" Of Éclairs, Tarts and Cream puffs "
Holmes/Watson
A/N:This is clearly my first time writing Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, so please bear that in mind if anything seems out of place. I've loved the books since I was a little girl, but I'm totally new to the '09 movie side of things! Which basically means I'm pulling stuff out of my ass and therefore everything should be taken with a grain of salt, etc.
I hope this will be an enjoyable fic anyways!
Part 01 – Watson
Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson lived as harmoniously as the condition of flatmates allowed them. Watson overlooked Holmes' out of the ordinary antics as nearly charming, whereas Holmes accepted Watson's boring habits as a way to connect with a side of world he didn't care much for through a person he could actually trust and respect.
Overall, it was mostly a matter of trust and it worked wonders for them. Most of the time, that is. There were only a handful of things that could come between the two of them, a very select few.
On one occasion Holmes had been locked away into his study for four weeks and a half after a particularly interesting though distressing case. Watson knew better than to attempt to pluck him out of that dark place, so he usually just let Holmes enjoy his adrenaline withdrawal in peace. This time, however, that would be impossible; something terrible had happened.
Watson had tried knocking on the door, sliding slips of paper with messages and even morse-code, but nothing seemed enough to catch his friend's attention. At last, furious with Holmes' childishness, Watson decided to do what he did best: knock doors down. He took a few steps back and then went shoulder first against the wooden door. The hinges snapped right off, but the door didn't fall and Watson ended up in pain on the floor.
"No!" shouted Watson, in a strained voice. "I will not stand for cabinets barricading doors in this house!"
There was some silence, then came a soft, though slightly ironic answer from inside the room: "It's a bookshelf, Watson."
Watson had quite given up trying to catch his friend's attention when, that evening, something glorious happened: Watson had a plan! It was vengeance and the means to catch his attention, all rolled into one. He positioned himself by Holmes' door, feeling rather sneaky.
"Oh, Holmes!" Watson called, poorly masking the excitement in his voice. "There's a letter here that might interest you!" Despite not meeting an answer, he continued, "It's a letter from King Leopold of Belgium. He accounts in his letter that a, uh, diamond necklace has been stolen from within the... royal castle. Of Belgium, you see," Watson cringed, but continued upon hearing movement inside the room. "It was within this vault, see, and now it's not there anymore. And it was locked from the inside and there are a ton of footprints. I know of your love for footprints, it never fails to make me positively uncomfortable."
There was sudden quietness within the room, as if Holmes were accessing the situation. Watson smiled knowingly.
"There's a suspicious butler," the bookshelf began moving, "But they think it might have been the King's secret lover," the shelf moved some more, "Or perhaps a ghost."
The door suddenly burst open.
"Spare me the paranormal babble!" exclaimed Holmes indignantly.
Watson shook his head. "I know! It was quite clearly to me that the royal cook's second cousin once removed was to blame, for those Belgian chocolate waffles are too fantastic to be made by anyone who hasn't sold their soul to the Devil!"
Upon seeing Watson propped on the door-frame, smirking, Holmes acknowledged the trap with a sigh.
"There's no such letter, is there?" he asked.
"Gladstone is missing," said Watson simply.
"You're much too cruel, my dear Watson. Never joke to me about ransacked vaults closed from the inside. It's too cruel." Holmes picked up the destroyed door from the floor. "Dear me, you and your door knocking fetish, Watson. It's the tenth time this month. Control yourself!"
Watson took the door away from his friend's grasp.
"Gladstone is gone, Holmes!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen him since noon today. Is he with you?"
Holmes wrinkled his forehead and took a quick glance behind himself. He ran his hand through his hair, thoughtfully.
"He is stuffing his face in the kitchen downstairs," answered Holmes, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'd go check my cream puff stock if I were you, Watson."
Watson grabbed his friend by the arm before he could disappear back into the room.
"Oh, no, you're not going back in there until you find my dog!"
"I beg your pardon, did I hear that right? Your dog?" Holmes scoffed. "Last time I checked, Gladstone was mine."
"I hardly think a test subject is the same as a pet!" Watson bellowed. "I feed him. Gladstone is mine."
Holmes frowned, marching down the stairs. "You'll feed anything. You even overfeed yourself. That doesn't count at all!"
"I haven't gained weight in months!"
"Tell that to those poor, strained khakis. Clearly 4 numbers too small," said Holmes, shaking his head. "Oh, Gladstone!"
Holmes burst into the kitchen and began surveilling the room for Gladstone. He had been hoping for a dramatic uncovering of the dog, but there was no sign of him.
"Like I told you before, he's not here," said Watson matter-of-factly.
The air became heavy all of a sudden. Holmes eyed here and there without uttering a word, looking paler by the second.
Noticing his silence, Watson approached him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder; It was an uncomfortable gesture for both and it felt completely improper. Holmes had never needed further support with that gargantuan ego of his, yet there they were, Watson putting his motherly instincts to use while Holmes was mute and unmoving in his place.
He turned to Watson hastily.
"Watson, I do not like this feeling of not knowing where everyone is and why and how."
"Jesus, is that all you care about?" Watson bellowed, grabbing him by both shoulders. "I have gone out numerous times without announcing where to and things were just fine. Relax, take a deep breath."
Holmes shrugged. "Don't be silly, Watson! I always know where you are."
"What?"
Holmes raised an eyebrow and looked confused, as if asking "What" right back at him. The cynical twerp!
"Look here!" Holmes escaped Watson's grip and ran to Gladstone's bowls by the backdoor. "There's still food in this one, yet no water. Have we had any rain recently?"
"This is London."
"Aha! Then that's quite settled. Gladstone is behind this door," Holmes concluded, stepping aside to open the door triumphantly.
The backyard looked quite empty. No Gladstone in sight.
"I'm officially vexed." Holmes shook his head.
"And I'm officially not sure how I feel about you stalking me, Holmes."
Watson followed Holmes into the empty backyard. The pavement was moist and there was some dirt scattered around, all due to a drizzly afternoon. It was a strangely clouded night and the pair could only barely see the contour of things. Holmes went back inside and came back with a lamp.
Whilst Holmes paced about the area closely searching the ground, Watson took to looking at the bigger picture. He wasn't such an ingenious investigator like Holmes, but he loved his Gladstone and knew better about his habits than anyone else. Holmes, on the other hand, was probably just vexed by the situation and not at all bothered by Gladstone's absence.
"We have a hole on this wooden fence right here," said Holmes to no one in particular. "The abnormally large diameter seems consistent with Gladstone."
Watson paid him little at those times. In this particular occasion he was more worried about results, and a little too concerned about his own ruined brown boots. He had stepped on a pile of dirt, leaves and wet, crunched coal.
Watson stopped dead in his tracks. Dirt? Gladstone wouldn't dare! He was a refined dog, not the kind to go prancing about in the rain for prolonged periods of time.
"Holmes! He wouldn't walk in the rain."
"What? Dogs like rain."
"Not my Gladstone, he doesn't!"
"I thought we had already settled whose dog he is, Watson," said Holmes menacingly.
"Yes we did," said Watson with a clenched jaw. "He is mine."
"Oh, spare me! I'm the one who allowed him to stay."
"I'm not the one who almost killed him twenty five times!"
"You have actually counted? That's a disease, Watson!" Holmes sighed and shrugged, as if the case had been quite won. "Regardless. He loves me best, it's quite clear."
Watson looked down at his once beautiful shoes. They were ruined. His head hurt and there was a constant buzzing in his ear from an unidentified source. Watson felt cold and exposed out there and he wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic towards Holmes that day. He had mistreated Watson for weeks. Who was he to talk about being loved? He gave to reason for such emotion.
Watson looked back up at Holmes.
"Does he, now? Why should he? You only show any care for him when it suits you. You spend all your time locked away in your room, doing Lord knows what, and when you come out you expect him to be waiting for you here as if nothing had happened at all!" he said indignantly. "You don't have that right. Not this you, the one that barricades doors against the only ones who care about him."
Holmes bit his lower lip and then cleared his throat.
"I'm under the impression we're not talking about Gladstone anymore," said he, flustered.
Watson sighed. "I suppose not. And yet we are. Do you even remember the time we got him in the first place?"
"That was a long time ago," said Holmes softly. "I might vaguely remember... I'd have to search my brain-attic."
"You're hopeless." Watson sighed. "I, for one, remember perfectly because it matters to me."
"To me it doesn't. I couldn't care less and have no recollection on the matter," said Holmes, a little too harshly. "Whatsoever. At all."
We had just been introduced and settled on sharing rent on our house on Baker Street. It was the day I brought my things. You, Holmes, were comfortably sitting in the living room while I hauled my stuff in. I remember distinctly how much I wanted to punch you in the face.
"And I've apologized for that before!" interrupted Holmes.
Continuing. I had just finished getting settled down when Mrs. Hudson served our first dinner together. I was positively completely disturbed by your lack of hospitality. I wasn't one to give a damn about social skills, for I have very little of them myself, but I began having second thoughts about my living together with a man of questionable scalp hygiene.
"Oh, my hair wasn't that dreadful," said Holmes, rolling his eyes.
Yes, it is dreadful. Anyhow, I began to wonder if I had made the right decision, but since it was either that or the streets, I decided to stay and see how events would unfold.
"Cheers for being a better companion than a homeless person and a prostitute!"
As it happened, I continued to be slightly ignored. Overtime my ineptitude at conveying my feelings and thoughts to you taught me more about who you were and about who I was than any polite conversation regarding the weather could. I learned to appreciate your work and I felt you appreciated my dullness enough to confide in me.
One day I had the extreme pleasure of witnessing you locking yourself in your room for a full week. I was desperate!
Holmes frowned. "Well, go on. It's just getting interesting! I rather enjoy hearing about myself."
Watson sighed and sat down on the steps of the backyard door, supporting himself on his cane.
"So when you came back to your senses we went out and got a puppy," he said with a shrug. "The end."
"Oh, no, no! That's not how I remember it!"
Watson crossed his arms. "That's because you don't remember. Remember?"
"Fine!" exclaimed Holmes, throwing his hands in air. "I do and it didn't go as simple as that."
I had been, as you like to call it, "locked away" in my room for a week.
"As I like to call it? Do tell what people call it 'in the streets' these days!" Watson said in a high pitched voice.
"Settle down, now. Let's not get any underpants in any bunches," said Holmes calmly. "Allow me to finish."
I was locked away in my room doing very important Scientific Discoveries for a week, something that I can only manage to do when I have some free time. But I noticed that my new flatmate had been growing increasingly nervous over my absence. At first I felt very proud of myself for having such an effect on people – though that was only to be expected – but then I started to notice the extent of my influence.
A gift or a curse? That's the beauty of being me.
My flatmate began limiting his wardrobe, I noticed, which probably indicated an increase of weight. I saw him consume large amounts of sugary pastries throughout the day. In fact, he made several trips to our local bakeries, each time to a different one which indicated either that he had developed a keener taste as his overeating progressed or that the bakeries were, one by one, sold out after his visits.
Before I'm interrupted, I'd just like to add that I'm hardly ever wrong or ever proved to be wrong, therefore it would be less shameful to take me word for it!
As I was saying, my flatmate had been acting up in a way that worried more than enthralled. Thus I decided to venture out into the world to allow him some comfort.
"So we went out and I got you a puppy, to quench your sadness," said Holmes with a formal bow.
"That's not it at all! Firstly I never made 'several trips' to any bakeries!" exclaimed Watson indignantly. "And secondly, I'm not the one who needed a puppy."
"Oh, yes you did, my delicate flower of a friend! You needed something to love more than cream scones." Holmes rested his chin on his left hand as if in deep thought. "Did I succeed? I do not know."
"Oh, shush." Watson crossed his arms over his chest and sulked. "If you're not going to find our Gladstone, than I'll look for him by myself!"
Watson got up at once and began his way to the dimly lit streets. Holmes tried to follow close behind, but was held back several paces due to Watson's much wider steps.
"You wait just a second, you Sasquatch!" cried Holmes far behind, waving his hand.
"It is not my fault you're very, very small," answered Watson icily.
"Stop, I say!" Holmes shouted more severely. "If you want me to find Gladstone you'll have to stop tampering with my crime scene!"
Watson stopped where he was to ponder briefly. He eyed Holmes defiantly and they had a silent battle of wills where one raised eyebrows at the other until the other gave in. Watson admitted to his defeat with a sigh and they began making their way back to the front porch.
"What do you expect to find out here?" Watson inquired.
"You see, Watson," started Holmes at length. "In your haste you simply didn't notice that the front door wasn't locked or so much as fully closed."
Holmes walked up to the door and crouched, examining the door-frame.
"See here," he called and Watson crouched beside him. "Scratch marks. He either produced those on this occasion or he's used to doing so on a regular basis."
"My Gladstone wouldn't go out to the streets like this. He's a refined dog, pure-bred!"
"Perhaps if the need were to arise... here," Holmes pressed his shoulder against the door and pushed lightly. "Do you think he had sufficient strength? How much does he currently weight? Some 50 lbs?"
Watson eyed him icily. Holmes tilted his head as if waiting for an answer, but all he got was a lousy punch in the arm.
"Under 50lbs it is, then," Holmes stated hurriedly.
"I'm not sure about his weight." Watson tested the door himself. "I think he could do it, either with his paw or–"
It wasn't very late in the evening, only past eight o'clock, and Holmes and Watson weren't being exactly private about their business. There were still some people walking about in the streets and the sight of two grown men leaning on a door side by side was a pretty interesting one. So much that a group of ladies across the street stopped to watch them, sharing the confusion of the inhabitants of other Baker Street homes, who were all crammed on their own windows watching the spectacle.
"But we mustn't limit ourselves to shoulders, for mine are fairly strong, you see!" said Holmes.
"Mine are clearly stronger."
"Yes, you knock down a lot of doors, we get it. No need to get cocky about it!" Holmes knelt down on all fours on the steps. "Let's try it with just a hand."
A lady passing by stopped abruptly, almost tearing his husband's arm out, to admire such a clearly awesome view.
The door opened suddenly and Watson, who had been leaning on it, fell to the floor.
"Lovely evening, Mrs. Hudson," he said uncomfortably, looking up.
"Lovely, Dr. Watson," the landlady answered curtly.
Holmes picked himself up quickly and straightened his clothes.
"If you'll excuse us, we have a proper investigation to conduct, your Vileness," Holmes said pompously.
Mrs. Hudson looked positively enormous when she blocked doors. She was a slight woman, but her facial expression was sufficient to stop any man dead in his tracks. Watson swallowed dry. Holmes pretended he had nothing to do with the situation at all and looked the other way, waving at some ladies across the street.
"The neighbors are complaining about the noise, gentleman," said she. "And I am as well."
"It's a matter of dire importance, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, still averting her gaze.
The landlady raised her hand to keep him from speaking and addressed Watson.
"I really don't care, as long as I don't have to hear him," she pointed at Holmes, "Shouting at the top of his lungs his unrequited feelings for the whole London to hear."
Holmes gave a very manly gasp.
"Unrequited? You vex and astound me, demon lady!" he said.
"As for the dog, I would concentrate on finding poor Gladstone. For in matter of ownership, the case is quite settled. You see," she added with a sly grin, "I clean his poop."
Holmes gasped, not so manly this time, reaching for Watson's arm for support.
"How dare you!"
Mrs. Hudson grinned an evil grin.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Hudson, we will be very, very quiet now," Watson assured, grasping Holmes by both arms. "Aren't we, Holmes?"
"Quiet as graves, nanny. I can promise with all certainty you shall discover the exact feel of sleeping in a cemetery." Holmes squinted. "How silly of me, you already know all about that! Zombie woman."
Mrs. Hudson scoffed and reentered the house. The streets were clear by then, adding to the feeling of hopelessness that had taken over Watson. He let go of his grip on Holmes without resistance and sighed; His defeatist personality about to get the best of him.
They had spent the last two hours shouting and playing with doors. Gladstone was gone, never to return!
"Never mind the Jabberwocky," Holmes said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It just so happens I know what our next move will be."
"I'm not that optimistic," Watson admitted, twirling his cane as he walked inside. "Any possible clues are invisible to me."
"Ha! That's the thing about you, Watson. If you weren't specifically looking for it, you wouldn't see a clue even if it were dancing right under your nose, covered in glazed sugar," said Holmes ominously, before rushing up the stairs. "Have some faith my abilities, man. We will find our Gladstone. But now we must retire for the evening."
Deep in his heart Watson didn't feel like he wanted to "retire" when his Gladstone could be cold and hurt somewhere else, but he had always trusted Holmes even with his life and now would be no different. Watson knew he wouldn't sleep at all that night, though.
"That's a very bad anecdote," he said softly, before starting after Holmes.
Did Holmes care enough about Gladstone or he just another case? Watson wondered if he really remembered the day they got Gladstone. Even if he did, he clearly didn't care.