holmes_minor | Fic: Hammam Bouquet: G (Reply)

Title: Hammam Bouquet
Rating: Gen
Length: 500
Content Notes: Angst; Holmes/Watson (pining); AU with regard to timeline, esp. Watson/Mary; Turkish bath; rum; tattoos; mention of morphine use; references to "A Scandal in Bohemia."
Summary: Watson contemplates a tattoo.
Author's Note: For the monthly prompt: spirit. Inspired by the

sherlock60 discussion post of two weeks ago about fragrance and the 1_million_words prompt: "There was frost on the carpet."

“Doctor Watson?”

I grunted.

“There’s a cab for you, should you wish to return to your lodgings.”

“Is there? Prescient sod.”

The first utterance was directed at the soft-spoken attendant, the second at the pair of mint sprigs at the bottom of my glass.
Green stems as muddled as I was.

“Very well.”

I slowly got to my feet, weighed more by the memory of my own foolishness than by the spirit flowing through my veins.

“Doctor, you forgot this.”

“Did I?”

Certain of the irony lost in my reply, I shoved the small roll of parchment under my arm and tottered toward the exit.

---

“You’ve been unfaithful, Watson. To your whiskey and your bath.”

I grunted.

“The distinctive blend of scents known as Hammam Bouquet on your clothes can only mean you’ve eschewed the Turkish bath on Northumberland Avenue for the one on Jermyn Street. And I’d be a poor detective if I couldn’t detect rum on the breath of a man who is as spirit-filled as the one before me.”

I scowled not at Holmes’s words, but rather at his waistcoat, which peeked out from a dark blue dressing gown.

If there was a waistcoat, there was a watch, and if there was a watch, there was a watch-chain, and if there was a watch-chain, there was a sovereign, and if there was a sovereign…

…well, there was a fool.

I hurled the parchment into the fire and growled “Go to hell,” then shuffled off to bed.

---

Breakfast was coffee for two.

“I threw that in the fire,” I said, glancing at the parchment stretched upon canvas.

“An unsuccessful attempt. It’s a beautiful rendering and an interesting choice of subject. Dragon.”

“New patient, had the most fabulous tattoo, covered his back. Said he had it done on Jermyn Street. So I went to see the artist. We chatted a bit and he drew that.” I sighed. “Needle pierces skin, I squeal like a lamb at slaughter. Couldn’t go through with it. I was a soldier, damn it!”

My fist hit the table.

“Watson.”

The word was as soft as crushed rose petals, but as Holmes reached for my hand, I glimpsed the sovereign.

Like a hanged man.

“Must ready myself. I’m to propose marriage to Miss Morstan today.”

“Watson.”

“I am not the man that I think I am.” I glanced at the sketch of the dragon. “And I will never be…”

The rest of my words—clever, charming, loved in the way that I love—drowned in a sip of coffee.

Cup met saucer, but just as I rose, morning light struck the gold disc and danced across the room, creating the illusion of a cascade of sparkling snow flurries.

“Enjoy your guinea—that is, your breakfast,” I mumbled, fleeing a heated, hunting and hungry, grey-eyed stare.

---

When next I met those grey eyes, they were shrouded in an opiate veil.

“She said ‘yes.’”

He looked through me, nodding.

“Is that why there’s frost on the rug?”