look at him, for as much as I wanted an answer, I feared it, too.
Holmes fell silent for so long that I had to turn to him. His gaze was focused on me, piercing, weighing, discovering; his lips had turned slightly upwards in the smallest of smiles.
“My dear Watson,” he said. “All these years and you have yet to learn to ask the right questions. The better question to ask is, ‘Why would I not?’”
Recipient:
thesmallhobbitAuthor:
alone_dreamingBeta: My long-suffering boyfriend. Many thanks.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Eh, lots of Watson reminiscence and not much chatting
Words: 2250ish
Author’s Note: I hope you like it. I tried to put in the whole beginning, middle, and end and a little h/c and a lot of friendship.
My friendship with Sherlock Holmes was never a simple one.
Though Sherlock Holmes had warned me early on of his taciturn tendencies and odd hours of concert, the man I spent those first few months with tended towards jubilance and excitement over brooding and depression. It took time for us to discover the worst of each other: my quick temper and appreciation (over appreciation, Holmes would say) for the female figure, his cynical distaste for anything or anyone who did not live up to his standards and fits of melancholy drug abuse. The best of friends (and, indeed, we came to discover that ours was a great friendship, not simply tolerant cohabitation) can find fault with each other after enough time has passed and, yet, still love each other.
Over the years, however, I began to paint an image of him in my stories that only portrayed this rough, irritating edge I was privy to every time I returned to 221B Baker Street. I cannot claim complete innocence for even unintentional slander is slander, but I can say I never intended to create a picture of faults contrasted by mere intellect. Each story, each mystery, should have shown the smaller moments where Sherlock Holmes was not only please by his own intelligence but companionable. While he never gave unwarranted praise or prattled about frivolous things, he did provide debates and commentary that we both enjoyed immensely. All his insufferable moments did not compare to the pleasant times together discussing his experiments or medicine, or his gentle tutelage in the art of observation.
He never was a man of endearments. This is something I feel I portrayed correctly in my tales. Affirmations of his affections came rarely and, to my other companions, always seemed cold or unclear. I never perceived them this way but I never clarified why his lack of emotions didn't cause me concern.
Holmes was, is, a man of actions. Emotions do him little good in deduction. They interfere with his impartiality and cloud his judgment. The only time I saw him well and truly bested (and not simply lacking in clues and leads) was by a woman that he may have felt attraction to. With this came a personality that was simply not given to emotional displays. His brother, Mycroft, showed similar detachment and though I never met any of their extended family, I would have to assume their parents did as well.
And so, Holmes did things. He solved mysteries, experimented, played the violin, explored the London streets, invented tools to propagate his actions. He had the potential to rise into politics and avoided it, more interested in the freedom of exploration than the confines of power. He showed what he felt through his actions more than his feelings.
He did this for me in hundreds of small ways, so much that I never questioned our friendship.
I should elaborate. A good argument contains appropriate support. I could provide a list of small things: the times he allowed me silence while I grieved, the times he slowed his pace when my leg pained me, the times I came home to a cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson was out, the times he went through great efforts to teach me his ways; they are all actions, far more meaningful than casual words or assurances, and all expressed a great attachment. I could detail how he continually encouraged my return to Baker Street when I fell out with a woman (or, laid her to rest, in sadder cases) and never called my repeated romantic failures into question. But all of these appear vague, uncertain justifications by a man who wants to defend years of abuse.
It was June and handsome out. The weather had changed rapidly, presenting a clear blue sky with only the slightest fluffs of clouds. The temperature had risen to a respectable degree that didn't require an overcoat but did not bring up a sweat. The typical climate had retired for a brief moment to allow us a day of comfort.
I was abed due to injuries acquired on a case Holmes expressly forbid me to write about. This has happened on occasion, but usually for a clearly defined reason. For instance, there have been cases where the circumstances were so depraved that both Holmes and I agreed no one needed to know they happened. Other times, Holmes had influential clients who wished to remain completely anonymous. Rarer, the case was so widely publicized that it did not need further attention.
This case did not fit any of these parameters.
Even detailing it would betray his trust and, yet, at the time, I could not understand his decision. Though my faculties were impaired by morphine and malaise as only serious injury can bring, I could think clearly enough to know that this case -- vaguely publicized but with a strong following in London -- would be wildly successful if it was shared. I had even thought to ask Holmes to write about it, as it would be more interesting from his point of view, but when the words fell from my lips, his visage had darkened.
“No one else needs to know of this,” he said, retreating from my bedside so he could sit in my desk chair.
“I think--“
“No.” He pulled his pipe from his jacket so roughly that the pocket tore. “No, Watson. I must ask you to never speak of this case again.”
I had plenty of time to contemplate as I regained my strength. By the time I had recovered enough to maneuver from my room to our sitting room, I had come up with a number of viable answers.
One, I had embarrassed him so greatly with my involvement that he did not want the public to know the truth. It only worked from the perspective of business and reputation. However, Holmes cared little for the public’s good opinion and further pondering reminded me that it also went against his character to worry about money.
Two, he did not want his name attached to the case. This worked only on the vaguest of levels. The case had been bloody and had acquired a high body count (my own almost one) before Holmes had solved it. Holmes did care about his perceived intellect. Though he had solved the case ludicrously fast by comparison to any other man, it was still not fast enough by his standards.
Three, and most plausible, by withholding viable information from him, I had lost his faith and trust. I had known things about the history of this case, important clues that later led to Holmes’s conclusion, and I had kept silent. I had utterly refused to betray old confidences in the face of violence and death due to what I considered honor and Holmes considered stubborn foolishness. I cannot deny some embarrassment over the past indiscretions played a role but it did not stop me from handing him a pivotal piece of evidence with what I assumed what would be my last breath.
Those three were the forerunners in increasingly deluded explanations of my friend’s reticence. I must say the situation ate at me and while it did not hinder my physical recovery, it made me question my welcome. After our conversation, Holmes had retreated from my room and spent little time with me as though I had offended him. I saw him only irregularly over the following week, sometimes missing him by only the shortest moment as I made my way downstairs.
It was June and handsome out.
I had managed to dress and achieve some manner of propriety in my physical appearance. My skin still lacked color and my hair still lay lank and at odd lengths, but I felt more presentable than I had in weeks. The trip down to the sitting room led to a mild winding instead of lightheadedness and nausea. It was still a relief to lower myself into my chair but I felt heartened by the improvement. My initial outlook had been bleak -- I had known the moment the villain had struck me down -- but I had prevailed.
Mrs. Hudson had opened the windows and pulled the drapes so the breeze blew in and brought sunlight in its wake. The remains of Holmes’s meal sat on his desk but it looked cold, as though he had long since departed. In his chair lay the paper and the broken remains of a pen.
I had not kept up with the news since my injury except for some pieces that Holmes read to me when he visited. With limited entertainment available to me, it seemed best to discover what the rest of the world had done in my absence. I reached for the paper and just managed to retrieve the paper.
I never got past the first article.
Holmes found me brooding. This was at some point in the early afternoon, after Mrs. Hudson had tried tempting me with food and failed. She had insisted on setting out tea and bread, but had the good sense to leave me in silence rather than tempting my ire with inquiries.
Holmes entered in a quiet fashion, leaving the door open behind him. He looked tired, and with good reason according to the news, and he folded himself into the chair next to mine without removing his shoes. His eyes caught the paper and my expression and he had no reason to ask questions.
“You’ve taken my job,” he said, taking my untouched teacup for himself. “Putting the Valkyrie out of sorts.”
“Holmes,” I began, my voice tight with building anger and frustration. “What have you --“
“But she’ll calm, as she usually does,” Holmes continued without pause. “She intends to cook a special supper tonight in celebration of your recovery despite your behavior.”
“You cannot have possibly said --“
“Until that time, I suggest we enjoy the weather. It would do you good.”
“Holmes,” I said so loudly that he finally stopped. “What have you done?”
I held up the paper, having folded it down to the article about the case. The trial was nearly over. The culprit had been found mentally unstable and would be put into an asylum for the rest of his days. In the article was a brief summary of the events leading up to the arrest, including my injury, Holmes’s hand in the capture, and the detective’s testimony at the trial. But all of the details of my involvement and the pivotal turning point did not appear. In fact, Holmes’s testimony not only eliminated my background with the victims outside of military service; it had made my injuries sound like a heroic effort to defend him. According to the writer, I had entered the house, found the killer waiting to cause my friend harm, and been attacked. If not for me, he may have succeeded in killing the detective.
“Nothing,” he said, his voice firm. He had drained a full cup of tea and was gaining his feet again. “Come, we have a day to enjoy.”
It was a blatant attempt to distract me but I acquiesced and allowed him to help me into my shoes. I thought once we left, I would badger him until he told me the truth. After all, I knew myself to be the target of the killer, not Holmes. My withholding of evidence would cause some uproar, no doubt, but I had initially believed I would testify in the case and explain myself. Deprived of that chance, if I came forward now, I could face jail time for impeding a case and Holmes could face jail time for lying under oath. Holmes could possibly find a lawyer who would defend his actions as omissions of unnecessary information but the fact remained that he had not only laid his career on the line but also his freedom.
I found it difficult to harass him once we had made it down the street. My focus on remaining upright consumed me. Holmes’s mood, reminiscent of his playful and excited personality from our first case together, pierced my gloom and concern until I found myself smiling. He observed everyone, commented on everything, described his latest experiment (deciphering bee dances), subtly caught my elbow every time I stumbled. When I could not take another step, I discovered he had guided me to a small park and a bench.
We sat together, he describing how the interaction between the man and woman walking away from us depicted a lascivious love triangle. The sun shone warm on my face and though my injuries pained me and my legs shook even without any weight upon them, I felt more refreshed than I had in days.
“Why would you do it, Holmes?” I asked. I could not look at him, for as much as I wanted an answer, I feared it, too.
Holmes fell silent for so long that I had to turn to him. His gaze was focused on me, piercing, weighing, discovering; his lips had turned slightly upwards in the smallest of smiles.
“My dear Watson,” he said. “All these years and you have yet to learn to ask the right questions. The better question to ask is, ‘Why would I not?’”
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