Colours are a curious thing. Sharp hues of scarlet and citrine moulded to bright green that seemed to blend to a rich peacock blue. Every so often the feathers ruffled creating a moving rainbow of iridescence. A beady eye blinked down lazily as fingers stroked the silken plumage. The parrot arched its head, allowing the man to stroke under is beak.
Smoke puffed deftly out from the corners of a thoughtful pout, lips gently playing with the end of the pipe. Sherlock Holmes sat gingerly looking out the window towards the cobbled roads. His thigh ached dully, the effects of the morphine finally kicking into his bloodstream. The fresh bandages that the doctor had wrapped in the early morning had began to seep blood through the cotton, bringing forth the notion of an itch. Sherlock hummed an incoherent tune tapping his fingers against his pipe as the parrot squawked along.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock paused as Mrs. Hudson placed a fresh cup of tea down on the window sill, her tidy hair pushed back into a blond bun. Sherlock rolled his eyes blowing an extra large ring of smoke.
"Nanny..." Sherlock droned.
Mrs. Hudson tutted worriedly as she cleaned up the mess surrounding the consulting detective. Half folded papers, quills, empty bottles and tufts of feathers littered the wooden floors.
"You really aught to get that leg looked after Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson quipped glancing at Sherlock's exposed leg. Sherlock ignored her, pulling the sheep fur blanket closer around him, its softness offering some comfort. The parrot protested, flapping away from Sherlock's shoulder finding refuge among the various plants.
"You frightened off the bird, you foul women," Sherlock muttered under his breath, his eyes following the woman's movements with disinterest. Mrs. Hudson promptly ignored the man, briskly forming a path of cleanliness in her wake. Sherlock wondered by she ever bothered. Within minutes the drawing room was spotless. A horrified expression crossed Sherlock's face as he sat powerless to do anything.
Without waiting for a response Mrs. Hudson quickly left the room, leaving the detective to angrily puff smoke at the window.
Horse - Cleveland Bay standing around 16 hands. Carrying a freight of cargo - fresh cheeses to the store front north. Cheese - formed by coagtulaiton of milk. Caerphilly: crumbly derived from cow milk, fat content fourty-eight percent, mild taste with a mix of tang. Swaledale: fat hard cheese. Lancashire: twelve to twenty-four month mature period, nutty taste. Bowland: mixed with apple, sultana and cinnamon. Tasty. Good with scones.
Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted as the door opened, bringing in the sweet taste of fresh air.
"I guess I don't have to ask how you are doing," Paul Jefferson smiled as Sherlock answered with a fleeting grin.
"Peachy, old badger."
"Shall I?" the ex lieutenant gestured to the spoiled cotton. Sherlock puffed and pulled the blanket tighter. Paul smiled making his way to the detectives side. Kneeling down, Jefferson began to unwrap the bandages, fingers ghosting the detectives thigh. Sherlock's eyes watched as the bandages exposed the deep wound, the thick black stitches keeping flesh together. It was not a thing of beauty. The skin was bruised blackish blue with hints of yellow. Blood seeped in droplets of scarlet.
The almond eyes crinkled in discomfort as Jefferson began administering medicinal solutions, the skin bubbling. Sherlock hissed, smoke rings increasing in clouds.
"Finished." Jefferson tugged the last knot, letting his hand rest upon the other man's knee. Sherlock felt his skin prickle, the heat somehow welcoming.
"Have you had anything to eat? You look too pale..."
"I got shot."
"You need to consume something-"
"Bah. Nourishment is for those who-"
"Which is why you need to eat." Jefferson stood and disappeared, returning with a plate of Mrs. Hudon's cooking. Sherlock crinkled his nose, reluctantly accepting the bread and soup.
"You, old goat, are such a ninny. Cheese next time - I have a sudden urge for Red Leicester."
Jefferson smiled taking away the empty plate that had been magically wolfed down. Sherlock failed to observe the heated gaze of the green orbs as he continued his watch across the streets.
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
John held Mary's hand, his other running over his wife's naked belly. They lay wrapped in sheets enjoying the silence of one another. He found himself marvelling at the life that was growing, wondering if it would be a son or daughter. The doctor rested his eyes, relaxing as thin fingers combed through his golden hair.
"It will be nice having the pitter patter of little feet running around this house," Mary whispered, tiredness slowly taking hold. John muttered in agreement.
"Do you think we should ask Holmes if he wants to be a god father?" John questioned, finger trailing. There was a pregnant pause.
"John, I don't think-"
"You don't agree?"
"I don't think involving Mr. Holmes would be a wise decision."
"I think it would do him some good."
"He deals with dangerous criminals - people that I don't even want to think about." Mary sat up, her strawberry blonde hair spilling over her bare shoulders. John took a breath, letting the matter drop. For now.
"Sweethart?"
"Would love some," Mary smiled, the tension forgotten. John retreated from his wife's side, heading for the pantry. He slipped back carrying two steaming drinks and a few baked delicacies. Mary giggled, carefully pulling her husband back into bed.
John grinned enjoying the moment. The light from the evening sun lit up the burgundy shadows of her hair, a golden halo dazzling with fire. It was a sharp contrast with Sherlock's dark curls. The way the light hit brought forth the gold hidden in the brown. The way his almond eyes seemed to pierce through all that he curve of his sharp jaw, his naked chest heaving, his thigh quivering as John threaded the needle -
John blinked. He mentality punched himself, hating how he fantasized of Sherlock, as his wife, his beautiful pregnant wife sat blissfully naked beside him. Why was he recalling such thoughts of the previous night? John forced a smile at Mary, as she grinned, reaching for the last baked good.
*o.o.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Days had pasted in excitement. John felt his feet fly across the streets, his heart lighter with each bound. He grabbed a notebook, a special gift that had caught his gaze. The intricate design carved into the fine leather showed the dedication of the artisan. John felt a foolish grin grow as he imagined the expression. Sherlock loved collecting notebooks, books for that matter.
"Pardon me," John apologized to the man he bumped into. A gruff response was given but the doctor had already departed.
He wanted to share the announcement to Sherlock. He wanted his good friend to be the god father of his child. Mary had been very adamant that the detective have nothing to do with the baby, but John had fought hard, with Mary finally relenting.
John felt his stomach dance. Would Sherlock be pleased? What words would be spoken?
He found himself staring in front of the large numbers. 221B. With a radiant smile John pushed opened the door, all but bounding up the stairs. He tipped his hat at Mrs. Hudson, who responded with a slight grin.
"Good Afternoon, Dr. Watson."
"You look absolutely lovely today, Mrs. Hudson."
"Dr. Watson?"
The man just laughed, taking the stairs two at a time. His heart felt light. He was going to be a father!
*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*
Sherlock groaned. His long fingers flexed over the strings - the material digging into his fingertips. His power over the violin seemed to tremble with effort. Unable to focus. How utterly pathetic.
"Cocaine!" Sherlock roared throwing his bow to the ground, but took care to rest the instrument in his lap. The door burst open at that exact moment revealing a delighted doctor who's expression immediately grew firm.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?"
The darker haired man was dressed in a thin robe (somewhat scandalously John remarked to himself), hair frantic and wild. His almond orbs focused on John before fluttering closed in annoyance. His locks were decorated in feathers, kohl smeared across his lashes.
"Cocaine!" Sherlock hissed, clutching his violin to his chest. "Thoughts - hundreds of thoughts swarming like insects - I need to focus!"
"Are you on morphine? What was the dosage?" John dropped to Sherlock's side, checking him over.
"Buzzing. Like bees, John."
"Sherlock, how much morphine did you take?"
The detective gave a wistful wave, eyes darting across his friends features.
"You have news."
"What?"
"Spit it out. Your positivity is tormenting. Well? What's gotten you so excited?"
"I am sure it can wait."
"No."
"Let's take a look at the injuries then, shall we?"
"My dear doctor, you all but danced through those doors, an idiotic grin plastered forth. You have something hidden in your pockets, dressed in one of your best coats - one that I might add, I won in a card game -"
"What? I thought you purchased it at -" John started, sparring Sherlock a look.
"And you hardly ever wear that coat, except on special occasions."
John sighed. He didn't respond, simply pulled the side of the robe (trying not to stare at all the bare flesh, those hip bones and firm muscle), exposing the wound. It was clean, the thick dark stitches had held well.
Sherlock meanwhile had fallen silent, his chest rising and falling. He was suddenly very aware of how close John was, the touch against his thigh. Pain rippled through him, the morphine rising to conquer the sensation, but it was starting to fade. How inconvenient. It became very difficult to breath. He hated this...emotion...this feeling of being bottled, his voice crushed without release. He detested the way his heart drummed in want for the man kneeling before him.
It was the drug. It was the pain. It was the inability to move from his flat over the past few days. It was the treacherous little voice echoing in his mind.
Sherlock reached forwards. His fingers found John's jaw, ignoring the look of shock and surprise.
Without a thought, Sherlock pressed a kiss against the doctors lips. Cool, moist and sinfully satisfying. The little voice cackled in glee.