![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mightymads posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmes_minorTitle: Coach
Author: mightymads
Length: 500
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: The good old British sport of boxing.
Author’s Notes: For the monthly prompt: sport
By summer of 1881 my condition improved considerably in comparison with the beginning of that year in which my lifelong companionship with Sherlock Holmes began. To facilitate my convalescence, I took to doing exercise daily, with special attention to my injured shoulder and leg. One morning, when I was thus preoccupied after breakfast, Holmes returned from the laboratory at Bart’s, as some fresh chemical stains on his hands indicated. He grinned, watching me, then proceeded to his room and returned with a carpet bag.
“How about making the process more effective, Watson?” he asked.
“What are you suggesting, Holmes?”
“The good old British sport of boxing. Let’s go to the ring. Light sparring will do you a world of good.”
He was so enthusiastic that I didn’t wish to disappoint him by refusal, although I wasn’t sure I was fit enough.
The ring was located in the basement of a dingy pub, and undoubtedly at nighttime raucous crowds placed their bets while the fighters were beating the daylights out of each other. Now, however, everything was peaceful, and the smell of sweat in the air had no tang of blood. Several men of impressive physique who were training there greeted Holmes as one of their own and eyed me casually.
Having changed, Holmes started with warming up his joints, and I followed his example. He did a curious set of circular motions with his wrists, elbows, and shoulders, springing lightly on his feet.
“Remember the games you used to play as a boy,” he said in a couple of minutes. “Try to step on my toes and avoid my attempts.”
I was a little startled by the task and felt awkward, obliging. Holmes’s methods were unconventional even in the ring. Then I realised that it was actually a good exercise for reaction, and my uneasiness was replaced by the thrill of competition. God, how quick Holmes was! He teased me kindly, making me wish to be on par with him, and I found myself laughing as I played along.
“Let’s add our hands by imitating hits,” Holmes continued. “The one who manages to touch the other first, wins.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and dodged my lunge. Coordinating both my hands and feet while attacking or slipping away from Holmes turned out to be quite a feat, but, surprisingly, I proved to be more agile than I had thought.
“Very good, Watson,” Holmes said, smiling. “Take the gloves from the bag. Now you’re warmed up sufficiently.”
Our sparring was a joy. I almost didn’t feel inconvenienced by my injured limbs, and Holmes was a considerate opponent, allowing me to preserve my dignity. Truth to be told, I was sometimes distracted, watching those long legs of his as he danced around me. By the end of the round I was winded, and Holmes called it a day. I asked him to go on with his own training.
“Oh, I’ll have my share tonight. Perhaps you’ll even cheer for me then.”
Author: mightymads
Length: 500
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Summary: The good old British sport of boxing.
Author’s Notes: For the monthly prompt: sport
By summer of 1881 my condition improved considerably in comparison with the beginning of that year in which my lifelong companionship with Sherlock Holmes began. To facilitate my convalescence, I took to doing exercise daily, with special attention to my injured shoulder and leg. One morning, when I was thus preoccupied after breakfast, Holmes returned from the laboratory at Bart’s, as some fresh chemical stains on his hands indicated. He grinned, watching me, then proceeded to his room and returned with a carpet bag.
“How about making the process more effective, Watson?” he asked.
“What are you suggesting, Holmes?”
“The good old British sport of boxing. Let’s go to the ring. Light sparring will do you a world of good.”
He was so enthusiastic that I didn’t wish to disappoint him by refusal, although I wasn’t sure I was fit enough.
The ring was located in the basement of a dingy pub, and undoubtedly at nighttime raucous crowds placed their bets while the fighters were beating the daylights out of each other. Now, however, everything was peaceful, and the smell of sweat in the air had no tang of blood. Several men of impressive physique who were training there greeted Holmes as one of their own and eyed me casually.
Having changed, Holmes started with warming up his joints, and I followed his example. He did a curious set of circular motions with his wrists, elbows, and shoulders, springing lightly on his feet.
“Remember the games you used to play as a boy,” he said in a couple of minutes. “Try to step on my toes and avoid my attempts.”
I was a little startled by the task and felt awkward, obliging. Holmes’s methods were unconventional even in the ring. Then I realised that it was actually a good exercise for reaction, and my uneasiness was replaced by the thrill of competition. God, how quick Holmes was! He teased me kindly, making me wish to be on par with him, and I found myself laughing as I played along.
“Let’s add our hands by imitating hits,” Holmes continued. “The one who manages to touch the other first, wins.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and dodged my lunge. Coordinating both my hands and feet while attacking or slipping away from Holmes turned out to be quite a feat, but, surprisingly, I proved to be more agile than I had thought.
“Very good, Watson,” Holmes said, smiling. “Take the gloves from the bag. Now you’re warmed up sufficiently.”
Our sparring was a joy. I almost didn’t feel inconvenienced by my injured limbs, and Holmes was a considerate opponent, allowing me to preserve my dignity. Truth to be told, I was sometimes distracted, watching those long legs of his as he danced around me. By the end of the round I was winded, and Holmes called it a day. I asked him to go on with his own training.
“Oh, I’ll have my share tonight. Perhaps you’ll even cheer for me then.”
no subject
Date: 2019-06-07 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-07 08:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-07 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-07 08:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-08 04:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-08 09:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-07 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-08 04:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-08 08:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-08 09:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-09 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-10 07:50 am (UTC)