vr_trakowski (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vr_trakowski) wrote2010-01-14 11:49 am
vr_trakowski) wrote2010-01-14 11:49 am
Entry tags:
Waltz
Just a quick Sherlock Holmes bunny that's been poking me for a couple of days. Inspired by Marshall Tyler's Mandala, which is not at all period. Call it based on the movie, but also on the timeline of the original stories... Rated G. No slash. Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cincoflex for the swift beta!
His leg ached. It was the weather, and John was long used to it by now, so he scarcely thought about it but for the relief of sitting down in front of a roaring fire. One thing he could say for these rooms--as long as Sherlock remembered to actually shut the casements, they were warm. Stifling, at times, but on a filthy day of rain that was more than half ice, they were downright cozy.
He sank into the old battered wing chair with a sigh, and swung his leg up onto the footstool standing ready--for once there was nothing on it, and he might almost have suspected Sherlock of clearing it ahead of time if he didn’t know his old friend better than that. The ache didn’t go away, but it stopped plucking so insistently at his nerves, and he knew the heat would soothe it almost to nothingness.
On the other side of the fireplace, bent over a watch he was disemboweling, Sherlock gave one of his interrogatory grunts. John smiled. “I saw Mrs. Risby on the way in. Tea will be up soon.”
Sherlock nodded, and John folded his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes. Mrs. Risby had replaced the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson years ago, when the latter had grown too elderly to maintain a boarding-house; young at the time, Risby was now solidly middle-aged, and much more phlegmatic about Holmes’ little foibles. John found her restful.
So many things had changed, over time; and yet so many remained the same. Sherlock was still Sherlock, thin and analytical and inclined to go his own way; still brilliant and obnoxious and the best friend John had ever had.
He himself was showing his age, he admitted; it wasn’t just his old wound that slowed him these days. Arthritis took its toll, and he was no longer the lithe youth that had followed Sherlock into so many adventures.
So much had changed…
The tune filled his head again, slow and familiar. Mary. They’d had so little time together, in the end; all of Sherlock’s ill-concealed fears come to naught. But the pain had faded from the memories, mostly, leaving the love behind. She smiled at him, as young and beautiful as ever, and stepped into his arms; and he was young and strong again too, his leg undamaged, as they waltzed together over a carpet of flowers in some celestial space. Moving perfectly, sweetly, close together in the warm clasp of old; she laughed up at him in a matchless, endless moment of delight. They spun around and around, and the music never stopped…
“Tea,” Sherlock said quietly, and John opened his eyes to see his old friend holding out a saucer and a cup.
John drew in a slow breath and took them. The music was gone but not forgotten, and he reached for the sugar tongs.
“Dreaming of Mary?” Sherlock asked, his tone light but not mocking, and John smiled.
“How did you deduce that one, pray tell? There are no clues to dreams.”
Sherlock pursed his lips in that self-deprecating fashion, and scooped up a piece of toast. “You were humming.”
John chuckled, the tune wisping about him for a moment. “Very clever, old chap.” He stirred his tea and regarded his old friend, who was back to the watch, scattering crumbs without regard for the carpet or the books piled upon it. Was it delicacy on Sherlock’s part, or disinterest, that he said no more?
It didn’t matter. John sipped, the flavor sweet and smoky on his tongue, and thought back to his dream. He still missed Mary, every day, but the time left before he would see her again was less now than the time since he had seen her last. It was a comfort.
All things in their time. And in the meanwhile, Sherlock still needed looking after, even by someone slower and stouter than he used to be.
John reached for a teacake, content.
End.
cincoflex for the swift beta!His leg ached. It was the weather, and John was long used to it by now, so he scarcely thought about it but for the relief of sitting down in front of a roaring fire. One thing he could say for these rooms--as long as Sherlock remembered to actually shut the casements, they were warm. Stifling, at times, but on a filthy day of rain that was more than half ice, they were downright cozy.
He sank into the old battered wing chair with a sigh, and swung his leg up onto the footstool standing ready--for once there was nothing on it, and he might almost have suspected Sherlock of clearing it ahead of time if he didn’t know his old friend better than that. The ache didn’t go away, but it stopped plucking so insistently at his nerves, and he knew the heat would soothe it almost to nothingness.
On the other side of the fireplace, bent over a watch he was disemboweling, Sherlock gave one of his interrogatory grunts. John smiled. “I saw Mrs. Risby on the way in. Tea will be up soon.”
Sherlock nodded, and John folded his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes. Mrs. Risby had replaced the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson years ago, when the latter had grown too elderly to maintain a boarding-house; young at the time, Risby was now solidly middle-aged, and much more phlegmatic about Holmes’ little foibles. John found her restful.
So many things had changed, over time; and yet so many remained the same. Sherlock was still Sherlock, thin and analytical and inclined to go his own way; still brilliant and obnoxious and the best friend John had ever had.
He himself was showing his age, he admitted; it wasn’t just his old wound that slowed him these days. Arthritis took its toll, and he was no longer the lithe youth that had followed Sherlock into so many adventures.
So much had changed…
The tune filled his head again, slow and familiar. Mary. They’d had so little time together, in the end; all of Sherlock’s ill-concealed fears come to naught. But the pain had faded from the memories, mostly, leaving the love behind. She smiled at him, as young and beautiful as ever, and stepped into his arms; and he was young and strong again too, his leg undamaged, as they waltzed together over a carpet of flowers in some celestial space. Moving perfectly, sweetly, close together in the warm clasp of old; she laughed up at him in a matchless, endless moment of delight. They spun around and around, and the music never stopped…
“Tea,” Sherlock said quietly, and John opened his eyes to see his old friend holding out a saucer and a cup.
John drew in a slow breath and took them. The music was gone but not forgotten, and he reached for the sugar tongs.
“Dreaming of Mary?” Sherlock asked, his tone light but not mocking, and John smiled.
“How did you deduce that one, pray tell? There are no clues to dreams.”
Sherlock pursed his lips in that self-deprecating fashion, and scooped up a piece of toast. “You were humming.”
John chuckled, the tune wisping about him for a moment. “Very clever, old chap.” He stirred his tea and regarded his old friend, who was back to the watch, scattering crumbs without regard for the carpet or the books piled upon it. Was it delicacy on Sherlock’s part, or disinterest, that he said no more?
It didn’t matter. John sipped, the flavor sweet and smoky on his tongue, and thought back to his dream. He still missed Mary, every day, but the time left before he would see her again was less now than the time since he had seen her last. It was a comfort.
All things in their time. And in the meanwhile, Sherlock still needed looking after, even by someone slower and stouter than he used to be.
John reached for a teacake, content.
End.