Another up and ready! Sorry for spelling ;)
-Awhoha
Sweat. Transpiration. Diaphoresis. Fluid consisting of water, dissolved chlorides; allowing the body to regulate temperature. Sherlock Holmes grinned, almond eyes focused, breathing labored. The man shifted on the balls of his feet, fist resting on his right cheek, as cool air mixed with sweat down his back. His spine tingled, the roars of the crowd castigating down. Men dressed in thick woolen coats, dirty handkerchiefs dangling about their throats, surrounded a circular en-closer filled with dirt and sand. Arms waved about wagers while bowler clad men shouted, feet kicking at the wooden barrier. The heavy smell of whiskey and odor permeated the arena which many chose to ignore—their attention magnetized to the two men below.
The detective spun- left leg stepping, right swinging as his opponent came in with a jab, mouth turned in a snarl. The larger man howled, twisting his hips and set a right hook across to the smaller males head. Sherlock, using force reserved in his thighs, dove low bringing a series of three opposing punches to the sterratus anterior; three four three. A fist clipped the smaller male as he pivoted, bellows rising from the stands. Sherlock sniffed, backing off, the white bandages entwining his knuckles a dreary gray. His shoes dug into the earth, breeches clinging to his legs like vines. His bare chest, glistening with beads of sweat, rippled with power as he moved. He focused then, lashes thick over his observant gaze.
Opponent: between thirty nine to forty five; pulled latissimus dorsi and bruised serratus—appropriate muscular points for discomfort; nose broken once- no twice before—psychological instinct to guard face; unseasoned fighter—movements sloppy and slow, more for show and coin than proffesional pursuance; two dogs—course black and white hair clinging to left pant bottom; smokes—stains along the fingernails and corners of the lips; now favoring left leg—tibia, no the tibial tuberosity damaged due to kick occurring ten minutes prior.
Holmes rotated his arm, fingers briefly massaging the tight muscle. The bulkier male charged thinking the man momentarily distracted, failing to witness the sudden shine in the brown eyes, the straightening of spine, and the hint of a smile Sherlock Holmes allowed to escape.
First, feign left jab followed in strong with right uppercut to digastric anterior, then left hook to latissimus dorsi; aiming for ribs. Step forward, crack both metatarsals and phalanges; three to twelve weeks of recovery. Retreat, block incoming double jab and deliver chasse bas—seven hundred pounds to the knee; allow five second recovery. Retaliate with a blow to the trapezius momentarily stunning the opponent. Leg sweep combined with side kick—sixteen miles per hour; four hundred and fifty pound of force. Conclusion: broken right foot, torn ligaments in left fibula, slight concision, serious bruising to torso and ribs—chance of one or two cracked. One month to recover.
The detective moved with speed, delegating his strikes with accuracy, the crowds emotions climaxing as their voices echoed off the walls. The brute of a man went down with the final blow, a look of confusion mixed with pain milling his features as he groaned, no longer able to fight. Sherlock raised his arms as the men pounded the walls of the ring, some in victory others in anger. His brown eyes sought out two men as he made his way out, leaving behind the man still lying on the ground; men rushing over to help him to his feet.
John Watson watched while the toned planes of muscle moved forth in confidence, the consulting detective covered in sweat. With his dark hair plastered to his forehead, thin drops of sweat coating his skin, made Sherlock's appearance all the more intriguing. Finding his eye lingering downwards across the vast expanse, John cleared his throat, offering the man his jacket. Sherlock ignored him, reaching for his nights winnings and his bottle of wine.
"You were playing with him, Holmes."
"Whatever do you mean Jefferson? Playing technically is a term used in describing the acts of children. I don't care for the jacket, Watson."
"Then it fits you perfectly—you act like a child." John frowned, grabbing the wine from his friends grasp.
"I say, old boy." Sherlock grumbled, reaching for his drink. "Must you be so hounding?"
"Thoughtful."
"Heckling."
"Considerate."
"Vexing."
"Caring. The jacket, now."
They paused, Sherlock finally letting out a long drawn out sigh, allowing himself to slip into the offered article of clothing. Hot skin brushed against black leather gloves that was the doctor, the man grateful it held back the sinful touch. Sherlock turned, palm open in asking for his beloved wine. Once back in his possession, Sherlock bit the cork, the two companions catching a glimpse of tongue. The red liquid trickled down the corners of Sherlocks mouth as he delighted in the bitter sweet taste.
"Do I have something wrong with my countenance, my dear fellows?" Sherlock sniffed, wondering why both men were gazing so intently. " You both seem so curiously enraptured."
"Debating whether or not to snatch the object before me—seems a bloody shame let such tempting wine out of my sight." Jefferson replied, voice smooth as silk. If it is wine you are truly inferring John thought, a vile taste building up towards the back of his throat. He coughed, grip tightening on his walking stick.
"The wine is mine, old goat. Win your own battles and divulge in your own poison and not come begging for mine."
"Prude."
"I think not! I'll- hold that thought." Sherlock muttered, inhaling a deep breath. Unceremoniously the dark haired detective thrust the opened bottle at Jefferson's chest and took off, turning back towards the crowed arena. John called out Sherlock's name, hasting after the man. The lieutenant shrugged and took a long sip from the bottle before following his flatmate and the doctor.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
"Do you have any consideration for others, Holmes?" John wheezed as the three men stood outside the busy streets, the moon high in the sky. Paul muttered an agreement, his hand smearing the sweat from the back of his neck. "Will you be so kind and tell us what you are doing!"
Sherlock rocked on his heels, hands crossed over his chest, jacket pulled tight across his back. Brown eyes resembling chocolate blinked back at the doctor who glared back, his breath lost to the night.
"Emanation."
"Sorry, what?"" John drew his jacket closer to him as if trying to trap in the heat. The city was nippy during the evenings, their breathes barely visible as they stood shifting side to side.
"The emergence or discharge of spicy to cream flavors of solid wood that continues to build to a marvelously full flavored, complex smoke with a tantalizing sweet yet pungent aroma. Colorado Claro, my dear fellow. A man smoking the very same cigar as were the ones in the crime scene; this one however not deadly in its making. I followed the smell through the unruly crowds, out the back door and into the streets where we now stand. The aroma has been lost for we stand here now, twiddling our thumbs and standing around like idiots."
A thick fog was beginning to roll through the streets of London allowing the many lampposts to cast strange yet remarkable lights throughout the city. John Watson grinned, muttering a brilliant as he shifted his weight once more. Paul coughed slightly, Sherlock's head snapping in his direction.
"Jefferson?"
"Yes, no need to concern yourself. Just out of breathe." Paul nodded, but again coughed- this time with more force.
"You need rest and warmth. We shall return to the flat and have the nanny bring you up something hot; tea and biscuits." Sherlock ordered quickly flagging down a hansom. Paul laughed but it turned into a bout of coughing.
"I would like to accompany you both back to the flat—I wish to examine ." John stated firmly, eyes watching the man carefully.
"Chronic inflammatory of the airways, Watson." Holmes stated pulling open the door and shouting the address to the street.
"Asthma?"
"Not so as to be a problem, just when overexertion has presented itself; running or strenuous labor." Jefferson seated himself next to Sherlock, whoes face was one of worry. John felt envy flash over his features, glad he was still outside so none could witness the slip of his mask. Quickly he entered the carriage, closing the door behind. Horses snorted as they felt the whip across their flanks and promptly took off through the all but empty streets.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
It wasn't until they were settled by the roaring fireplace, a large pot of tea resting on the table accompanied with freshly baked biscuits, that Sherlock allowed himself to focus.. Paul was sitting by the orange glow, a blanket wrapped around his strong body as green eyes focused on the wooden horse forming in his hands. John closed his medical kit with a faint snap before walking over to pour himself some tea. The aroma smelled delicious. The doctor indulged himself on the baked goods that Mrs. Hudson had brought up; terribly missing the buttery biscuits that he had shared with Holmes when they had been flatmates.
"Why do you suppose a man smoking the same brand of cigar was present at tonight's match?" Paul spoke, the knife slicing through the the wood and adding to the pile of shavings on the floor.
"Observing." Sherlock shook his head gravely, fingers steeped under his chin. "I presume he was studying us, perhaps even following since we observed the crime scene but with the lack of data, I cannot know for sure."
"Spying you mean." John leaned back, sipping at the steaming drink and watching as his dear friend thought from his tiger skin rug.
"Possibly."
"Why would he spy on us?"
"Why not?"
"What do you mean why not?"
"Oh come now, surely even you can see; men working in the most well known bank in London, murdered and a group of men investigating? They are being is something about these murders that is rousing the interests of the second party. Why kill a group of secretaries? What acts pertain to motive?"
The three gentlemen sat in silence, the occasional crackle from the hearth. Sherlock sighed aloud, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. How long had he gone without sleep? John thought noting the dark circles under his eyes. Sherlock seemed to sense his stare for his dark eyes met blue, his expressions unreadable.
"It is late; almost midnight. Surely your wife is distraught in your absence."
John heard the silent dismissal, even though it held some truth. It still struck in a way that should not have been so effective, yet the doctor felt a wave of animosity to the mention of his wife. Why should he leave? Was he not part of this just as Mr. Jefferson. Then again the lieutenant had no wife to return to. This notion created another volley of unease.
" Possibly I may stay the night to keep on eye on Mr. Jefferson."
"No need. I am more than capable of attending to the old goat." Sherlock stated dryly, eyes returning to the man intent on his carving who rolled his eyes in mock horror. The familiarity was sickening.
"Then a bid you farewell." John replied coldly, placing his bowler atop his head and tightening the scarf rather tightly about his neck. Without another word the doctors footsteps drifted down the stairs, not even pausing to wish Mrs. Hudson a good night.
Sherlock meanwhile tried to tie down the jittery emotions pooling in his belly. One small bit of data was concerning the detective; why would Watson speak so coldly to him when he had stated the obvious? Watson who was married, who had a wife waiting for him back in their new home. Why was he so adamant in wanting to stay? The doctor had made it clear that he had wanted nothing more to do with cases yet there he had been, sitting in his flat drinking tea and eating biscuits!
"What troubles you?" the voice was soft, caring and warm. Sherlock shivered and sprawled himself down on the skin, his dark curls lying on the head of the tiger.
"Absolutely nothing, my dear Jefferson." Sherlock replied with a yawn. For the first time in years, Sherlock had the notion for sleep. A soft rustle of fabric, the patter of bare feet and Paul was sitting next to the man, the finished carving in his hand.
"For you."
Sherlock raised a brow, reaching towards the offered gift. The wood, not entirely smooth, was warm against his palm; the fresh pine tingling his nostrils. The detective ran a thumb across the belly, his eyes drifting up to meet the lieutenants. Green like grass in summer watched him, the dark lashes half closed. His breathing was back to normal though a slight pink hue colored his cheekbones. Sherlock dropped his gaze back to the carving, an unknown feeling warming his heart.
"I thank-you," Sherlock murmured, the horse dancing lightly across his chest. Paul smiled gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from the man's brow.
"No need to thank me."
"Then it is forgotten."
Paul chuckled Oranges and reds flickered across his skin, the war veteran lost in the world of his own thoughts as he watched Sherlock's eyes drift shut. Moments later sleep welcomed the detective giving his face an innocence that would have enticed the greatest of men. Jefferson waited a while longer before placing a soft kiss upon his flatmates brow. Rising the man left to his room leaving Sherlock asleep on the floor, the lieutenants blanket covering his form.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
It was a quarter past six when John Watson pushed open the door to 221B Baker Street, the mornings paper scrunched in his left hand. He had not slept well, his blue eyes ghosted from his visions. He greeted Mrs. Hudson who was dusted furniture, her blonde hair tied up in a firm bun. He strode up the stairs and found himself standing beside the door in which he knew so well. Without knocking he turned the brass knob, entering into the flat. He glanced around the dimness- the curtains had yet to be drawn, and spotted the man asleep on the floor. Sherlock Holmes oblivious to the outside world mumbled under the blanket, turning on his side. John felt the blood flow downwards; the man looked at ease, without a care. His black hair was swept to one side, his thick lashes resting on pale skin. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing peaceful. He was still clad in his attire from the previous night though his feet where bare. John felt his throat constrict as he took a step forwards. Gingerly he knelt down, fingers trembling.
"Holmes."
The man stirred but did not wake. John ran a gloved hand across his friends cheek, his heart rate accelerating.
"Holmes."
"Hmmm?" The man shifted slightly,eyes still clouded with sleep. Sherlock smiled as if drunk as he awoke to the doctor stroking his jaw. "Watson...my dear Watson." John felt lust tear through his veins at the deep sensual voice repeating his name. Then as if realizing where he was, Sherlock's eyes flashed open, jumping to his feet with a shout.
"What time is it?"
"Wha-the time, Holmes?" Watson rearranged his vocal cords, not trusting his own voice or to what had just occurred moments before. Struggling to his feet the doctor successfully hid the blush creeping about his neck.
"Yes, the time. Oh. Watson. What are you doing here?" Sherlock stared at the man as if seeing him for the first time, heart racing against his will. John's eyes flew to the carving clutched at his friends chest, Sherlock's state of emotions unknown to his person.
"I came to help with the case, Inspector Lestrade told us he would be here at six thirty; it is now six o' clock."
"Oh, the Lestrade. The names. Yes, yes. How could I have forgotten? Was I asleep?" Sherlock asked in a flush, teeth biting at his lips. John grinned at the man's expression.
"You were; I must say it is much needed in."
"Sleep? How many hours are wasted in sleep? There is much to do, so little time and sleep? A much over exaggerated state of human behavior. "
"What's the matter?" Paul Jefferson exclaimed bursting in through the bathroom door, clutching a towel tightly across his waist. "I heard a shout!"
"Nothing, nothing, nothing!" Sherlock drawled while he paced around, "I find it infuriating to have to wait on getting data from a man, Lestrade no less! Jefferson get dressed at once!"
"Pardon me, Dr. Watson." Paul turned his attention to the doctor, who nodded briefly allowing the man to slip back to his privacy. John offered himself the seat next to the window, the rays of first light slipping through the curtains cracks.
"I brought you this mornings paper if you care to read it." John offered as Sherlock plopped himself down opposite, eyes watching the doctor with something akin to curiosity. His long pale fingers toyed idly with the wooden horse as he studied his dear friend. The man had not slept well for his face seemed weary; his clothes—rather thrown together, were not in the tidy state as per his usual state of dress. He had hurried down a breakfast—small crumbs sticking to the sides of his neatly trimmed mustache and had forgotten his walking stick. Most unusual.
"Peaches?"
"What?"
"I said peaches. I picked up peach jam at the bakery a half mile down last week; fantastic with biscuits . So, again I ask, peaches?"
"No, I'm quite fine, thank-you." John raised a brow, burying himself with the morning news, his friend ignoring the paper completely. The doctor propped his feet up against the table, riding himself of his overcoat as he settled down comfortably.
"Stubbornness does not become you, Watson." Sherlock sniffed as the doctor shot him a glance over stop the newspaper, the pages turning with an audible sound. Paul emerged moments later, buttoning up his vest. A knock on the door roused the mens attention as a short man presented himself. He was dressed in the black uniform of a police official, thin face parsed in a permanent frown.
"Inspector Lestrade to see a Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Send him in." Sherlock smiled, revealing white teeth. The man gave a stiff bow before retreating to the downstairs floor. Shortly after, footsteps were heard from the stairs. Lestrade greeted the men a good morning just as Paul threw open the curtains; sunlight advancing into the room in full force.
"I have someone who wishes to speak with you, ." Lestrade said, turning his attention to the detective wincing away from the light. The man was a mystery; an incredible mind, a wicked tongue and a body any man would envy. Some days Lestrade would find Mr. Holmes infuriating and at times rather devilishly handsome. It seemed a constant battle, one the Inspector found rather tiring.
"You brought what I asked for?
"Let me finish; as I was saying, there is someone here to see you, someone of significant importance." Lestrade barked, lighting up a cigarette, eyes warily watching the taller man. Sherlock frowned, fingers itching to receive the information pertaining to the cigar shops in London.
"Then why the hesitation? The list, if you would be so kind." Sherlock stated rather irritably. Lestrade reached into his inside jacket, pulling out a sheet of yellowed paper. He strode over to Sherlock, passing over the list. "This man, the owner of the bank, why should he be so keen to seek my counsel?"
"How did you know-"
"The only person outside of the police department and the two gentlemen here who would see me in accordance with this case would be a member of the bank—hence in all likelihood, the owner. Most likely concerned with the reputation of his establishment."
Lestrade pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. He huffed before nodding to the constable behind him to bring up the owner. Sherlock smirked, finger-tips pressed around the carving. The fun was about to begin.