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holmes_minor2020-03-20 08:50 am
stonepicnicking_okapi) wrote in holmes_minor2020-03-20 08:50 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Makeup (2.2.1.): Rating: Teen.
Title: Makeup (2.2.1.)
Length: 500
Rating: Teen
Notes: DELETED SCENE from Hand in Glove [Explicit. Holmes-in-drag/Watson, PWP, 8k]. For the monthly prompt. Using Merriam-Webster's definition 2.2.1. to be reconciled.
Summary: After their row, Watson and Miss Mohels make up.
Good glovers will tell you that it takes three countries to produce the finest of their wares: Spain, to raise the kid; France, to cut the cloth; and England, to sew it.
In a day, when the mule-headed indignation had burnt off, the weight of just how much of an ass I’d been to Miss Mohels began to constrict my breathing. The urge to apologise arrived fast and strong. It was followed by the notion that, depending on how well or poorly the lady took care of herself in Edinburgh, I might not have the opportunity to apologise. I had no address by which to reach her. No way to correspond. I could only wait.
But I wasn’t going spend my days and nights pacing and wringing my hands. I set myself to a distracting programme, in between the patient rounds, of course: the fashioning of an apology in the medium that was our own.
First, I located the softest kidskin in the city and had it dyed to the most enchanting shade of violet. Then, I found a Gallic expatriate in the London cesspool who agreed to cut the material to my lady’s proportions, which, after many years of study, I knew far better than my own. Meanwhile, I exhausted myself at night with draft sketches of the embroidery, which were refined after consultation with a English sorceress of the needle, who agreed, with a touch of pitying amusement in her eyes, to do the stitching. Silver thread for m’lady’s quicksilver eyes. Gold for her resoluteness of heart. Pearls for those which adorned her neck and earlobes.
Mere hours after the final product was dispatched, she found me.
I said nothing, merely advanced upon her until her back was to the wall and we were both hidden in darkness.
I soon my lips hovered before hers.
“Kiss and make up?” she said in a broken voice.
I kissed her.
“I’m so very sorry, my dear. I was a complete and utter ass. I don’t know how to—”
“You do know how to, John. You reconcile in the most glorious manner imaginable.”
She held up her hands.
I inclined my head and accepted the compliment.
“I want to bring you somewhere that affords more privacy and freedom of movement, John.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“No,” she said, reading my thoughts, “Not my, uh, headquarters, not yet, but someplace just as safe and silent. It’s as silent as the grave.”
“Not a churchyard, I hope?” I asked, a bit anxious.
She hummed. “Almost. Living corpses.”
I frowned. Then I kissed her again. “I am sorry.”
“I know. I put you in all kinds of situations. You have the patience of a saint.”
“I’m not saint.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I laughed. “All right.” I let her lead me.
A sliver of moonlight shone on our joined hands.
“Oh, good,” I murmured, seeing that the elegant V M, hidden in the curling vines and jagged leaves, did sparkle, just as I’d envisioned.
Length: 500
Rating: Teen
Notes: DELETED SCENE from Hand in Glove [Explicit. Holmes-in-drag/Watson, PWP, 8k]. For the monthly prompt. Using Merriam-Webster's definition 2.2.1. to be reconciled.
Summary: After their row, Watson and Miss Mohels make up.
Good glovers will tell you that it takes three countries to produce the finest of their wares: Spain, to raise the kid; France, to cut the cloth; and England, to sew it.
In a day, when the mule-headed indignation had burnt off, the weight of just how much of an ass I’d been to Miss Mohels began to constrict my breathing. The urge to apologise arrived fast and strong. It was followed by the notion that, depending on how well or poorly the lady took care of herself in Edinburgh, I might not have the opportunity to apologise. I had no address by which to reach her. No way to correspond. I could only wait.
But I wasn’t going spend my days and nights pacing and wringing my hands. I set myself to a distracting programme, in between the patient rounds, of course: the fashioning of an apology in the medium that was our own.
First, I located the softest kidskin in the city and had it dyed to the most enchanting shade of violet. Then, I found a Gallic expatriate in the London cesspool who agreed to cut the material to my lady’s proportions, which, after many years of study, I knew far better than my own. Meanwhile, I exhausted myself at night with draft sketches of the embroidery, which were refined after consultation with a English sorceress of the needle, who agreed, with a touch of pitying amusement in her eyes, to do the stitching. Silver thread for m’lady’s quicksilver eyes. Gold for her resoluteness of heart. Pearls for those which adorned her neck and earlobes.
Mere hours after the final product was dispatched, she found me.
I said nothing, merely advanced upon her until her back was to the wall and we were both hidden in darkness.
I soon my lips hovered before hers.
“Kiss and make up?” she said in a broken voice.
I kissed her.
“I’m so very sorry, my dear. I was a complete and utter ass. I don’t know how to—”
“You do know how to, John. You reconcile in the most glorious manner imaginable.”
She held up her hands.
I inclined my head and accepted the compliment.
“I want to bring you somewhere that affords more privacy and freedom of movement, John.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“No,” she said, reading my thoughts, “Not my, uh, headquarters, not yet, but someplace just as safe and silent. It’s as silent as the grave.”
“Not a churchyard, I hope?” I asked, a bit anxious.
She hummed. “Almost. Living corpses.”
I frowned. Then I kissed her again. “I am sorry.”
“I know. I put you in all kinds of situations. You have the patience of a saint.”
“I’m not saint.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I laughed. “All right.” I let her lead me.
A sliver of moonlight shone on our joined hands.
“Oh, good,” I murmured, seeing that the elegant V M, hidden in the curling vines and jagged leaves, did sparkle, just as I’d envisioned.
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