Pairings/Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gladstone
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genres: Fluff, Humor, Slice-Of-Life
Summary: On a rainy afternoon, Holmes is at his wits’ end. Watson is amused. Gladstone is long-suffering.
Date Of Completion: May 28, 2010
Date Of Posting: June 4, 2010
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Warner Brothers do, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 473
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Notes: Happy Birthday, mithen! Your request was fun to write! :) Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson. Prompt:You know, I've been looking forward to seeing your take on Holmes/Watson, so maybe a H/W story? Holmes and Watson are stuck indoors on a rainy day while Holmes is distracted and annoyed about a case and Watson is vastly amused at his grumpiness, perhaps?
“Help me, Mother Hen!”
Holmes was crawling about his messy room, dressed in his ratty dressing grown, his dark hair sticking out at all angles.
I watched from the settee, newspaper in hand. I was nattily attired in brown waistcoat, trousers, and crisp, white shirt. A brown silk cravat was knotted precisely, and my hair was neatly combed and my mustache trimmed. Gladstone resided by my feet, watching Holmes with cursory interest.
It was a typically dreary London day, the rain coming down in torrents, guaranteed to soak one to the bone. It was wise to stay inside close to a warm hearth, my body grateful for the roaring fire in the grate. Cold always made my damaged leg ache more.
“And what assistance do you require, my dear?”
“I need stimulation.”
If I had been drinking tea, it would have spewed forth. “Stim…stimulation?”
“Of course.” Holmes grabbed a fistful of papers, scanned them, and crumpled them swiftly. He tossed them over his shoulder, nearly hitting Gladstone on the nose. The stout bulldog took no notice. He was quite accustomed to my fellow lodger’s antics. “My mind is all awhirl without any focus.”
“Pity there have only been run-of-the-mill murders lately,” I said as I rattled The Times.
“Pity.” Holmes lifted himself from the floor by using the arm of his favorite chair, shuffling over to the mantelpiece. “London could do with some interesting murders.”
I patted Gladstone on the head. “Have you checked today’s post?”
“Most assuredly. Nothing of note.”
Holmes rummaged through odds ‘n’ ends on the mantelpiece, walked over to the endtable that held his violin, picked it up, plucked at its strings, put it back down, and wandered over to the bookshelf.
“Tell me, old boy, any upcoming visits with old friends from the Army, or your brother, perhaps?”
Holmes let out an exasperated sigh. “You are of no help, Watson.”
A smile quirked at the corner of my lips. “I daresay you’re right.” I put the paper down. “Come now, old boy, buck up. Something is bound to turn up.”
“Balderdash. One must seek out one’s pleasures, Watson! Otherwise we are nothing but respectable gentlemen who will rot our lives away with such nonsense as calling cards and afternoon tea and what races are being run at the track.”
“You have forgotten strolls through the park and boating on the Thames.”
Holmes snorted. “I would be wary of boating on the Thames, dear boy. Treacherous waters, that.”
“Still, the treacherous can be exciting.”
“No doubt.” Holmes sighed, running a hand through already-disheveled hair.
“Come now, old cock, and let me stimulate you.”
Holmes’ eyebrows climbed into his hair, then a magnificent smile spread across his face.
“Very well, old bean.”
Holmes joined me on the settee and the newspaper fluttered down on top of Gladstone’s head.