This idea has been restlessly churning in my head for three days since I saw Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. I must put it up or I will lose my mind. It is now 12:34 A.M. in California. Enjoy. I mean, think about it. This is the thing they would have shown after the credits when no one was around... *devious smirk and giggle* Must...sleep...now... I hope you all love it, those of you who haven't samped my work before. This is my first non-anime story. Be kind please.
Let the fun times begin with a Sherlock quote!
"I am not a psychopath. I am a highly-functioning sociopath, get it right!"
Package With a Second Chance
"Mary? Who gave you this package?"
Doctor John Watson stood, briskly leaving the room as to get to the bottom of this anomaly. The item in question happened to be a sort of oxygen tank, a brilliant little device capable of supplying the user with air for some amount of time. Now, ordinarily such a contraption would not be one to make too much of a fuss over. And in fact, it was not the oxygen tank that had so rattled Doctor Watson.
No, what greatly interested the man was the identity of the one who had sent him such an object. For this very same oxygen device, if he was not mistaken, had been fiddled with just days ago by the greatest man he had ever known.
Sherlock Holmes.
But that was silly, a ridiculous notion, the doctor chided himself harshly. Sherlock Holmes had died a mere two weeks ago. Two weeks that had seemed only but one day to Watson, a day meant to be forever burned into the farthest corners of his mind. One might find it difficult to concede that the cheery man of olden days and this sunken, shattered one were the same in flesh and blood. Surely he could not be the man who had on countless occasions accompanied the great Sherlock Holmes! Surely not! Yet Watson it was, those ordinarily bright blue eyes so dimmed by grief.
Blue eyes still filled with so many a thing left unsaid, never spoken to that man, that arrogantly brilliant, coldly distant detective. Watson made a note to add that to his novel about Holmes, certain that wherever he was, he would read it and choke with outrage, the bastard. He strode to his wife, eager and hopeful.
"Darling, who delivered that package?"
Mary spared him an odd glance, curiosity evident in her pretty features. "The postman." She chirped, once again giving the doctor a good looking over with her eyes. "Did he look rather odd?" Watson asked impatiently. The words were thrust from him before he could stop them. 'Surely not, it couldn't be.' Sherlock was dead. He may have been quite the illusionist, but not even he could send a package from the dead, yes?
Mary placed either hand on her husband's face, watching him with caution. His eyes hadn't been this bright, this hopeful, in a week or so. And she hated to be the one to bring him back to reality. Yet this fixation with his dead partner… it frightened her. It even made her the tiniest bit green. He shouldn't be grieving over Sherlock Holmes as they were so newly married!
"John." She forced him to look at her. She could see him deny it, refuse to believe it, vehemently cling to that last scrape of hope until it was pried from his fingers. "He is gone. Sherlock Holmes is never going to come back." Mary felt him jerk back at the uttered words. Yet she could not stop herself. It was necessary that John hear and acknowledge this fact.
"He's dead darling and I do wish you'd stop believing otherwise." That beautiful light named hope shut off behind his eyes, leaving her to look into stormy and abysmal blue once again. There, that had done it. Mary removed her hands, wiping them absently on her dress as if jealousy could be felt on the fingers. She was…jealous of Sherlock Holmes. A dead man, for goodness sakes!
Words of rage, or horrible context, filled his mouth to the brim with a vengeance and he had to desperately resist the urge to shout at his wife. Yet being a gentleman, Watson only quietly excused himself and retired to his study. There, he could puzzle in silence over the anomaly that was the oxygen device ordinarily belonging to Mycroft Holmes. He could quietly mourn once more in peace.
That was until he noticed the strange, oddly dressed figure standing over his typewriter, fiddling with it.
Watson could only linger in his shock for a moment or so. But a moment later, he had attacked the figure with his cane, rapping him smartly on the head.
The assailant looked chagrined indeed as he stood mere moments later.
"You could have very well given me brain damage, you know!" The man announced, standing up. The hit hadn't seemed to affect him all that much. That was just as well, as Watson wanted to keep him alive as to undergo extensive psychosomatic testing until he discovered why this man was….. "a selfish bastard." Watson whispered, lips barely moving as he glared with sickeningly mad relief.
"Yes I'm fine, thank you." Sherlock Holmes said with quite some reproach marring his dark brow. He regarded his colleague with disdain, distaste evident on his features as he circled him as a vulture would its' prey. "And you, you're looking rather underfed; I suppose that woman isn't properly taking care of you, as I suspected!" The dark-haired man wheeled suddenly, hands pulling the tall draperies shut with a practiced air of one who constantly avoids society. Watson could only stare, blue eyes slowly lightening, slowly regaining their potency as they lay transfixed on the dark eyed man so vigorously racing about the room.
"And would you kindly shut the door? There are many things to be discussed and the last thing I desire is unwanted company." Holmes finished with a drop into Watson's chair. He pressed his fingertips together, leaning forward with a quiet domineering arrogance not unlike him as he stared at Watson. Watson could only stare back in shock. "Now don't just stand there gaping like a fish out of water, sit down!" He gestured to the chair across the desk.
Watson sat down, albeit reluctantly. "Now I suppose you're wondering as to how I am standing, my mistake, sitting here before you in all of my brilliant glory, though I suppose you already know as the answer is sitting here right in front of the both of us." Holmes pointed with a flourish to the oxygen device. "Ingenious, yes? Certainly so in my most honest opinion. I was one step ahead of Moriarty all along, simply playing the role you would ordinarily play of the assistant not quite as clever as his colleague, do you not see the brilliance in my latest adventure?"
He leaned in closer to Watson, dark eyes absolutely enraptured by his own cunning. "I do suppose the faking my own death was a tad dramatic but it certainly put London in a state, didn't it?" He smiled at his companion, oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions struggling to work its' way across his face.
It was silent for a moment as Sherlock attempted to trace the source of Watson's abnormal lack of vocal skills.
The detective smiled, brown eyes alight as he stared at his stoic companion. "Watson, you have the grand gift of silence that makes you quite invaluable as a companion-" Sherlock had not quite finished his compliment before Watson punched him quite hard in the nose. His face remained steeped in calm as he retracted his hand mere moments later. "Ah!" Sherlock blinked in outrage as brought a handkerchief to his face. He had but seconds to react when Watson threw himself across the desk to tackle the blithering idiot that had made his life a living hell for two whole weeks.
"You selfish bastard! How could you possibly believe that faking your own death was a brilliant idea? Did you ever consider the possibility that perhaps the oxygen device wouldn't work? God damn you Holmes!" Sherlock felt a fist pummel the side of his face again, snapping it smartly to the right. "What were you possibly thinking?" Each word was punctuated by a shake as Sherlock wrapped his legs around his colleague's middle in a futile attempt to get him off. "You. Could. Have. Died. You. Ass!" Watson shook him again, vigorously attempting to accentuate his rage.
"I timed it perfectly! It wasn't my intention to scare you!" Sherlock grabbed his friend's face viciously in his hands, somewhat urgently and manic. "Now do be quiet, as it's very likely that your wife has heard the noise and may come to investigate-" It was at this moment that Sherlock was the one struck speechless. And the source of the normally vocal detective's silence was not due to the slender fists smacking against his flesh. Oh no, it was something else entirely.
"Watson…."
The doctor ceased his pummeling for a moment to inquire a derisive, "What?"
Sherlock leaned back against the rug, brown locks mussed and matted with blood and dirt as he thoughtfully looked at his companion. It was rather interesting that he had not noticed it before, what with his brilliant powers of deduction and all.
"You have remarkably blue eyes when you're invigorated."
Watson regarded the man under him as well with some awe and befuddlement. How could he have not noticed this before? He let a brief smirk ripple across his features as Sherlock lay panting underneath him.
"You're wearing a ridiculous costume, Holmes." He said finally.
Sherlock looked down, irate at his partner's lack of tact, as it were. "It is a camouflage suit, my dear Watson, not a costume and furthermore it is not ridic-" The power of speech and thereby all thinking skills remarkably escaped the man as Watson leaned down and brushed his lips over his. It was a light, barely tangible wisp of a thing that lasted all but ten seconds as Watson realized what he had done.
The two men stared at each other, dark brown meeting piercing blue with an embarrassed gaze as both were struck dumb by what they had just committed. "Watson, correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe that you just kissed me." Said man averted his eyes, a light blush adorning his features as they remained in their awkward position. "What a ridiculously obvious statement. Now I don't suppose you'd like to tell me why I'd be so mad as to kiss you of all people in the first place?"
Sherlock smiled, hands rising to turn Watson's face towards his again.
"Well, my dear Watson, my conclusion as to why you have performed this most heinous act on me in your own home…." He smirked at Watson's deepening blush. "On the floor of your study as your bratty mule of a wife sits naively in the other room none the less….." The doctor narrowed his blue eyes at the man under him. Sherlock smiled faintly, kissing him once more and taking said distraction as an opportunity to knock Watson off him and on the ground. Watson laid there in brief shock for a moment until a cylinder-like object presented itself to his face.
"The most obvious conclusion I can come to is that you find me most attractive and have been struggling to hide it as the years have gone by." Sherlock poked him sternly in the head with his own cane. "I blame myself, I am simply too good looking for male or female to resist." He hid his face in his arm in a travesty of shame. Watson could only look up in obscene outrage. "Are you mad?" he finally asked.
"No simply-"
"Bonkers."
"Enlightened." Sherlock said frankly, aghast that Watson would even think such a thing.
"Holmes, get down here." Watson pulled on the cane, sending the man he loved sprawling down next to him. The greatest detective in London was utterly befuddled at this action as he looked in the blue eyes of the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. "It's good to see you." Watson muttered, laying his head somewhat resignedly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Even if you are still a bastard." Sherlock smiled, allowing himself to bury his face into the lighter hair underneath him.
"My dear Watson, I'm afraid that if we carry on like this I might not let you go when Mary walks in…in about three seconds, give or take."