nevercomplains | (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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"Clearly not the lady of the house, but I am sure your expert deductive reasoning has already led you to that answer."

Holmes leans back in his chair, smirking noticeably.

"No, I'd suspect the missus is still blissfully unaware that our man of the failing liver is taking that particular company tonight."

He gives a quiet whuff of amusement, not quite a laugh but nearly there. "That doesn't take a professional consulting detective's observational skills to see," he says, in a comment that is bemused and agreeing more than disparaging.

"No," Holmes agrees, all too amiably given their literal deconstruction of others has turned into a sort of game to while away dull minutes.

The overhead lights begin to dim, and he settles in next to Watson while the orchestra begins their tuning.

All throughout the theatre, the gas lamps are extinguished, leaving the stage lit and the musicians preparing to practice their craft, and Watson leans back in his seat once more to listen.

* * *

"--quite marvelous, I thought," Watson is saying several hours later. It's late, but not so late that a stroll to avoid the crush of concert attendees -- and thus the crush of people hiring every available hansom cab -- is inadvisable. Watson was game for the walk, certainly, even if he is limping a touch more than is his habit; sitting too still for too long never does kind things to his old war wound, and neither do the pressure changes from oncoming rain (he occasionally asks himself, not without a certain self-aware humor, just why he resides in bloody London).

But it is still a fine night now; most shops are closed, but taverns and pubs are going strong, and Holmes and Watson are far from the only people on the pavement. Horse-drawn carts and cabs rattle past constantly, and Watson steps around a knot of men gathered outside a pub, who seem to be laughing at some jest.

"Very," he reaches for the right word, "precise."

"Marvelous, indeed," Holmes says, quick to agree with his friend's assessment. It was he who had suggested the walk himself, desiring the activity in order to feel the blood circulating through his legs, to get the walk he had been so lacking while spending the past few days shut up in his personal quarters.

"The precision, the magnificence, the sheer beauty of it all. Watson, there is not a grown man alive who would not shed tears at the sound of it!"

He may be finding himself slightly overexcited at the remembrance of the progeny's performance (and on the receiving end of one collective group of stares) but at this moment, he is far from caring.

"Did you cry?" Watson asks, slanting a rather bemused glance at him.

(He is currently quite pleased with the outcome of his 'make Holmes leave the damned rooms' plan.)

"I was very deeply moved," Holmes says.

Thankfully, the vicinity of the nearby pub serves as a valuable distraction.

"From a virtue to a vice," he declares, and promptly marches towards it.

"A most unsubtle diversion," he says, grinning, but he keeps pace willingly enough. They duck through the small group gathered at the door and step inside the pub (the sign hanging overhead declaring the establishment as the White Hart). Watson doffs his hat.

Holmes is very well aware of that; however, he knows Watson will keep up behind him easily enough.

His own hat has mysteriously disappeared already (it may be difficult or even impossible for him to find, later, given the number of drinks he will likely have consumed by that juncture).

The place is fairly crowded, but not overly so; there are several places at the bar. Stools are available but Watson elects to stand, unwrapping his scarf and curling his fingers to bring the feeling back into them.

Beside him, Holmes is peeling off a pair of gloves, and Watson's eyes abruptly narrow.

He holds out a wordless hand.

"Didn't think you'd miss them," Holmes discreetly says.

He gently places them into Watson's hand right around the same time that he indicates to the man behind the bar to serve him a good scotch.

Watson's hand, for the record, is ice cold.

"Of course not," he says, signaling for a whiskey and slipping the gloves into his overcoat pocket. "What ever would a man ever want with his own gloves?"

"He could bask in the glow of his own generosity and selflessness."

Holmes settles on a barstool with his drink, winking cheerfully.