sherlocktember2024

[sherlocktember2024]

Interest check!

So December was such a great time to see everyone participate, so I just want to check if anyone wants to do anything for February? Specifically, to celebrate the ships in the different adaptions and canon?

[sherlocktember2024]

@goodassmotherliker yes absolutely you can! All the prompts are good for all year round!

[sherlocktember2024]

HAPPY NEW YEAR DEARIES! ☆♡

Aaaaa! We've got a brand new year 2025 on our hands! So much experiences to gain and aventures to go on! I wish you all the best of things <3

Thank you for the last one while I'm on it! You all are so wonderful, never forget. Also thanks @sherlocktember2024 for the prompts for last month, it was so fun doing them even if I didn't manage to complete it.

Sending all my love!! <3<3

@totallysilvergirl @helloliriels @dontfuckmylifewtf @sussexinchelsea @loki-lock @topsyturvy-turtely @matixsstuff @ohlooktheresabee @boredsushi @ohmrshudsontookmyskull @nathan-no @astudyin221b @oetkb12 @psychosociogentleman @darkkitty1208 @zira-and-crowley @beesholmes @mydogwatson @liv-olive-oliver @tiverrr @peanitbear @sunshineinyourmind @a-victorian-girl @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @weeesi @strawberrywinter4 @iheardyou @unusuallysubtext @bumblee27 @calaisreno

(Any changes to the taglist, just tell me! <3)

[sherlocktember2024]

With a Bang

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "new year"

“But sir, it’s almost dinner time!” Mrs. Hudson protested. “And I’ve got a nice goose in the oven.”

“Another goose already? Dear me.” Holmes was admittedly fond of goose, but he would be expected to eat an actual meal if Mrs. Hudson had made something special to celebrate New Years. “It is not myself who is to blame for our absconding from dinner. The responsibility rests with Watson, who is insisting on this absurd concept of an evening ramble about London.”

Holmes returned to selecting which scarf to wear, and smiled as Mrs. Hudson turned a betrayed look on Watson. “Doctor! I have enough trouble getting Mr. Holmes to eat without you encouraging him to skip meals. Why didn’t you take him for a walk earlier?”

“He refused to go anywhere earlier!” Watson, already bundled up, was waiting in the doorway. “I should have preferred to take him for a walk after lunch, but he was preoccupied with changing his violin strings.”

“I am not a dog who must be taken for walks,” Holmes called, selecting his usual thick black scarf. He would need it on such a frozen evening. “I for one am perfectly happy to remain inside and enjoy Mrs. Hudson’s goose.”

“You haven’t been out of these rooms in days, old man.” Apparently not cowed by Mrs. Hudson’s look of admonishment, Watson brought Holmes’ coat into the bedroom and helped him into it. “Not since you solved that last case.”

“I have been taking a holiday. It is the time of year for it.”

“You have been sulking because there have not been any more interesting murders involving body parts turning up at Christmas parties.”

“That would be somewhat of a novelty if there were, as we are now past Christmas and there are no more Christmas parties at present.”

Although he could not deny that such an incident would have brightened these past days. There had been no interesting crime whatsoever, as if all London had decided to indulge in a little peace on Earth. It was indescribably dull.

“Well, I insist that you take at least a short walk,” Watson said with all his customary stubbornness. “Your health has not been at its best for some time—”

“Which is why you propose to freeze me to death?”

“—and it’s important that you get some exercise.” Gently, Watson took his arm. “And I will be better for it too. Neither of us are young anymore.”

Holmes sighed, capitulating, and gave Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look. “Very well, Watson. Mrs. Hudson, we shall only be enduring the boredom of a walk for some little time. You attend to your goose.”

She still did not look at all approving. “Very well, sir. And I suppose you’ll be wanting some hot drinks once you return, to warm up.”

Watson perked up. “A hot chocolate would be most agreeable, Mrs. Hudson.”

Holmes rolled his eyes. Watson’s enthusiasm for food and drink never failed to amaze him.

They went downstairs, and outside. The glow of the lamplight was certainly warm, but nothing else was. Indeed, it was a miserably cold night, with howling wind blasting between buildings.

“That’s a bit bracing,” Watson said in a voice that made it plain he was startled by the cold, but attempting to conceal his reaction. No doubt he did not wish Holmes to quite reasonably retreat from this absurd walk. “What a clear night, Holmes.”

“Yes, clearly too cold for a walk.” Shivering, Holmes hunched his shoulders and watched the rapidly scuttling passersby. “This is a horrible idea, Watson!”

“It is not my fault you refused to leave earlier.”

“I was thoroughly occupied. Changing violin strings is a delicate operation, and one that cannot be interrupted for something as commonplace as a walk.” Holmes flashed a quick smile at Watson’s unimpressed expression. “And then it was of course necessary that I should play for the remainder of the afternoon in order to test the new—”

Someone moved towards them out of the crowd, a subtle motion that nevertheless caught Holmes’ attention. He twisted towards it, and was greeted by a gun leveled at his head.

“Holmes!”

Holmes was indeed not as young as he’d once been, but he could still move quickly, especially if Watson was in danger. He lashed out with his cane, slamming it against the gunman’s forearm.

The explosive noise of the gun so near his head left his ears ringing, and pain seared along his cheek, but his head was still intact. He blinked away tears of pain and readied his cane for another attack.

At once, the assassin dropped his gun and drew a long knife. Holmes blocked the rapid slash, although not as accurately as he would have liked. Pain sliced across the back of his fingers.

He shifted his stance, tracking the blade as it swung back up. And then, quite suddenly, the blade swung in entirely a different direction, flinging off wildly down the street as Watson tackled the assassin.

“Watson!” Throwing his cane to his other hand, Holmes bent and snatched up the gun. “Stand aside, my good man. It’s all right.”

Watson, instead of standing aside, delivered a series of quick, somewhat excessively violent punches to the assassin’s face. He did not seem to hear the admonition.

Although he was out of breath and unsteady enough to have need of his cane, Holmes hooked it across his gun arm and gently touched Watson’s shoulder. “Watson. John.”

Watson startled and froze, one hand on the assassin’s chest holding him down, other arm cocked back for the next punch. He looked up at Holmes with wild eyes. “Holmes—”

“All right, Watson. You have done an excellent job incapacitating him.” Holmes flashed a reassuring smile and patted Watson on the shoulder again. “Well done. As he appears to be unconscious, you may stop beating him now.”

Watson looked down at the man with some little confusion, then shoved back to his feet. He was trembling, and looked almost on the verge of tears. “Holmes, he just tried to kill you.”

“He did, yes. You were quite right that we should go for a walk! Most invigorating.”

“Assassination attempts are not invigorating. You could have been killed.” Hand shaking, Watson wiped his eyes. Then he glanced across Holmes and stiffened. “You’re bleeding. Do you have any other wounds?”

Hot blood ran down Holmes’ cheek, rapidly cooling as it soaked into his scarf. His slashed hand dripped blood to the pavement. He quickly indicated the two wounds. “Only what you see. I’m all right, Watson.”

“Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!” Gasping, Mrs. Hudson ran outside. She glanced between them and the downed assassin. “Oh dear, oh dear, what’s happened?”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson.” Holmes turned his reassuring smile to her. “Nothing to signify. Just the first assassination attempt of the new year.”

“Oh, sir, you’re bleeding!”

“So I have been told.” Suppressing a wince, he passed the gun to Watson, then took the gunman’s original position and extended one hand. He adjusted it, swinging to the side to account for his own blow, and then followed the trajectory of the shot to the bullet hole. “Dear me, he’s shot our door! My apologies, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Holmes, we must get you inside.” Watson waved down the constable who was running up, apparently having heard the gunshot. “That wound on your cheek will need stitches.”

“Then you now agree with my earlier assertion that talking a walk tonight is a horrible idea?”

Watson gave him an exasperated look, then sighed and nodded. “Yes, all right. I will agree if it means you will allow me to treat you.”

“Excellent.” Dizzy, Holmes leaned on his cane and tried to catch his breath while Watson spoke with the constable. The wind still shrieked between the buildings, relentless. “Even without assassination attempts, it really is a horrible night to be outside. Mrs. Hudson, would you be so good as to make the doctor’s requested hot chocolate?”

Although she still looked quite distressed, she bustled inside. Soon, he and Watson followed.

Holmes eyed the stairs, displeased at the need to ascend. This was no longer as easy as it had once been, his body worn down by a lifetime of hard use. But he proceeded without hesitation, not giving Watson any chance to worry.

Watson was worrying enough. He escorted Holmes to the settee, retrieved his doctor’s bag, and quickly tied a pressure bandage around Holmes’ bleeding hand. Then he sat as well, holding a linen compress to the cheek wound.

Holmes winced, then put on another calm smile. “Well, well, Watson. We certainly are starting the new year with a bang, are we not?”

“Holmes…” Watson drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “You do not need to make light of nearly being murdered.”

“Nonsense. If I wasted time being upset on every occasion that someone attempted to murder me, I should never have time to get anything done.”

“You will not be able to get anything done if you are shot in the head. Or poisoned. Or thrown to your death.” Expression tense, Watson merely gazed at him for a moment. “I am tired of nearly losing you, Sherlock.”

“It is a mere little scratch, my dear fellow.” Closing his eyes, Holmes leaned into the hand against his cheek. “I fear that the occasional violent incident is merely a fact of life in my line of work.”

“You enjoy it a little too much.” But Watson’s voice was no longer so burdened, and he patted Holmes on the arm. “You reacted very quickly.”

“As did you. We are not so old, hmm?”

“No, I suppose not.”

It was difficult to remain still for long enough for Watson to stop the bleeding, and even more irritating to need to remain still even longer in order to be stitched up. At least the stitches meant that Watson gave him a small dose of morphine, and Holmes sank into the familiar haze that he still sometimes missed.

He roused himself somewhat as Watson was bandaging his hand, though. “Ah, Watson. Here is Mrs. Hudson with dinner and your hot chocolate. How is the goose, my dear?”

“Ready for you two to have dinner. I’ll set everything out for you.” She proceeded to do so, then came over and patted Holmes on the shoulder. “I think I’m going to treat myself to a brandy.”

“An excellent idea, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson said as he secured the bandage. “I think we all ought to have one.”

“I quite agree.” Holmes gave a brisk nod, then winced at the throbbing in his cheek. That would be most distracting. “Would you care to join us for dinner? I see little point in you eating alone downstairs.”

“Oh! I’d be glad of the company.” With a teary smile, she patted Holmes on the shoulder once more. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

He flashed a quick smile in response. Watson waited until she was out of the room, then said, “Why do I suspect that invitation is primarily because you want to be sure she is not downstairs alone in case of further violence?”

“It is better to be cautious.” With Watson’s help, Holmes rose. He winced, sore everywhere. Watson had eased him out of his bloody scarf and coat earlier, and so he merely had to pull on his dressing gown before turning to the next matter. “Are you all right, Watson?”

“I… I feel a little guilty.” A shiver rippled through Watson. “Had I not insisted on the walk…”

“Now now, I will not hear such nonsense. An assassin would not have been deterred by our skipping a walk. Far better to be done with the attempt now, so we might enjoy ourselves.” Gently, Holmes drew Watson into an embrace. “It’s all right.”

Watson gave another long, shaky breath and relaxed in his arms. For a time, they merely held each other, and took comfort in the closeness.

Once comfort turned to overstimulation, Holmes drew back and twitched a smile at his friend. “There is one small matter I must attend to before we dine.”

Watson glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who had just come back with brandy. “We’re supposed to be sitting down to eat.”

“I shall, presently.” Holmes snatched up a blank piece of paper and went to the mantelpiece. He took down the old paper and waved it. “Last year’s assassination attempts, a grand total of three. It is time to start the tally for the new year!”

“Oh, sir!” Mrs. Hudson cried.

“Holmes, that is grotesque.”

“Well, well. One must find entertainment and stimulation where one can, and it so happens that I quite enjoy tallying things.” Holmes quickly labeled the new paper with the year and what was being tracked, and then added the first tally mark.

He set the tally of assassination attempts in a prominent place on the mantel, touched a finger to his lips, and merely admired his work for a moment. Then, smiling at the mildly appalled and yet fond looks on Watson and Mrs. Hudson’s faces, he joined them at the table.

Many men had tried to kill him, and yet here he was. Still working, enjoying time with his friends, and celebrating a new year at Baker Street.

[sherlocktember2024]

Day 31: New Year

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[sherlocktember2024]

A Certain Vigilance

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "scare"

Watson smiled down at the telegram that had just been delivered. It was just the sort of thing that would cheer Holmes up. He’d been so glum for the past week without any cases, and a nice, complicated burglary was just what he needed.

When Watson clambered up to the sitting room, though, Holmes was asleep on the settee. Solidly asleep, too, with a book on his chest that moved gently up and down with each deep breath. Holmes was eternally sleep-deprived, and could certainly use the rest.

But he would want to be awakened. Watson was as sure of that now as he would have been three years ago, before Holmes vanished.

The thought of that made Watson’s stomach twist, and for a moment he simply stood and gazed down at his dearest friend. What a wonder and a joy it was to have him alive and safe.

Alive, safe, and no doubt eager for a new case. Reluctant, Watson touched his upper arm and gave him a gentle shake. “Holmes.”

He had expected a sharp, irritated retort. That had always been Holmes’ custom when bothered during sleep.

Watson had not, however, expected Holmes to start screaming.

The sudden cries were enough to make him jump too, and he almost slipped on a stack of books. He righted himself, gasped at the pain in his leg, and then reached out again. “Holmes!”

Holmes gave another cry, flinching away from him, arms coming up to shield his face. He thrashed wildly, arms flailing. Or perhaps he was attempting to fight off unknown attackers.

“Holmes, my God!” Stricken, Watson dropped to his knees beside the settee. He almost tried to catch Holmes’ arms again, and then thought better of it. Instead, he caught the book that was sliding off Holmes’ chest and set it aside. “Can you hear me? Holmes, it’s me, it’s Watson.”

The flailing stopped almost at once, although Holmes kept his shaking hands up. His wide eyes roved, sliding across Watson without focusing. “Watson? Watson?”

The terrified quaver in his voice pierced through Watson, leaving him breathless. He risked reaching out again, this time laying a hand on the side of Holmes’ head. The touch drew another sharp flinch, but no screaming. “I’m right here, old man. Can you hear me?”

Holmes twisted, hyperventilating, and clutched Watson’s sleeve. “Where am I? Watson, where am I?”

“You’re in Baker Street, in our sitting room.” It took all of Watson’s control to keep himself calm, to maintain a steady voice. It was one thing to see an ordinary patient in such distress, but Holmes? “Gently, Holmes, gently. Can you try to look at me?”

He hadn’t been certain whether that was the right thing to ask, as Holmes had always been a bit odd with eye contact. But Holmes looked at him, and this time his teary eyes focused. “Watson.”

“That’s right, yes. We are in our sitting room at Baker Street.” Watson blinked away his own tears, and carefully rested his other hand on the quivering muscles of Holmes’ forearm. “You must try to calm yourself. Breathe deeply.”

“I cannot.” With a wheezing breath, Holmes twisted again. He looked around as if not believing that the sitting room was real. “Watson—John—am I home? Truly home?”

“You’re truly home, and in no danger.”

“I feel as if I am in danger.” Holmes tried again to catch his breath, and subsided into gasping. “I can’t… I… I am still…”

He tensed, gritting his teeth hard as tremors shuddered through him. Sweat broke out across his face, and his eyes began to lose focus again. He looked at Watson with something like desperation.

“Easy, shh. I’m sorry, old man. This is my fault,” Watson murmured, still carefully holding onto him. “I awoke you and caused this panic. I did not mean to scare you.”

“Scare me? No, it is… it is not your fault.” His face flushed and glistening with sweat, Holmes hugged his arms against his chest. He was still shaking convulsively, breaths quick and shivery. “It is… For so very long, Watson, I was…”

His voice cracked, and he made a noise that was nearly a sob. At once, he ground his teeth in the same way that he might when making a mistake on the violin. Angry with himself for the lapse.

“It’s all right, Holmes.” Swallowing hard, Watson stroked the dark, sweat-damp hair. He did it again, and his own hand began to shake. “I know you were alone and in danger, for a very long time. You must have constantly been afraid that someone would attack while you were asleep.”

Holmes’ eyes darted to him, lips twitching in a small, failed smile. “You are perceptive as ever, Watson.”

“Hardly that, or I would have thought of it before waking you.” The failure was even worse given that Watson himself was often jumpy when first awakened, and Holmes always took care not to startle him. “Would an embrace help at all?”

Holmes hesitated, still trembling badly. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he swallowed hard. “Perhaps. A very careful one. I still dream of Moriarty’s arms around me, dragging me towards that abyss.”

“He is gone, Holmes. He cannot hurt you.”

“Still. Please, Watson.”

“Of course I shall be careful.” Slowly, Watson leaned down. He slid one hand behind Holmes’ head, cradling the back of his neck, and laid their cheeks together. “It’s all right, old man. It’s only me.”

Holmes sobbed, and Watson nearly jerked away for fear of hurting him. But Holmes clutched at him, fingers twisting on his jacket, face pressing into Watson’s shoulder. “Watson.”

“I’m here, Holmes. I’m here.”

More low sobs followed. Watson felt rather than heard them, the convulsive heaving of Holmes’ chest. But the sobs died down quickly, and Holmes began to breathe more easily. He nuzzled into Watson’s neck, letting out a long sigh. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Watson stayed in place, not daring to move. Holmes was still trembling, and had not remotely loosened his grip. “It’s all right now. You are not in any danger.”

“I am aware of that.” The edge in Holmes’ voice did not counteract the quaver. “Oh, Watson. Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“My extreme overreaction to your no doubt gentle awakening. I really am very sorry.”

“You do not need to be sorry, Holmes. Please don’t be sorry.” Watson forced himself to relax, to take deep breaths of his own. He felt as if he needed a drink, but not yet. “I cannot imagine how terrifying it must have been to be alone for so long. To have constantly been in fear of being attacked every time you closed your eyes.”

“Yes, it was a little taxing.” Still shaking, Holmes released Watson’s coat and flicked a hand, dismissing him. Watson obliged and straightened. “I did not sleep very well for those years, I fear, but continual expectation of being murdered in my sleep was entirely my own doing. I am the one who chose to disappear alone, after all.”

“It was necessary, old man. I understand that it was necessary.” Gently, Watson smoothed limp hair off Holmes’ brow. “But you are home now, and you are not alone. I will not let anyone murder you in your sleep.”

“A charming sentiment, Watson, but you cannot watch over me at all hours.”

“I would,” Watson said stubbornly. “If you wish it, I will sleep outside your door like the most faithful and vigilant hound. Anything so that you might feel safe again.”

Emotion wrenched at Holmes’ expression, in the form of a trembling lip and a glint of tears. He flashed a smile and patted Watson’s arm. “Good old Watson. But I would not subject you to such extremes. I am certain that the worry will fade in time.”

“I would gladly do it.”

“I know, but I would not ask such a thing of you.”

Privately, Watson resolved to perhaps sleep on the settee for a time anyway. If Holmes was dreaming of Moriarty, he wished to be close at hand if needed. “Would you like a brandy, old man? I think I could use one.”

Holmes nodded and let out a long breath. Hand still trembling, he reached up and raked his hair back. “I think a brandy is certainly called for, if you agree. And perhaps my pipe.”

“Brandy is medicinal.”

“So is my pipe.” With a shiver, Holmes snatched it up. He fumbled with the matchbox, but managed to strike a match, and then sat puffing away at his pipe with extreme focus.

It would be necessary to give him the telegram soon, but not until he was calmer. Watson would not send him out into the street so soon after such intense distress. They both needed to calm first.

He sat beside Holmes on the settee, and together they drank their brandy. Holmes was looking more himself now, although he glanced around somewhat anxiously from time to time. No doubt he was still haunted by that sudden fright.

“I really am sorry that I scared you,” Watson finally said, setting down his glass. “Was there a better way that I might have awakened you?”

Holmes gave him a brief smile. “I fear not. I have been waking somewhat disoriented at all times, Watson. It is not entirely pleasant.”

“No, I don’t imagine that it is.” And likely nothing would help with that but time.

“I am, however, quite recovered now.” Sitting back, Holmes steepled his fingers and closed his eyes. “You may read me the telegram that was no doubt your reason for waking me.”

Astonished, Watson gaped at him. “How on Earth did you know that?”

“My dear fellow, you must attend to the details of life.” Holmes opened his eyes for just long enough to give him an affectionate, teasing glance. “The telegram is sticking out of your coat.”

Watson glanced down at the paper peeking out from where he’d hurriedly stashed it. He could not help chuckling. “Well spotted, Holmes.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

For another long moment, Watson savored the familiar sight of Holmes waiting for the details of a case. The plan to cheer him up with the newly arrived telegram had certainly not gone as expected, but there was still hope. They were together again, after all, and investigating a case side by side would be healing for them both.

[sherlocktember2024]

Day 30: Scare

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[sherlocktember2024]

So I built a Sherlock Holmes name generator from every first and last name in canon. Check it out here and drop your new name in the tags!

[sherlocktember2024]

And Sit Quietly

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "Baker Street"

Holmes always found himself conflicted upon returning home after a case. The immediate decline into melancholy upon completion of his work always troubled him. The mental exhalation of a success could only last so long, often plummeting even before his cab turned onto Baker Street.

Melancholy had indeed struck early on this particular occasion, and yet the final turn onto Baker Street further depressed his mood. He had no idea when he might leave again, when he might next uncover something of interest. Very likely he would spend days or even weeks stagnating at Baker Street, his mind desiccated by the arid stretch between cases.

“You were splendid today, Holmes,” Watson said with his usual earnestness and enthusiasm. “I think you impressed Lestrade considerably. He’ll think twice before gloating so much, eh?”

“Perhaps.” Holmes rolled his cane from hand to hand, staring glumly at the passersby. They all looked full of energy, as if marching to some true purpose. “At least we have saved our poor client from being hanged. I consider that much a success, although I ought to have realized the full situation somewhat sooner. It should have been immediately clear that there was a hiding place in the house.”

“Well, I think you did marvelously, my dear chap.” Watson gently rested a hand on his arm, and Holmes twitched a quick smile in response. “I am so very proud of you. I hope you won’t be too miserable now that the case is over.”

He was already exceedingly miserable. “Well, well. We shall see.”

“And I hope I can persuade you to eat something.” Now Watson gave him an anxious look. “You don’t look well, Holmes. I know you drank your tea this morning, at least, but when was the last time you ate?”

Holmes considered it. “I have been a little busy, my dear Watson. But I shall endeavor to at least nibble on something for your sake.”

Watson’s shoulders relaxed, and he let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you. I should not like you to faint from inanition again so soon.”

“It has been a month since I last fainted, Watson.”

“And today would be too soon.”

Holmes could not entirely argue that point. Eating was often difficult for him, and when he was on an intense case he could not afford it at all. He found eating unpleasant, but fainting even more so. Unconsciousness was so very, very dull.

Once they left the cab for the warmth and security of 221B, Holmes embraced the array of feelings that often conflicted with his melancholy after a case. He disliked being without work, yes, and yet it was a great relief to sink into the comfort of familiar surroundings.

As they stepped into the sitting room, the turmoil of his heart quieted, and his breaths grew easier. Here, he had his books, his violin, his collection of pipes. Although he would not yet have the chance to indulge in any of them, their mere presence soothed him.

“Here, my dear fellow. You change into your dressing gown.” Without waiting for a reply, Watson began gently extracting him from his coat. “And then you ought to sit down at the table, and don’t start smoking your pipe. We’re back just in time for dinner.”

Holmes pursed his lips and directed a glare towards his companion. “Thank you, Watson. I am aware of that.”

Watson smiled fondly at the irritable reply, then eased him into his dressing gown. “I’ll be right back. Let me go fetch my own.”

He limped slightly on his way up the stairs, but did not seem to be in overmuch pain. Reassured that rescue would be unnecessary, Holmes sat at the table. Once there, he took out his cigarette case and smiled to himself.

Holmes puffed away in comfortable silence, soothed by the tobacco. Inside, he was at least somewhat isolated from the noise of the streets. The lights, too, were a comfortable level. The fireplace blazed away, banishing the evening chill.

He was, admittedly, a little dizzy from his failure to eat. But as Watson was indeed correct that they were just in time for dinner, that would soon be remedied.

Watson came downstairs and back into the sitting room, beaming as usual. He paused, staring at the cigarette in Holmes’ hand, and then shook his head with a laugh. “Holmes!”

“You did not forbid cigarettes, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, smiling at Watson’s fondly exasperated expression. He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out. “Merely my pipe.”

“Well, all right. So long as you still eat dinner.”

“I certainly shall,” Holmes said, lighting a second cigarette merely to make Watson laugh again. Time between cases could be dull, yes, but in truth it was good to be home.

[sherlocktember2024]

Day 29: Baker Street

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[sherlocktember2024]

Reciprocity

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "cold"

“Really, old man, I’ll be all right.” Watson sneezed again, which didn’t help the look of near-panic on Holmes’ face. “It’s nothing, just a cold.”

“You have sneezed sixteen times in the last five minutes, and with considerable force,” Holmes said, hovering by the bedside and rubbing his hands together compulsively. “I hardly call that nothing. Shall I fetch a doctor?”

“I am a doctor.”

“A very sick doctor.”

“I am certainly not very sick, only a little sick.” Sick enough that he did not have the energy to get out of bed at the moment, but even so. “I do not need another doctor to attend to me.”

“Very well. Then I see I shall have to take matters into my own hands.” Holmes twisted around and swept out of the room. “Mrs. Hudson!”

Watson winced at the volume of the yell, which made his head ache. Of course, his head already ached, congested as it was. He’d felt a bit run down before bed, but had hoped it was just his ordinary fatigue after a long stretch of being particularly busy.

It seemed that wasn’t the case, however. He’d awakened today feeling even worse, his head stuffed up, his throat aching, and a deep exhaustion blanketing him. He might be running a slightly fever, too.

All in all, he felt terrible. He had little desire to do anything other than sleep, but the sneezing was making that difficult. It was the sneezing that had alerted and alarmed Holmes, too, and which meant that Mrs. Hudson was likely being jostled out of bed at a far too early hour in order to care for him.

When Holmes flung back into the room, Watson tried to give him a stern look. “You should not ask Mrs. Hudson to care for me. I am perfectly capable of—”

“My dear Watson, you wound me!” Holmes set down a basin of water and a towel. “I have merely roused her to start a pot of soup, warm some broth, and make tea. I intend to care for you myself.”

Watson stared at him. “But what about your murder case, Holmes? Surely you should be attending to that.”

“It is a commonplace murder. And besides, what does such a thing matter when my Watson needs care?”

“Murder always matters to the one who has been murdered.”

“Well, yes.” Holmes pursed his lips, looking irritated at the fact, and then dampened the cloth. He sponged Watson’s face gently, wiping away the sweat. “But it is the sort of case that can be solved without much difficulty. I dispatched a telegram last night and am merely awaiting the reply. Once it is received, I shall pass along the information to Lestrade.”

“All right, but what about your health?” Turning away, Watson coughed. This did not help his throbbing head at all.

“What of my health?”

“It is terrible, Holmes.” Woozy, Watson laid back and gave him a bleary look. “I am not prone to falling ill. You fall ill at the drop of a hat. You should not be near me when I am sick.”

“Well, well.” Holmes waved a dismissive hand, then smoothed back Watson’s hair. “If I fall ill, then you shall tend to me. But for the moment, it is I who must tend to you.”

“It really isn’t necessary.”

“Nonsense. You are always most attentive and caring when I am in poor health, whether of mind or body.” Holmes briefly rested his hand on Watson’s shoulder and gave his usual flash of a smile. “Please permit me the privilege of doing the same for you.”

That wasn’t fair at all, but Watson softened anyway. “Well, of course. If you’re sure.”

“Entirely certain.” Holmes shot an impatient glance at the door, then twisted around and hurtled off again. “Mrs. Hudson! Where is that tea?”

Watson chuckled, then succumbed to coughing again. His head spun, and he struggled to catch his breath.

The coughing had was not helpful for his aches, either. He found himself sore everywhere, and the restless night had worsened his usual pain in his shoulder and leg. That, in turn, had worsened his sleep.

Holmes charged back in with a teapot and flicked an apologetic smile in Watson’s direction. “There was a slight delay in preparation, as Mrs. Hudson is not at her most sprightly this early in the day. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please. And proper ventilation in a sickroom is important.” It was strange not to be able to attend to all this on his own, but Watson did not feel much like getting up right now. “If you could crack the window.”

Holmes did so at once, then carefully helped him drink the tea. He set the cup aside once Watson had finished and sat, taking his hand. “My dear Watson. Mrs. Hudson is preparing broth for you, and will of course make any other food you require. Is there any other way I might be of assistance?”

There was such anxiety on his face that Watson’s stomach twisted. He patted Holmes’ hand and managed a hopefully reassuring smile. “Not for now. And don’t worry, old man. I really will be all right.”

“I hope you shall. I admit it is a little disconcerting to see you ill, Watson.” A few tears glistened in Holmes’ eyes, and he ground his teeth. “You will let me know if I may help in any way?”

“Yes, I will. I just need to get some rest for now.”

“Ah.” Holmes sat there awkwardly for a moment. “Would you prefer that I left you in peace? I can return later with your broth.”

Watson very much suspected that if he said yes, Holmes would simply go sit on the stairs outside the bedroom. “There’s no need for that. Why don’t you stay, and then if I need you…”

He started to cough, and Holmes nodded vigorously. “Of course, my dear fellow. Now, you ought to cease conversation and sleep. I shall be right by your side.”

Watson smiled at him, then closed his eyes and relaxed. He suspected that Holmes would have to be ordered to leave eventually, or else he would not sleep at all. For the moment, though, Watson was glad to have someone so attentive watching over him.

[sherlocktember2024]

8 Days of Jewish Characters for Hanukkah: Day 4 - Number 5 - James Wilson from House M.D.

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Day 28: Cold

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Guessing Game

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "irregular"

The bout of weakness came on suddenly and with no clear cause, a horrible dizziness striking just as Holmes bent to put away his violin. He caught the settee to steady himself, breath catching. The sitting room spun, and his vision blurred.

As quickly as he could with his hands quaking, Holmes settled his violin in the case, and then closed it. He was not always particularly kind to his instrument, but he certainly did not wish to crush it in a fall.

“I am fine,” he said, attempting to convince himself. “It is perhaps the pain.”

He had been in considerable pain today, after all. He was often in considerable pain, although of a different nature than that which tormented Watson. Watson’s pain was fairly predictable, worsened at certain time by similar things.

Holmes’ pain, and indeed bouts of illness, were entirely irregular. They were certainly not helped by his self-neglect, no. But in one instance, a stretch of overworking might cause no trouble. In another, he might simply get a little less sleep than usual, and be annihilated by his own body as a result.

Frequently, he never even uncovered what had caused the attack of pain and illness. That was most infuriating of all, for it meant he could not develop a means of combating the trouble.

Wincing, he rubbed his hands together. The ache in his fingers had not been particularly helped by playing his violin, even though the activity rarely troubled him. The dizziness remained, and he took a few deep breaths. That did very little to help, and somehow worsened the throbbing in his head.

That throbbing was becoming severe enough on its own. His heartbeat raced, and the steady crash of it in his temples mounted until he could hardly keep his eyes open. Pain burned through his neck, back, entire body.

He ought to sit before he fell. He wasn’t certain that he was able to do so.

It would be wisest to call for Watson. Holmes wasn’t certain that he could do that either. He could speak, certainly, but to call for Watson simply for aid in sitting down would be far too great a sign of weakness.

Holmes eyed his armchair. It seemed extremely far away. Perhaps the settee, but even that would be—

“Would you like to go out for lunch, Holmes?” Watson called, stepping into the sitting room. He was dressed for lunch, bundled for the cold weather. “Or are you planning to play for a… Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Holmes struggled through another breath, and his legs wobbled underneath him. The pounding in his head intensified, drowning out everything else. “It’s all right, Watson.”

His legs, naturally, chose that moment to give out. He toppled sideways, and had no hope of catching himself.

“Holmes!” Watson, somehow, hurtled across the sitting room with enough speed to catch him. Holmes crumpled against his side, head spinning wildly. “For God’s sake, why did you not tell me you needed help?”

“I had hoped…” He ran out of breath, and could only sag in Watson’s arms. It seemed his hopes had little bearing on reality.

“You must take care, Holmes. You could have seriously injured yourself.” With a grunt of pain, Watson helped him sit on the settee. He snatched a blanket and wrapped it around Holmes, then moved the violin case and sat down. “Let me take your pulse.”

Holmes had no wish to have his pulse taken, but he allowed it. He could not get enough air to protest, and snatching his wrist away so soon after Watson had rescued him seemed ungracious.

“Hmm.” Watson frowned down at his pocketwatch, fingers neatly pressed to Holmes’ wrist. “Your pulse is extremely irregular, considerable palpitations. I want you to try to get some rest.”

“Resting… is dull,” Holmes managed. Simply speaking left him winded again, his head throbbing. “I’m all right.”

“You most certainly are not. Your body is in open rebellion, old man.” Putting his watch aside, Watson released Holmes’ wrist in favor of wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Just try to catch your breath. And then, can you tell me what happened?”

Holmes also had no wish to do that, to burden Watson so unnecessarily. Watson already worried for him. How could he add to those worries? And yet, if he refused to explain, surely that would worry his Watson as well.

“I am in some little pain today,” he said, leaning into Watson’s embrace. That pain worsened again, a sharp stabbing in his temple, and he pressed his fingers to it with a groan. “Oh, Watson. I tire of this.”

Tears abruptly welled, and he blinked them away as best he could. Weeping would only worsen his headache, and he already felt horrible enough.

“I’m sorry.” Gently, Watson smoothed errant hair off his brow. “Any idea what set it off?”

“I fear not.” A wave of palpitations struck, another irregular series of heartbeats that left him breathless. He struggled for air, dizzy again. “I did not sleep well.”

“Perhaps that was the cause, then. Or perhaps not. I know these bouts just strike for you sometimes.”

“Yes, and it is infuriating.” Holmes shivered, then winced as more pain throbbed through his hands and arms. “There is little point in guessing at what has caused this, as I have no consistent data. But what else can I do, Watson?”

“Well, you ought to try to rest.”

The thought of that was infuriating, even though his handful of consultations this week were all in regard to simple enough cases that would not necessitate leaving the room. Resting would not interfere with his work, then, but it was unspeakably dull.

“I had wished to run a few chemical experiments,” Holmes managed. “But I fear I am not capable at the moment, and I should not like to drop any of my equipment.”

“Well, perhaps you’ll feel up to your experiments later, if you rest.”

“Oh, Watson, you are cruel.”

“I am worried about you.” Watson rubbed his arm slowly. “Would you like to lie down and use my lap as a pillow? It does not have to be a long rest, necessarily, but I’m concerned you would collapse again if you stood now.”

Sighing, Holmes nodded. Watson’s lap was indeed a good place to rest, and it would be preferable not to collapse again.

He let Watson ease him down to the soft, comfortable lap. His entire body ached, and was displeased with the shift in position, but at least the pain in his head eased somewhat.

“What about your lunch, Watson?” Holmes asked, stomach tightening with guilt. “You wished to go out.”

“Well, now I wish to stay in.” Watson slid his fingers through Holmes’ hair in slow, gentle strokes. He sifted through it, then massaged in slow circles across Holmes’ scalp. “We’ll figure out lunch later. You just rest, old man.”

Holmes was still not entirely happy about it, but he complied. This was an unwelcome disruption to his routine, but unfortunately a necessary one. And at least he had Watson tending to him, as reliable as ever.

[sherlocktember2024]

Day 27: Irregular

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sold as set - do not separate!

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The Disappearance

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "goose"

It was never entirely unusual for Watson to lose track of Holmes while they were on a case together. Holmes had a habit of dashing off as soon as he thought of something that must be investigated, and did not always wait for Watson. Indeed, it often seemed as if he didn’t even realize he’d left Watson behind.

So, it was no surprise to turn around and find that Holmes had vanished. Watson hesitated in the drawing room, studying every inch of it. Was Holmes climbing the mantel again, or crawling underneath a table? Surely, he was searching for hidden compartments or passages, somewhere that certain stolen property might be concealed.

“Holmes?” Watson called, uncertain and a little anxious. He always became anxious when he wasn’t sure where Holmes had gone, especially given a certain three-year disappearance. “Are you here, old man?”

Holmes did not seem to be here, unless he was being difficult in order to make a point about something or was so consumed that he couldn’t respond to the call. Watson finally found the impression of his boots in the rug, and followed those footmarks outside.

He was not entirely certain why Holmes was outside. A notorious, expert burglar had been killed when he happened across a particularly vigilant groom from the stables of the house he was trying to rob. With the man dead, the police had searched for his stash at his country residence before declaring the matter hopeless.

Holmes, of course, hadn’t given up so easily. But surely the hiding place must be somewhere in the house?

It had rained earlier in the day, and the mud made Holmes’ footprints easier to trace. Watson moved slowly through the garden of the grand country house, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. This was the simplest way to find Holmes, as there was no way to anticipate whether he’d climbed onto a building or was running across the entire countryside in search of a clue.

The trail led to a wide lake at the edge of the garden, the shore sheltered a respectable oak tree. Holmes sat on a bench under the oak, one finger touched to his lip as he gazed out across the water.

Nearly breathless with relief, Watson joined him, and followed his gaze. He didn’t see much. Some ducks in the shallows, and a very nicely sized goose closer to the middle of the pond. Certainly no obvious signs of a place to hide stolen property.

He glanced at Holmes again. Holmes hadn’t reacted to him at all, or shown the slightest sign that he’d noticed Watson’s presence. He must have noticed—he noticed everything—but he was concentrating.

Watson resisted the urge to ask what he saw. Even when his stomach rumbled, he did not point out that they’d missed lunch. He simply waited for Holmes to acknowledge him.

After a time, Holmes turned to him and flashed a quick smile. “Well, Watson. What do you make of it?”

Watson looked at the garden, and then at the lake again. “Charming view.”

“Is it?” Holmes gave the lake a startled look, and his lips twitched into another smile as he rolled the handle of his cane from one hand to the other. “No doubt you noticed the goose.”

“I noticed that it looks delicious,” Watson said ruefully. “We have missed lunch.”

“My dear Watson, now is not the time for lunch!” Holmes sprang up from the bench, stabbed the end of his cane into the mud, and left it behind as he marched into the lake.

“Holmes!” Chest seizing with alarm again, Watson jumped up too. “My dear chap, whatever are doing?”

“Recovering stolen property!” Holmes shouted back as he waded deeper. “You ought to have me fitted for eyeglasses for failing to notice this at once, Watson. I have clearly lost all my skill.”

He grabbed the goose by the neck, and started to drag it to shore. For a moment, Watson could only stare in shock.

And then he realized it. “My God, Holmes! That’s not a real goose!”

“Well spotted, Watson.” Holmes clambered out into the mud and flung the “goose” down beside him. “It is a wooden construction, with certain articulated parts that move naturally in the breeze or with waves, so that a casual glance at a distance might presume it is the real thing.”

“And with the pond at the back of the property, even people who came to the house would be unlikely to notice.”

“Precisely.”

“But how on Earth did you notice?”

“The goose had not moved in our time here, for one thing.” With an irritated snarl, Holmes ripped his gloves off, flung them down on the grass, and slid his fingers across the painted surface. “The path to this bench was very well worn despite having little in the way of attractions. Furthermore, I observed certain painting supplies in the corner of the drawing room, and as you can see this has been recently repainted.”

Watson couldn’t see that, not for sure, but had no doubt that Holmes was correct. “I suppose that being in the elements wears it down.”

“Excellent, Watson. You scintillate today.” Holmes paused, working at the goose’s wing. “It was also clear from the edge of the pond that someone had been climbing in and— Hah!”

He tugged, and the wooden wing came off. Jewelry spilled out across the grass—rings, bracelets, necklaces, even a coronet. A few ornate, decorative knives followed. And there were still more stolen goods stashed inside.

“Astonishing, Holmes!” Watson cried. “Lestrade will be speechless once he sees this. This is truly a triumph, old man.”

“I ought to have realized the truth the moment I glanced at the pond. So many ducks and only one stationary goose? No, Watson, I am hardly deserving of such praise.” Despite the self-directed criticism, Holmes still looked pleased with himself. “At any rate, we may turn this case over to the authorities, and see about obtaining a belated lunch for you.”

“Wonderful!” Chuckling, Watson helped Holmes back to his feet. “Why don’t we find somewhere that serves goose?”