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holmes_minorTitle: Drinking Stars
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: WWI-Era Retirement ACD.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Word Count: 500
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: New Year's Eve 1918.
Author's Notes: Written for the December 2020 Watson's Woes prompt, "light." Day 31 of the WAdvent Calendar 2020. This story fits into the same series as my Holmes Minor 2020 stories about Watson returning to Sussex after the Great War.
December 31 was foggy and cold, and Sherlock Holmes blessed the weather; it would be too overcast for fireworks anywhere near their cottage. Watson had smiled when he'd been out with Holmes for their walk before supper, for he'd felt the close damp of the fog droplets. He didn't say anything but his relief was palpable. A soldier home from the front had no desire for loud booming noises in the sky.
Poignance was mixed with relief and gratitude for both men at this milestone, so close behind the end of the war. In a few weeks it would be a full year since John had lost his sight to a phosphorous bomb at the front. He'd accepted his blindness for the most part, rapidly learning to write in the raised Braille type and relearning household duties that did not rely on eyesight. But his shell-shock could and did catch him unawares (so far the only casualty was the model ship he'd built in the 1880s that he'd pummeled to splinters one day). They had therefore declined Harold Stackhurst's party invitation in favour of a quiet night at home.
Dinner was lamb stew, which they had made together (Sherlock biting his lips to stay silent while John had methodically chopped the meat and sliced the vegetables); the meal ended with honey cake, a joint creation that had improved much from their first attempt in August. After supper the gramophone had supplied music for dancing (Sherlock leading, as always, around a parlour whose dimensions John now knew by sound and touch).
Watson yawned fiercely when they sat on the sofa to rest after their exertions. "I shan't stay awake till midnight, dear."
"Nor I." Holmes took deep breaths, well-warmed from the waltzes and tangos. "We're neither of us young. And it's a good deal harder to stay up all night without cocaine."
John laughed and patted his husband's pot-belly. "You've traded that for this. A wise bargain."
"Then let us greet 1919 now." Holmes kissed his spouse. "We can retire after one more formality." He rose and went to the back door. The creak of the outer shed door. Why was he there? It was bitterly cold out now and … Ah. A clinking sound. There was no room in their icebox.
More clinking as his spouse returned. "I am sure there is at least one thing about France that you will not mind having here tonight."
Watson grinned. "Not in the least." He took the offered glass and did not react to the pop of the Champagne cork. He smelled the effervescence and heard the sparkling beverage flowing into their glasses. "What did the monk Dom Perignon say when he discovered this wine?"
"'I'm drinking stars.'" Clink. "Happy New Year, darling."
"And may the next year be better than the last."
He could feel the light inside him. Laughing, he stroked his husband's bristly cheek. "Bring the bottle upstairs, Sherlock. You've made me taste stars. Now make me feel stars."
Author: gardnerhill
Fandom: WWI-Era Retirement ACD.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Word Count: 500
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: New Year's Eve 1918.
Author's Notes: Written for the December 2020 Watson's Woes prompt, "light." Day 31 of the WAdvent Calendar 2020. This story fits into the same series as my Holmes Minor 2020 stories about Watson returning to Sussex after the Great War.
December 31 was foggy and cold, and Sherlock Holmes blessed the weather; it would be too overcast for fireworks anywhere near their cottage. Watson had smiled when he'd been out with Holmes for their walk before supper, for he'd felt the close damp of the fog droplets. He didn't say anything but his relief was palpable. A soldier home from the front had no desire for loud booming noises in the sky.
Poignance was mixed with relief and gratitude for both men at this milestone, so close behind the end of the war. In a few weeks it would be a full year since John had lost his sight to a phosphorous bomb at the front. He'd accepted his blindness for the most part, rapidly learning to write in the raised Braille type and relearning household duties that did not rely on eyesight. But his shell-shock could and did catch him unawares (so far the only casualty was the model ship he'd built in the 1880s that he'd pummeled to splinters one day). They had therefore declined Harold Stackhurst's party invitation in favour of a quiet night at home.
Dinner was lamb stew, which they had made together (Sherlock biting his lips to stay silent while John had methodically chopped the meat and sliced the vegetables); the meal ended with honey cake, a joint creation that had improved much from their first attempt in August. After supper the gramophone had supplied music for dancing (Sherlock leading, as always, around a parlour whose dimensions John now knew by sound and touch).
Watson yawned fiercely when they sat on the sofa to rest after their exertions. "I shan't stay awake till midnight, dear."
"Nor I." Holmes took deep breaths, well-warmed from the waltzes and tangos. "We're neither of us young. And it's a good deal harder to stay up all night without cocaine."
John laughed and patted his husband's pot-belly. "You've traded that for this. A wise bargain."
"Then let us greet 1919 now." Holmes kissed his spouse. "We can retire after one more formality." He rose and went to the back door. The creak of the outer shed door. Why was he there? It was bitterly cold out now and … Ah. A clinking sound. There was no room in their icebox.
More clinking as his spouse returned. "I am sure there is at least one thing about France that you will not mind having here tonight."
Watson grinned. "Not in the least." He took the offered glass and did not react to the pop of the Champagne cork. He smelled the effervescence and heard the sparkling beverage flowing into their glasses. "What did the monk Dom Perignon say when he discovered this wine?"
"'I'm drinking stars.'" Clink. "Happy New Year, darling."
"And may the next year be better than the last."
He could feel the light inside him. Laughing, he stroked his husband's bristly cheek. "Bring the bottle upstairs, Sherlock. You've made me taste stars. Now make me feel stars."
