nevercomplains | (no subject)

(no subject)

On the bright side, when Watson returns to a certain set of rooms at 221B Baker Street, he is not met with gunshots, the acrid smell of burning furniture, Mrs. Hudson shrieking, or one of any number of options to which he has sadly grown accustomed.

The less positive side is the one in which Holmes is nowhere to be seen. Many people might also file that on the good side, but Watson knows the detective's habits far too well by now to be anything but wearily wary about his absence. The fact that he is not feverishly reading in the shared drawing room means that he is likely conducting some sort of undoubtedly illegal and immoral chemistry experiment, plotting something absolutely ridiculous, or is still passed out at three o'clock in the afternoon, having continued his nine-day streak of refusing to leave the grounds of the building.

(There is also the slim chance that he has received a case that he deemed worthy of his attention and is running about London like a hyperactive maniac, but Watson does not like the odds of it.)

He hangs his hat and coat by the door, rings the bell to request that Mrs. Hudson bring up some tea, and then, steeling himself, he heads for the part of their rooms that Holmes has claimed as his own.

There is no answer when he raps at the door, but Watson had not expected one; he shoulders the door open and steps inside. Predictably, it is still dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, and it reeks of stale alcohol, dog, acidic chemicals, and a man who has gone far too long without bathing. Also predictably, it is a wreck, with newspapers, lithographs, sheets of paper scrawled upon in a hand worse than Watson's doctor's script, clothing, and a number of other artifacts liberally carpeting the floor, the work station, and every available surface.

There are two bodies lying insensate in the dark room -- Holmes, sprawled across the mattress on the floor, and Watson's bulldog, lying on its side in a corner.

"Damn the man," Watson mutters, and without a second glance at Holmes, he goes straight to his dog's side. Once he has established that the pup is indeed still breathing, Watson rises from his crouch, shooting Holmes's unmoving frame a very dour look, and he makes his way through the chaos to the mattress. He puts a boot in Holmes's ribs and gives a none-too-gentle prod. "Get up."

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Holmes seems to have managed to pass out before reaching anything that could be deemed as a conventional surface on which to lounge - the mattress itself is uncovered, various scents and odors emitting from it as he rolls over with a groan, as well as a particularly impressive cloud of dust and other particles.

He squints, scrubs a hand over his unshaven face, and slowly glances upward, only to be greeted with the image of a very disapproving Watson.

"Something about this situation feels all too familiar," he mutters, switching over to lay onto his stomach with another accompanying sound of exertion - exertion for an action that, admittedly, does not require much in the way of energy. The room is dank, musty, dark - the perfect place for him to perhaps linger somewhere between full mental capacity and a dreaming state for just a little longer.

But another part of him is convinced that Watson will, as always, have none of it.

"Perhaps because this is how your day started yesterday," Watson says, and from the sound of his uneven tread, he is headed straight for the nearest window. "And the day before that, and the day before that."

Holmes moves to throw a blocking arm over his face - or, at the very least, hide it against the mattress - but his reaction time is considerably slower than it'd be were he at his best.

"I can appreciate the value of routine," he protests. "Go easy, man."

"You are thoroughly disgusting, as usual." He throws the curtain open, sunlight stabbing into the room, and then he heaves the window up for good measure. The latter takes a bit of elbow grease, as the window has remained closed for so long that it appears to be somewhat stuck (Watson's fingerprints are the only marks in the thick layer of dust covering the sill), but a good hard shove accomplishes it. The sounds of voices, shouts, and hooves and wheels on cobblestones drift up from the street below.

"And what have you done to my dog?" Watson demands, crossing toward the next window, the one that will shine light directly into Holmes's face.

"Only by your impeccable standards, Watson."

Holmes only makes it as far as his hands and knees, crawling off the mattress to the middle of the floor, where he rests back on his haunches for another moment or two as his eyes adjust to the daylight streaming through and his ears perk up at the sounds of the London streets outside and below.

"And our dog," he adds, staggering to stand and stretch, "is perfectly fine. I was simply experimenting with a mild sedative."

Watson wrenches the next curtain open, tying it back -- now, in the sunlight, able to see all of the dust motes flying about -- and opening that window as well. Even London's black air is a welcome relief after the rank stifling conditions of Holmes's room.

"Stop experimenting on the dog," he says. "There are surely more suitable lab rats. Such as," he yanks open the final set of curtains, "yourself."

"Contrary to what you may think, it would be rather difficult for me to test my designs on myself - especially if the experiment took a turn for the worse. Dogs are replaceable, Watson, while I myself am somewhat irreplaceable."

Smirking to himself, he crosses the room, finding a near-empty vial of some brown-colored liquid. He sniffs it first, then moves to finish it off.

Holmes will find himself struck in the back of the head by The Times. Watson had been carrying the newspaper under his arm, and had intended to eventually hand it to Holmes, but after the comment about the dog, he has chosen to lob it instead.

"Mrs. Hudson will be providing tea shortly, if you decide to leave this cesspool at any point today," says Watson in passing.

Holmes mutters a vaguely decipherable curse under his breath, but plucks the newspaper from the floor without another comment, opening it with a flourish. On the floor, the dog releases a large snoring sigh.

"Ah, yes. Better check that for poison," he announces, having heard the fifth step on the staircase in the hall creak - meaning the woman in question is coming up with the tray at that very moment.

Rolling his eyes, Watson steps out of the room and shuts the door behind him. The latter action is carried out primarily in the name of keeping poor Mrs. Hudson from getting a good look at the havoc that one of her lodgers has wreaked.

The good woman enters the set of rooms with something of a wary expression, but she greets Watson at the door and has a tray with tea and scones that she sets on a side table in the drawing room. She pauses to speak to Watson for a moment; it is a pleasant enough conversation, polite as ever (he thanks her for the tea; she asks if he is expecting any patients today). These things are typically markedly more civil without Holmes's involvement.

Holmes, for the most part, will be seemingly engrossed in the paper by the time he wanders out of the musty room to partake in said tea and scones; however, he is a man for which mentally multi-tasking is no difficult feat.

"And how is the old nag faring?" he asks, his tone nonchalant as he idly scans over the latest headlines. Theft, news of undergoing construction in the shipyard, acts of generic benevolence by local heroes. Nothing worthy of his attention at present.

Watson is in braces and shirt-sleeves by this point, sprawled in his usual armchair with his feet up on a stool and a cup of tea at hand.

"Mrs. Hudson is doing quite well," he says, without looking up from the medical journal in his lap. "Though she asks again that you contain your violin scraping to daylight hours."

He folds up the newspaper rather sloppily, tucking it under one arm and helping himself to the tray's contents.

"The woman wouldn't know the value of a good air if she was walloped over the head with it," he insists, around a mouthful of scone.

Watson turns a page and he says, very dryly, "Not everyone can be a music lover."

The sentence may outwardly play along with Holmes, but it is delivered in the sort of tone that disparages Holmes far more than the esteemed Mrs. Hudson.

"Perish the thought, Wilson."

But the comment has put a related idea into his head, and he purposefully rediscovers his violin, propping it on one knee as he brandishes the bow in a sword-like fashion at his companion.

"Take Mendelssohn's violin concerto in E minor. A brilliantly composed piece."

He lifts the violin and bow to play the first few strains of the second movement.

Watson glances up after a moment, leaving the journal open mid-article. He rests his elbow on his chair's arm, his hand brushing his chin, and he listens.

Not that he would say it aloud, as Holmes's ego doesn't need the stroking (and as Holmes, ever immodest, already knows it to be the truth), but he is really quite a remarkable musician. He always has been, even if Watson (and Mrs. Hudson, and others) would rather that he practiced at times other than three o'clock in the morning.

He raises his eyebrows slightly at Holmes, silently asking: Yes; and?

"I can hardly be faulted for experiencing the compelling desire to play when it suits me," Holmes answers, the bow moving back and forth over the violin's strings with a practiced and precise smoothness.

Another beat or two occurs before he pulls the bow away from the violin, setting the latter on his knees while pointing the former at Watson again.

"No matter the hour."

"And people who wish to sleep during the ungodly hours at which you ramble about can hardly be faulted for experiencing the compelling desire to break the bow over your head," Watson says fairly.

"Don't point that at me."

"You'd buy me a new one. Or I would. I am still in possession of your winnings from the previous evening; would you like me to continue to hold onto them for you?"

He silently does as Watson requests and sets the instrument aside.

"I do so loathe these intervals of inaction," he groans, without waiting for a response, leaning forward to press his fingertips together.

"The mind rebels in such doldrums."

This is rather serious -- Holmes actually set the bow down when asked.

Watson claps him on the shoulder. "Cheer up, old man," he says. "I'm sure Lestrade will be along with a bungled case any day now. And I'm not planning to snap your bow any time in the near future, so if you would continue to hold my winnings, I would be appreciative."

For all that Watson must live with Holmes's quirks and foibles, Holmes lives with Watson's, as well. They have been in such close quarters for so long now that Holmes has known of his gambling for years, and Watson trusts that he need not feel any shame over Holmes holding funds for him.

"Yes, well, knowing Lestrade, I have no doubt that he will fulfill my personal and primary need for a baffling case in little to no time at all. He does have a knack for acquiring them," Holmes murmurs, though there is a sort of cheerlessness in his tone.

His face begins to adopt a relatively vacant expression.

Now would be a prime opportunity for Watson to resort to something drastic.

Watson recognizes the signs of it well enough.

"In the meantime, if you would make yourself presentable for society, there's a young violinist playing with the symphony tonight; a Belgian student of Vieuxtemps, I believe. He's supposed to be quite good."

Implied: I have two tickets.

(Watson is more a steady man than a drastic one.)

"So I've heard."

It may be as close to an acceptance as Holmes is going to get to Watson's unique version of an invitation.

"It would be rude of me not to acknowledge and appreciate the maturation of a young talent."

"Quite," Watson agrees with a twitch of a smile over his cup of tea.

"Six o'clock?"

"On the dot," Holmes quickly replies.

In fact, he is neither exceptionally early nor exceedingly late when the hour arrives, and by the time he encounters Watson on the stairs, there is little to no sign of the unkempt, unwashed man who had awoken disgruntled. Instead, Holmes is dressed in finery only suitable for the attendance of a symphony, bowler hat perched just so on the top of his head.

"Shall we, my dear fellow?"