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holmes_minorTitle: A Sight For Sore Eyes
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 221b
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: He's home. Everything else is details.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor January 2020 prompt: Perfect Vision
He was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life, the day he returned from war the second time. I thought my heart would burst to see him walking down the gangplank, his stick steadying his gait, until he was on English soil. Despite the crowd, he heard my voice and headed straight toward me; his voice was clotted with his own tears of joy, his hands framing my face. I wept too; he was alive, and home, a hero, and never again to return to the horrors at the front.
I examined his Victoria Cross. "Don't suppose you can tell me which Crimean cannon made this one?" he asked, and I laughed; his pawky humour was alive and well.
I'd brought our motorcar; I narrated our entire trip home, describing the passing countryside in detail he'd used in his own writing, from his lurid crime stories to his heartfelt letters.
In the cottage's drive, he turned his head everywhere, sniffing: "Your bees are welcoming me home too. You've put in more roses. It's gorgeous!"
We walked on the cliffside, I once again describing everything as he leaned on his stick.
"Oh, that poor man!" It was a passing pair of strangers.
"Pity." My voice mirrored his disgusted expression.
"Hmph! Idiots." Watson gripped his white cane. "Must be blind."
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 221b
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: He's home. Everything else is details.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor January 2020 prompt: Perfect Vision
He was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life, the day he returned from war the second time. I thought my heart would burst to see him walking down the gangplank, his stick steadying his gait, until he was on English soil. Despite the crowd, he heard my voice and headed straight toward me; his voice was clotted with his own tears of joy, his hands framing my face. I wept too; he was alive, and home, a hero, and never again to return to the horrors at the front.
I examined his Victoria Cross. "Don't suppose you can tell me which Crimean cannon made this one?" he asked, and I laughed; his pawky humour was alive and well.
I'd brought our motorcar; I narrated our entire trip home, describing the passing countryside in detail he'd used in his own writing, from his lurid crime stories to his heartfelt letters.
In the cottage's drive, he turned his head everywhere, sniffing: "Your bees are welcoming me home too. You've put in more roses. It's gorgeous!"
We walked on the cliffside, I once again describing everything as he leaned on his stick.
"Oh, that poor man!" It was a passing pair of strangers.
"Pity." My voice mirrored his disgusted expression.
"Hmph! Idiots." Watson gripped his white cane. "Must be blind."
no subject
Date: 2020-01-07 12:52 am (UTC)It's only when I went back and read the fic again that I realised how you'd already told us in so many ways that Watson had lost his sight, without ever awkwardly spelling it out. Very elegantly done and an inspired use of the prompt ^^
no subject
Date: 2020-01-07 05:35 am (UTC)