A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews thus far. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my often-angsted babblings. :-)
Prompt 07: From Stutley Constable – A polite refusal.
All I Ask of You
Holmes is stood at his desk in Baker Street, head bowed over a beaker with one knee bent on a chair. The moon is full and high beyond the windows, the room drenched in eerie white light. His Morocco case is open on the rug, the syringe a quarter full. Adrenaline pours from him like an open wound, makes his heartbeat erratic.
The substance at the bottom of the glass spits and hisses, liquid claws trying to climb. The detective picks up an envelope and gently taps in a powder the colour of soil, sucking in a quiet breath as he does so. Everything has an air of delicacy right now, time slowed and focused solely on this moment. His hand is steady despite the frantic humming beneath his veins.
Then Watson walks into the room.
"Holmes, wh–"
Holmes waves his free hand in Watson's direction, and it is as effective as though someone has clamped a hand over the doctor's mouth.
In the silence that ensues he tips the remainder of the envelope's contents into the beaker, watches the chemical chaos raptly. Watson exhales, the barest huff of air. He has seen it then, but of course he would.
Holmes waits until the substance coughs and settles, then turns to face him.
Watson's gaze is on the syringe, the moonlight circling it like chalk around a corpse. The doctor's face is cast in harsh lines and shadows, his hands pushed into his trousers pockets. Disapproval pours from him in waves, and Holmes fancies it would solidify into something impenetrable if Watson drew too close.
Eventually Watson lifts his gaze, and Holmes gives him the most cursory of glances, dissects him neatly. Whitechapel to Kings Cross to Regent's. Watson tolerates this with his usual patience and waits for Holmes to speak.
Holmes is happy to oblige. It is a game they have played many times before, and the detective's heart stutters that little bit faster in anticipation, honed and prepared to tread familiar ground.
"Yes, Watson, what can I do for you?"
Watson's lips thin beneath his moustache, and already Holmes knows the doctor is going to lose this round. It is why Watson cannot play card games with him, his friend's emotions worn too plainly for all to see.
"You could join me for dinner."
"Ah, not now, my dear fellow," Holmes intones, quiet. "I have eaten already."
"Is that so?" Watson says, almost casual.
"Yes."
"When?" The word comes out like a gunshot, cracked and thinly coated in steel.
Holmes removes his knee from the chair to face Watson properly, hands in his own pockets. A slow tide of anger rolls swiftly in his stomach, recedes and returns. He feels a shift in the room like a physical thing, the distance between Watson and he suddenly not wide enough, even though Watson has not moved from the door.
"It matters not in the grand scheme of things."
The words are devoid of the assurance Holmes was aiming for. But that is to be expected where Watson is concerned. The doctor tilts his head, studies him carefully.
"What does matter?" Watson asks.
Holmes smiles and it sits on his face like a deformity. He is tempted to say the first thing that rushes to his mind, cut deep enough to scar. However there is a line even he will not cross, so he pauses instead, gives Watson's question due thought.
He does not answer it regardless. Watson makes a frustrated noise low in his throat, a tic in his jaw as he chews over his next words carefully, but Holmes's mind has already played out the next five minutes. The detective is growing weary, the ethereal glow to the room beginning to fade. Whatever Watson has to say will be nothing he has not heard before.
Holmes holds up a forestalling hand as Watson goes to speak.
"I fear these exchanges are becoming repetitive, old friend," he says, closely watching the way Watson's eyes flicker with barely-concealed anger. "Let us skip to the end of what promises to be a tedious conversation and leave each other to his own devices for the night."
Watson smirks, but there is nothing joyous about it.
"Am I to admit defeat so easily?" His voice sounds pained, and some part of Holmes wants to elaborate.
"You misunderstand," he says.
"Do I."
"I am merely sparing you from imparting your wisdom. It is wasted here, Watson. I do not wish for your assistance, nor do I desire a cure."
"Of all the–why?" And Watson's voice cracks on the last word, a flush suddenly appearing on his neck. He ducks his gaze before looking back, his expression pleading. Holmes wonders how much that has cost him. "Holmes, you need only–"
"I thank you, Watson, but no." Holmes offers another smile, a kinder one to soften the sting of refusal. "No man is without his vices, as you well know."
He goes too far with that one, Watson's eyes catching and growing wide. Something passes between both men like a thunderclap, but Watson does not stay for Holmes to analyse it. The door slams behind the doctor, angry footsteps retreating. Moments later Watson is pacing above him, dresser to window and back again.
Holmes listens for half a breath or an eternity, unsure what time it is now, then retrieves the syringe from the rug. The moonlight is still with him, pools in the bend of his elbow.
The victory, if it can be called such, feels like a hollow one.
End