Fic: Bed: PG
Jun. 13th, 2016 11:23 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
okapi1895.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmes_minorTitle: Bed
Rating: PG
Length: 500
Content Notes: POV Holmes; Holmes/Watson (one-sided); Watson/Man at the Turkish bath (implied); pining!Holmes
Summary: Holmes is uncomfortable in the bed he makes for himself.
Author's Note: For the June prompt: beds
I fold the newspaper with feigned inattention.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, Doctor Watson!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes.”
“You’re not slept well, Doctor. I shall have the mattresses turned at once. They’re overdue.”
“I fear it’s not the bed, but the bedded, my dear woman, that’s at fault.”
The cold and damp—Mrs. Hudson is correct; both are, in fact, unseasonable—have crept into your joints, inflaming old wounds. Pain has darkened your mood as well, pawky humour being the first casualty.
Two observations and one discreet inquiry at a tobacconist have revealed that your usual remedy is not available: the Turkish bath that you were accustomed to visit is closed for repairs. You are a man of habit. Rather than seek out a new establishment, you go without. And suffer.
I glance at the black-and-white print, then let it fall to the table.
“Are you finished, Holmes?”
I grunt. You hum. Mrs. Hudson prattles.
Your eye catches what it is meant to catch.
Good.
I am not surprised when some time later you ask, “Anything on today?”
“No. A bit of study.” I wave toward a pile of manuscript spilling onto the floor.
You nod.
A fishing metaphor crosses my mind. I dismiss it.
---
“Good evening, one and all!” you boom.
I grunt.
I catch your reflection in something shiny. It grows larger.
You slump into your chair, sighing, smiling. “So, how’s the study?”
“Excellent,” I reply.
You are the picture of a man at home in his physical form.
No aches, no pains.
You are the portrait of a man satisfied.
Oh.
“I, uh, tried that new place on Northumberland Avenue. The Turkish bath. It’s very good,” you say.
I grunt. My gaze falls to your boots, your boot laces, and the elaborate knots that will cause you no little trouble later in their undoing.
Undoing. Unknotting you. And not just the heat, my dear man.
Hands. Fingers, too, yes. More? I do not know.
How close were your bodies? Could you breathe in his breath or did the steam hide the panting?
Did your hands, fingers move or merely revel in the movement of his?
What sounds escaped your parted lips?
Where did your mind wander?
I do not know.
My own wanderings, however, threaten to betray me so I rise in a flurry, take a curt, but not unusual given my eccentricities, leave, and flee to my bed chamber.
I am not alone.
“What are you doing?!” I growl.
“I’m making the bed that you’re to lie in,” she says cheerily. “So much better when I do it, than when you do it yourself.”
Her words pierce my thoughts—thoughts of moist heat and sweat-damp skin and guttural cries and those damnable knots—like an arrow.
I bark.
She blinks.
“I said, ‘It’s always just a bit nicer when I make the bed, though dear Bessie does her best.’ Sleep well, Mister Holmes.”
She pats me on the arm as she leaves.
Rating: PG
Length: 500
Content Notes: POV Holmes; Holmes/Watson (one-sided); Watson/Man at the Turkish bath (implied); pining!Holmes
Summary: Holmes is uncomfortable in the bed he makes for himself.
Author's Note: For the June prompt: beds
I fold the newspaper with feigned inattention.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, Doctor Watson!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Holmes.”
“You’re not slept well, Doctor. I shall have the mattresses turned at once. They’re overdue.”
“I fear it’s not the bed, but the bedded, my dear woman, that’s at fault.”
The cold and damp—Mrs. Hudson is correct; both are, in fact, unseasonable—have crept into your joints, inflaming old wounds. Pain has darkened your mood as well, pawky humour being the first casualty.
Two observations and one discreet inquiry at a tobacconist have revealed that your usual remedy is not available: the Turkish bath that you were accustomed to visit is closed for repairs. You are a man of habit. Rather than seek out a new establishment, you go without. And suffer.
I glance at the black-and-white print, then let it fall to the table.
“Are you finished, Holmes?”
I grunt. You hum. Mrs. Hudson prattles.
Your eye catches what it is meant to catch.
Good.
I am not surprised when some time later you ask, “Anything on today?”
“No. A bit of study.” I wave toward a pile of manuscript spilling onto the floor.
You nod.
A fishing metaphor crosses my mind. I dismiss it.
---
“Good evening, one and all!” you boom.
I grunt.
I catch your reflection in something shiny. It grows larger.
You slump into your chair, sighing, smiling. “So, how’s the study?”
“Excellent,” I reply.
You are the picture of a man at home in his physical form.
No aches, no pains.
You are the portrait of a man satisfied.
Oh.
“I, uh, tried that new place on Northumberland Avenue. The Turkish bath. It’s very good,” you say.
I grunt. My gaze falls to your boots, your boot laces, and the elaborate knots that will cause you no little trouble later in their undoing.
Undoing. Unknotting you. And not just the heat, my dear man.
Hands. Fingers, too, yes. More? I do not know.
How close were your bodies? Could you breathe in his breath or did the steam hide the panting?
Did your hands, fingers move or merely revel in the movement of his?
What sounds escaped your parted lips?
Where did your mind wander?
I do not know.
My own wanderings, however, threaten to betray me so I rise in a flurry, take a curt, but not unusual given my eccentricities, leave, and flee to my bed chamber.
I am not alone.
“What are you doing?!” I growl.
“I’m making the bed that you’re to lie in,” she says cheerily. “So much better when I do it, than when you do it yourself.”
Her words pierce my thoughts—thoughts of moist heat and sweat-damp skin and guttural cries and those damnable knots—like an arrow.
I bark.
She blinks.
“I said, ‘It’s always just a bit nicer when I make the bed, though dear Bessie does her best.’ Sleep well, Mister Holmes.”
She pats me on the arm as she leaves.
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no subject
Date: 2016-06-14 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-14 11:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-14 06:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-14 11:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-14 09:27 pm (UTC)I really like the final scene when Holmes' preoccupation means he mishears Mrs. Hudson - attributing his own negative thoughts to her.
no subject
Date: 2016-06-15 01:32 am (UTC)And there was a line I deleted that would have made the ending more ambiguous. Did Mrs. Hudson know what Holmes was up to and was she chastising him for getting caught in a muddle of his own making or was it as you say. I didn't know how much to put her in things.
no subject
Date: 2016-06-18 06:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-18 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-06-18 06:55 pm (UTC)I am fine thanks, just hit a bit of a brick wall regarding writing at the moment:-p