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, 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?"

"Certainly," says Watson, slipping his pocket watch inside his waistcoat. He looks every bit the well-to-do doctor, dressed in grey and leaning on his finer cane (the one that does not conceal a sword, seeing as musical concerts are not typically a most dangerous affair) with his hat set at a rakish angle. "There's a hansom cab waiting outside."

He starts down the stairs, calling over his shoulder, bemused, "If you still remember the meaning of 'outside,' after all this time."

"I think you will find, Watson, that not only have I familiarized myself with the area immediately outside our humble abode, my knowledge has extended to a considerably wider radius of the surrounding boroughs."

One gloved hand (the gloves are, in fact, Watson's, though Holmes wonders how long it will take for his companion to take note of it) reaches up to adjust the placement of his hat as he strolls out the door and into the cab behind the other man.

The cab driver has apparently already been instructed in their destination, as he takes off without a word from either of his passengers.

"Consider me dutifully impressed," says Watson dryly, as the cab rattles over cobblestones.

"For example, in about thirty more paces we will pass a tannery that treats their hides with a particular disulfide reducing agent, indicated by the telltale scent of sodium sulfide."

Holmes does not glance outside to validate the correctness of his statement; at any rate, it is shortly rendered unnecessary when the scent of rotten eggs fills the air.

"My original comment was a facetious one," he points out, glancing through the window and wrinkling his nose at the smell. "A joke, if you've ever heard of those."

Not that he believes that will stop Holmes from giving a laundry list of businesses located up and down this street and the next two. The down side of Holmes teaching Watson his self-described parlor tricks is that they no longer astonish him the way that they once did.

"Of course I've heard of those," Holmes snaps back, averting his gaze to the open window.

His expression belies no discomfort from the smell - a chemical in its purest form can often offend the nostrils, nothing more.

(The rest of their relatively short trip may consist of Holmes attempting to regale Watson with brief anecdotes he has already mentioned a small handful of times.)

Well accustomed to Holmes's moods, Watson isn't particularly offended by the snap, and he takes the familiar anecdotes with relative good grace.

But good God, man, does he hope that a new case arrives soon.

He is perfectly happy to pay the driver through the hatch (as he does keep some money for himself, typically in smaller sums) and alight from the cab in front of the concert hall. "You've heard of this Ysaÿe fellow?" he asks as they join the well-dressed crowds steadily filtering inside.

"Any man with an appreciation for the arts has," Holmes declares, decorum and manners dictating the removal of his hat as they arrive inside and ascend the staircase leading to the nicer box seats.

Neither of them would settle for less, and besides, there is only so much coughing and fan-fluttering Holmes would be able to suffer were they sitting in the parquet.

He sheds his morning coat and hands both it and hat to the waiting attendant, who returns to hang up Watson's before Holmes offers him a small tip and seats himself.

"I hadn't," Watson mutters, with something that would be mild indignation if he weren't so used to statements like that.

Hat, coat, and cane successfully passed off to the attendant, he takes his seat beside Holmes, pulling out his watch to check the time. "A few moments yet," he says.

"Just enough time."

Enough time for what would be anyone's guess; Holmes, of course, means that he might as well survey the audience below in order to amuse himself.