Fic: Bloody Harts!: Gen
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holmes_minorTitle: Bloody Harts!
Length: 500
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: Gen
Notes/Warning: Mention of bodily organ & blood. Genderswap. Holmes & Watson are women living as men. Reference to Psalm 42.
For: the monthly prompt: heart
Summary: Sleep deprivation brings out the Gothic in Holmes.
Any doctor worth his Gladstone will tell you sleep is the best medicine. Sherlock Holmes had been deliberately depriving herself of this panacea while running about London on a fact-finding mission, and by the fourth day I was consumed with anxiety for her. I should’ve been with her, helping her, suffering with her, but I was tending a delicate case at the time. My patient had joined the Great Majority the previous evening, and I had rested fitfully, only to wake alone and find Holmes’s bed still not slept in.
Mrs. Hudson had presciently laid the table with tea and toast for one. A coded message had come at dawn from Holmes that she had plans to kip in one of her bolt holes. I suppose I should’ve been grateful that she sent any word at all, but I couldn’t help pacing, leaving breakfast untouched.
At the first plod on the stairs, I raced to the door.
She was grey, dry, and drawn. Her gaze dipped from fatigue into madness.
“Holmes!”
“It is done,” she said in a low voice. One of her elegant hands clutched the doorknob, the other was sunk in the pocket of a dirty, frayed coat.
She advanced and I retreated until I fell into the chair by the desk.
Holmes loomed over me and recited,
“As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so my soul panteth after thee.”
Then she placed a bloody handful on the corner of the desk.
It took all my training and innate reserve to not blanche.
It was not a human heart, I consoled myself, but somewhere in the cesspool there was an unfortunate animal with a hole in its chest.
“Thank you, Holmes,” I said sincerely. After all, token is token.
She nodded and licked her cracked lips.
I went to the breakfast table and offered her my cup of cold tea.
“Until I can wrangle some water brooks,” I said.
Holmes took three gulps and handed the cup back to me.
I had just enough time to set the cup on the table and catch her in my arms before she hit the floor.
“You will keep it, won’t you, Watson?” she asked as I carried her to her bedroom.
“Of course. Like Mary Shelley. Wrapped in a silken shroud or pages of verse?”
She hummed as I quickly stripped her, washed her, and tucked her into a clean nightdress.
“Both. But none of your bawdy limericks about the enchantments of Parisian women.”
“No, no,” I murmured, making a note to ask Stanford just what he and I had got up to during our last bacchanalia. “An ode. Your virtues, a bouquet of flowers, etcetera. Keats, you know.”
She hummed again and closed her eyes.
“Sleep well, Holmes.”
I gently closed the door behind me. My eyes rested on the lump and the stream of dark red which had trickled down the leg of the desk to the rug. I shook my head and sighed,
“Bloody harts!”
Length: 500
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: Gen
Notes/Warning: Mention of bodily organ & blood. Genderswap. Holmes & Watson are women living as men. Reference to Psalm 42.
For: the monthly prompt: heart
Summary: Sleep deprivation brings out the Gothic in Holmes.
Any doctor worth his Gladstone will tell you sleep is the best medicine. Sherlock Holmes had been deliberately depriving herself of this panacea while running about London on a fact-finding mission, and by the fourth day I was consumed with anxiety for her. I should’ve been with her, helping her, suffering with her, but I was tending a delicate case at the time. My patient had joined the Great Majority the previous evening, and I had rested fitfully, only to wake alone and find Holmes’s bed still not slept in.
Mrs. Hudson had presciently laid the table with tea and toast for one. A coded message had come at dawn from Holmes that she had plans to kip in one of her bolt holes. I suppose I should’ve been grateful that she sent any word at all, but I couldn’t help pacing, leaving breakfast untouched.
At the first plod on the stairs, I raced to the door.
She was grey, dry, and drawn. Her gaze dipped from fatigue into madness.
“Holmes!”
“It is done,” she said in a low voice. One of her elegant hands clutched the doorknob, the other was sunk in the pocket of a dirty, frayed coat.
She advanced and I retreated until I fell into the chair by the desk.
Holmes loomed over me and recited,
“As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so my soul panteth after thee.”
Then she placed a bloody handful on the corner of the desk.
It took all my training and innate reserve to not blanche.
It was not a human heart, I consoled myself, but somewhere in the cesspool there was an unfortunate animal with a hole in its chest.
“Thank you, Holmes,” I said sincerely. After all, token is token.
She nodded and licked her cracked lips.
I went to the breakfast table and offered her my cup of cold tea.
“Until I can wrangle some water brooks,” I said.
Holmes took three gulps and handed the cup back to me.
I had just enough time to set the cup on the table and catch her in my arms before she hit the floor.
“You will keep it, won’t you, Watson?” she asked as I carried her to her bedroom.
“Of course. Like Mary Shelley. Wrapped in a silken shroud or pages of verse?”
She hummed as I quickly stripped her, washed her, and tucked her into a clean nightdress.
“Both. But none of your bawdy limericks about the enchantments of Parisian women.”
“No, no,” I murmured, making a note to ask Stanford just what he and I had got up to during our last bacchanalia. “An ode. Your virtues, a bouquet of flowers, etcetera. Keats, you know.”
She hummed again and closed her eyes.
“Sleep well, Holmes.”
I gently closed the door behind me. My eyes rested on the lump and the stream of dark red which had trickled down the leg of the desk to the rug. I shook my head and sighed,
“Bloody harts!”
no subject
Date: 2020-02-07 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-02-07 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-02-08 11:37 pm (UTC)“Thank you, Holmes,” I said sincerely. After all, token is token. I love that detail that Watson is genuine in her thanks. She understands Holmes so well.
Some favourite lines:
At the first plod on the stairs, I raced to the door. She was grey, dry, and drawn. Her gaze dipped from fatigue into madness.
One of her elegant hands clutched the doorknob, the other was sunk in the pocket of a dirty, frayed coat. She advanced and I retreated until I fell into the chair by the desk. Holmes loomed over me and recited, “As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so my soul panteth after thee.” Then she placed a bloody handful on the corner of the desk.
I went to the breakfast table and offered her my cup of cold tea. “Until I can wrangle some water brooks,” I said.
“Of course. Like Mary Shelley. Wrapped in a silken shroud or pages of verse...?” “Both. But none of your bawdy limericks about the enchantments of Parisian women.”
no subject
Date: 2020-02-09 12:19 am (UTC)I love the story of Shelley's heart. It's so gruesome and fantastic. And that she wrapped the heart in a copy of his verse is too much.
It's a good prompt, simple enough to twist lots of different ways.
no subject
Date: 2020-02-11 09:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-02-11 09:57 pm (UTC)