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holmes_minor2019-06-16 11:09 pm
gardnerhill) wrote in holmes_minor2019-06-16 11:09 pm
Entry tags:
"The Simian Gavotte" (Holmes Minor Monthly Prompt, June 2019)
Title: The Simian Gavotte
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None.
Summary: The veneer of civilization can be wiped away by one good tackle.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor June 2019 prompt: Sport
Sherlock Holmes and I belong to our thoroughly modern times; we are men of medicine and science, who attempt to bring enlightenment to both these fields as well as to the field of crime detection.
While the world scorns the very existence of our romantic affair as obscene, what we exchange In private is as civilised and discreet as the same courtesies exchanged between the husband and wife who stroll past us two on the street.
As men of our times, we also subscribe to the philosophy of mens sana in corpore sano; we participate in healthy physical activity in the form of regular walks together, and our own separate pursuits (boxing matches at my club for me and fencing practise at the university for Holmes). After such separate bouts we tend to our ablutions and dress, reunite as impeccably-dressed and groomed as ever, and once again wait until our return to our rooms to express our physical affection for each other.
But one day we learned something new about each other.
In chasing a brace of hired muscle for a crime boss, both of us were forced to tear along the riverbank of the lower Thames to prevent both men's disappearance. I executed a full rugger tackle of my man and wrestled him in the malodourous marsh-mud to subdue him and clap on the derbies. Meanwhile Holmes tripped his target with his walking-stick, met his back-swing with a masterful uppercut, and after a round of fisticuffs subdued the behemoth.
We then made the mistake of looking to each other, wanting only to confirm we were well.
Sherlock Holmes was filthy, plastered with mud and soil and blood, his garments torn in the scuffle, and heaving for breath after his bout. He was the most brutal, savage, beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life, and all I wanted was to finish tearing his clothes away so I could sod him into the mud right in front of the prisoners. He wouldn't stop me, either, for I saw the answering spark of lust in my man's eyes as he devoured my own equally-dishevelled and degraded appearance.
By God's good grace the police caught up with us just then, and we gratefully relinquished our captives to the official force, promising to follow them to the station to question the men. When the Mariah was out of sight, one of us dragged the other into the tiny space under a nearby deserted and rotting wooden dock, and there we broke the law three times before we could regain our composure.
In the cab to Baker Street for a bath and clean clothes, I recalled the La Fontaine fable of the monkeys trained to gavotte in splendid garb who reverted to scratching, biting apes when a spectator threw a nut.
We two continue our sporting endeavours. But now we return home disheveled and sweating in rumpled clothing, eager for that first, primal response of our loved one before we return to civilization.
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None.
Summary: The veneer of civilization can be wiped away by one good tackle.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor June 2019 prompt: Sport
Sherlock Holmes and I belong to our thoroughly modern times; we are men of medicine and science, who attempt to bring enlightenment to both these fields as well as to the field of crime detection.
While the world scorns the very existence of our romantic affair as obscene, what we exchange In private is as civilised and discreet as the same courtesies exchanged between the husband and wife who stroll past us two on the street.
As men of our times, we also subscribe to the philosophy of mens sana in corpore sano; we participate in healthy physical activity in the form of regular walks together, and our own separate pursuits (boxing matches at my club for me and fencing practise at the university for Holmes). After such separate bouts we tend to our ablutions and dress, reunite as impeccably-dressed and groomed as ever, and once again wait until our return to our rooms to express our physical affection for each other.
But one day we learned something new about each other.
In chasing a brace of hired muscle for a crime boss, both of us were forced to tear along the riverbank of the lower Thames to prevent both men's disappearance. I executed a full rugger tackle of my man and wrestled him in the malodourous marsh-mud to subdue him and clap on the derbies. Meanwhile Holmes tripped his target with his walking-stick, met his back-swing with a masterful uppercut, and after a round of fisticuffs subdued the behemoth.
We then made the mistake of looking to each other, wanting only to confirm we were well.
Sherlock Holmes was filthy, plastered with mud and soil and blood, his garments torn in the scuffle, and heaving for breath after his bout. He was the most brutal, savage, beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life, and all I wanted was to finish tearing his clothes away so I could sod him into the mud right in front of the prisoners. He wouldn't stop me, either, for I saw the answering spark of lust in my man's eyes as he devoured my own equally-dishevelled and degraded appearance.
By God's good grace the police caught up with us just then, and we gratefully relinquished our captives to the official force, promising to follow them to the station to question the men. When the Mariah was out of sight, one of us dragged the other into the tiny space under a nearby deserted and rotting wooden dock, and there we broke the law three times before we could regain our composure.
In the cab to Baker Street for a bath and clean clothes, I recalled the La Fontaine fable of the monkeys trained to gavotte in splendid garb who reverted to scratching, biting apes when a spectator threw a nut.
We two continue our sporting endeavours. But now we return home disheveled and sweating in rumpled clothing, eager for that first, primal response of our loved one before we return to civilization.