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gardnerhill.livejournal.com2018-01-07 10:20 am
Entry tags:
"Mark Me" (ACD, H/W, 221b), January 2018 Holmes Minor Monthly Prompt
Title: Mark Me
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 221b
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: Postulation in progress.
Summary: Holmes sees more than he bargained for, that first time.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor January 2018 prompt: Revelations.
***
When Watson removed his collar, the first thing I saw was a pale line across his clavicle. “A street fight when I first returned to London,” he said, shrugging. “One of them had a knife. I flattened all three – not wise to assail a former Fusilier, even an invalided one.”
Off came his shirt, and my first glimpse of a gruesome crater on the left shoulder disappearing under the vest; when that came off, the full extent of the damage lay before me. That he could use that arm at all – that he still retained that arm – was a miracle, I now realised in full.
And when he removed his trousers and lowered his drawers, it was not the heartbreakingly beautiful swell of his flawless arse that pierced my heart but the three deep, pale gouges in the back of his upper right thigh where a fragmenting bullet had struck him whilst he was slung over the horse his orderly led. “I was unconscious and being led to safety. This was not a combat injury but a bit of bad luck,” he insisted.
I welcomed him into my arms with all the eagerness I had first felt; but I hoped that he read in my kisses and touches not only my passion for his person but my gratitude for his bravery.
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 221b
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: Postulation in progress.
Summary: Holmes sees more than he bargained for, that first time.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor January 2018 prompt: Revelations.
***
When Watson removed his collar, the first thing I saw was a pale line across his clavicle. “A street fight when I first returned to London,” he said, shrugging. “One of them had a knife. I flattened all three – not wise to assail a former Fusilier, even an invalided one.”
Off came his shirt, and my first glimpse of a gruesome crater on the left shoulder disappearing under the vest; when that came off, the full extent of the damage lay before me. That he could use that arm at all – that he still retained that arm – was a miracle, I now realised in full.
And when he removed his trousers and lowered his drawers, it was not the heartbreakingly beautiful swell of his flawless arse that pierced my heart but the three deep, pale gouges in the back of his upper right thigh where a fragmenting bullet had struck him whilst he was slung over the horse his orderly led. “I was unconscious and being led to safety. This was not a combat injury but a bit of bad luck,” he insisted.
I welcomed him into my arms with all the eagerness I had first felt; but I hoped that he read in my kisses and touches not only my passion for his person but my gratitude for his bravery.