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kat_lair***
Title: Clearing Out the Cobwebs
Author:kat_lair
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Downey Films)
Pairing: Sherlock/Watson
Tags: Spooktober, Feelings Acknowledgement, Pre-Slash
Rating: G
Word count: 1,058
Summary: “Dr Watson.” A whispered voice drawls from behind him and John manages not to startle right out of his skin only due to years of exposure to being similarly surprised in a variety of settings, each usually more improbably and suspicious than then next.
Author notes: Spooktober 2024, Day 27/31. Prompt/theme: Cobweb.
Clearing Out the Cobwebs on AO3
“Dr Watson.” A whispered voice drawls from behind him and John manages not to startle right out of his skin only due to years of exposure to being similarly surprised in a variety of settings, each usually more improbably and suspicious than then next.
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer.
John indulges him anyway. Yes, he knows it’s a bad habit of his and no, he’s not really planning on changing that anytime soon.
“Looking for you,” he says, turning to do just that. “As you well know.”
Behind him, Sherlock is dressed like a beggar, complete with less than clean rags and a fake nose. John wrinkles his own at the smell, though he knows Sherlock will only take that as endorsement of the authenticity of his attire.
“Well, unlike me, you’ve found your quarry then, Doctor.”
John slowly raises a questioning eyebrow. They are in a dilapidated townhouse right on the edge where the ‘almost-comfortable-but-not-exactly-rich’ neighbourhood starts to peter out into the ‘still-mostly-respectable-but-definitely-poor’ areas of the city. Outside the masonry is crumbling and covered in ivy, inside the furniture is rotting and covered in sheets. There’s a pervasive smell of damp and John has been moving carefully over fear of putting a foot through the floorboards.
He is here because this is one of the three addresses he’d seen scribbled on a piece of paper left on the overflowing desk in Sherlock’s study. On purpose, obviously, because John had yet to discover anything Sherlock didn’t do on purpose.
What he doesn’t know is why Sherlock is here in the first place. Hence the eyebrow.
“Baroness Wilhearth’s lover,” Sherlock says as if that explains anything. John has heard of her, a somewhat eccentric but a very well-to-do woman, recently widowed and seemingly not terribly upset about it. John’s deductive skills are of course nowhere near Sherlock’s level, but he can put two and two together and ask the logical question.
“Oh? You think he murdered her husband?”
Sherlock huffs. “She definitely didn’t,” he says. “But she has been missing for a week.” His eyes behind all the make-up and disguises are sharp, scanning John’s face for a reaction at the pronoun.
John wonders if Sherlock expects shock or dismay, perhaps even disgust. If so, he’ll be waiting in vain. John was in the military, he’s travelled the world beyond the borders of the British Empire and more than that, he’s a doctor. He’s seen too much of the different ways people can find happiness to be either surprised or assume uniformity where diversity is the nature’s default.
So, he lets Sherlock look his fill and only asks, “And you think she’s here? Hiding in this rundown deathtrap? Hate to tell you this but anyone staying here would have succumbed to a respiratory disease by now and we could hear them hacking out a lung.”
Sherlock’s grin is bright, shining like a lodestar in the darkness. “You,” he says, “are a national treasure, Dr Watson.”
John blinks but has no chance to reply before Sherlock continues. “And no, I don’t think Miss Skelling is here in person, but I do hope to find some clues as to her whereabouts in the attic.”
John casts a doubtful look at the stairs. He doesn’t hold out much hope of the top floor of the building to be in any better condition than the rest of it. In fact, it’ll likely be faring worse thanks to being more exposed to the elements.
“Right,” he says. “Shall we then?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s still looking at him with intensity that makes something hot lodge itself in John’s chest. “Just… Hold still for a second.” And then Sherlock’s hand is coming up and carding itself through John’s hair, slow and lingering. “Cobwebs,” Sherlock says and shows his fingers which indeed are covered in grey gossamer web, which John probably gathered up ducking through the various doorways.
John looks at Sherlock’s hand and then at Sherlock who is watching him back with a question in his eyes, a challenge even. Well, he should know by now that John’s not the kind of man to back down from a challenge. Especially one that he’s been subconsciously waiting for some time now. Perhaps ever since he met Sherlock and realised his life was never going to be the same again, that it was going to be better.
“Are you sure you got them all out?” It’s a rhetorical question and they both know it. John lets himself smile in overt acknowledgement, small and fond. “Maybe you should check again,” he suggests, low and a bit teasing, “just in case.”
Obediently – which makes a nice change, John has to admit, he may have to take advantage of this again – Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair again. This time, John leans into the touch, obviously, languidly, head turning to follow the movement of Sherlock’s hand, mouth dragging over the exposed skin on his wrist.
“Probably a lot of cobwebs on the attic,” Sherlock muses. His gaze is heated now if a little disbelieving, and if they weren’t in the middle of a case and in the middle of a house where John very seriously does not want to touch any of the surfaces, he might have taken immediate action to disabuse Sherlock of any doubts. It isn’t like Sherlock to second-guess his deductions, but John has to admit that the current context is… unprecedented. Allowances should be made. For the moment, at least.
“Sooner we check it out then,” John says, catching Sherlock’s fingers in his briefly and squeezing, “sooner you’ll find Miss Skelling and sooner we can go home and clear out the cobwebs. Of each other. Together.” There. That should be blatant enough for even an idiot to catch a clue. But, of course, that was never the problem in the first place. Sherlock is always quick on the uptake, just slow on trust. Good thing that’s something John has been working on for years now.
Successfully, if the grin that greets his comment is anything to go by.
“You make an excellent point, my good doctor,” Sherlock murmurs. His hand on the small of John’s back is warm as he ushers him toward the stairs with a certain sense of new urgency. “Let’s get started.”
***
Title: Clearing Out the Cobwebs
Author:
kat_lair Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Downey Films)
Pairing: Sherlock/Watson
Tags: Spooktober, Feelings Acknowledgement, Pre-Slash
Rating: G
Word count: 1,058
Summary: “Dr Watson.” A whispered voice drawls from behind him and John manages not to startle right out of his skin only due to years of exposure to being similarly surprised in a variety of settings, each usually more improbably and suspicious than then next.
Author notes: Spooktober 2024, Day 27/31. Prompt/theme: Cobweb.
Clearing Out the Cobwebs on AO3
“Dr Watson.” A whispered voice drawls from behind him and John manages not to startle right out of his skin only due to years of exposure to being similarly surprised in a variety of settings, each usually more improbably and suspicious than then next.
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer.
John indulges him anyway. Yes, he knows it’s a bad habit of his and no, he’s not really planning on changing that anytime soon.
“Looking for you,” he says, turning to do just that. “As you well know.”
Behind him, Sherlock is dressed like a beggar, complete with less than clean rags and a fake nose. John wrinkles his own at the smell, though he knows Sherlock will only take that as endorsement of the authenticity of his attire.
“Well, unlike me, you’ve found your quarry then, Doctor.”
John slowly raises a questioning eyebrow. They are in a dilapidated townhouse right on the edge where the ‘almost-comfortable-but-not-exactly-rich’ neighbourhood starts to peter out into the ‘still-mostly-respectable-but-definitely-poor’ areas of the city. Outside the masonry is crumbling and covered in ivy, inside the furniture is rotting and covered in sheets. There’s a pervasive smell of damp and John has been moving carefully over fear of putting a foot through the floorboards.
He is here because this is one of the three addresses he’d seen scribbled on a piece of paper left on the overflowing desk in Sherlock’s study. On purpose, obviously, because John had yet to discover anything Sherlock didn’t do on purpose.
What he doesn’t know is why Sherlock is here in the first place. Hence the eyebrow.
“Baroness Wilhearth’s lover,” Sherlock says as if that explains anything. John has heard of her, a somewhat eccentric but a very well-to-do woman, recently widowed and seemingly not terribly upset about it. John’s deductive skills are of course nowhere near Sherlock’s level, but he can put two and two together and ask the logical question.
“Oh? You think he murdered her husband?”
Sherlock huffs. “She definitely didn’t,” he says. “But she has been missing for a week.” His eyes behind all the make-up and disguises are sharp, scanning John’s face for a reaction at the pronoun.
John wonders if Sherlock expects shock or dismay, perhaps even disgust. If so, he’ll be waiting in vain. John was in the military, he’s travelled the world beyond the borders of the British Empire and more than that, he’s a doctor. He’s seen too much of the different ways people can find happiness to be either surprised or assume uniformity where diversity is the nature’s default.
So, he lets Sherlock look his fill and only asks, “And you think she’s here? Hiding in this rundown deathtrap? Hate to tell you this but anyone staying here would have succumbed to a respiratory disease by now and we could hear them hacking out a lung.”
Sherlock’s grin is bright, shining like a lodestar in the darkness. “You,” he says, “are a national treasure, Dr Watson.”
John blinks but has no chance to reply before Sherlock continues. “And no, I don’t think Miss Skelling is here in person, but I do hope to find some clues as to her whereabouts in the attic.”
John casts a doubtful look at the stairs. He doesn’t hold out much hope of the top floor of the building to be in any better condition than the rest of it. In fact, it’ll likely be faring worse thanks to being more exposed to the elements.
“Right,” he says. “Shall we then?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s still looking at him with intensity that makes something hot lodge itself in John’s chest. “Just… Hold still for a second.” And then Sherlock’s hand is coming up and carding itself through John’s hair, slow and lingering. “Cobwebs,” Sherlock says and shows his fingers which indeed are covered in grey gossamer web, which John probably gathered up ducking through the various doorways.
John looks at Sherlock’s hand and then at Sherlock who is watching him back with a question in his eyes, a challenge even. Well, he should know by now that John’s not the kind of man to back down from a challenge. Especially one that he’s been subconsciously waiting for some time now. Perhaps ever since he met Sherlock and realised his life was never going to be the same again, that it was going to be better.
“Are you sure you got them all out?” It’s a rhetorical question and they both know it. John lets himself smile in overt acknowledgement, small and fond. “Maybe you should check again,” he suggests, low and a bit teasing, “just in case.”
Obediently – which makes a nice change, John has to admit, he may have to take advantage of this again – Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair again. This time, John leans into the touch, obviously, languidly, head turning to follow the movement of Sherlock’s hand, mouth dragging over the exposed skin on his wrist.
“Probably a lot of cobwebs on the attic,” Sherlock muses. His gaze is heated now if a little disbelieving, and if they weren’t in the middle of a case and in the middle of a house where John very seriously does not want to touch any of the surfaces, he might have taken immediate action to disabuse Sherlock of any doubts. It isn’t like Sherlock to second-guess his deductions, but John has to admit that the current context is… unprecedented. Allowances should be made. For the moment, at least.
“Sooner we check it out then,” John says, catching Sherlock’s fingers in his briefly and squeezing, “sooner you’ll find Miss Skelling and sooner we can go home and clear out the cobwebs. Of each other. Together.” There. That should be blatant enough for even an idiot to catch a clue. But, of course, that was never the problem in the first place. Sherlock is always quick on the uptake, just slow on trust. Good thing that’s something John has been working on for years now.
Successfully, if the grin that greets his comment is anything to go by.
“You make an excellent point, my good doctor,” Sherlock murmurs. His hand on the small of John’s back is warm as he ushers him toward the stairs with a certain sense of new urgency. “Let’s get started.”
***