Title: The Little Things
Universe: Sherlock Holmes Granada/Canon
Characters: Holmes and Watson
Pairing: None (just good old friendship for this one :D)
Warnings: None. However, those allergic to fluff might want to proceed with caution.
Word Count: 3,373
A/N: I realize I haven't written/posted anything in forever. So sorry! I feel like a terrible fan. It's just, as I'm sure you can all understand, life became hectic. BUT, there is a bright side to this mayhem: my Honors Thesis prospectus has been approved and it is on Sherlock Holmes! Specifically, on the slashing of Holmes/Watson. And yes, I will be analyzing fan fiction. I get to do this for academic credit. Life is pretty good right now. :)
As a final note (and as always): ENJOY!
Have you ever heard, dear reader, the axiom that it is the little things in life that mean the most? I have learned that lesson better than the average man I'd wager, having spent half my life in the company of Sherlock Holmes.
At the very start of our relationship I found myself making large gestures in the hopes of impressing him. Looking back on this behavior I am hardly surprised. Holmes is a man of distinguished character; one gazes upon him and simultaneously sees a scientific genius, an artist, a detective, a gentleman, and an athlete capable of holding his own in any barroom brawl. It is no surprise then, that my younger self – downtrodden and physically crippled from the war – may have been… intimidated? It is not the exact word I'm looking for but yes, I admit to being intimidated by Holmes when we first met. I suppose, to put it bluntly, I measured us both and found myself to be somewhat lacking. When he proposed rooming together I swore – at least subconsciously – to do everything I could to make myself worthy of his association.
Why I wished to impress an eccentric, slightly rude man whom I had only just met… well, that is a question more easily answered by the gods' pen than my own.
However, as I have previously mentioned, I attempted to gain his favor in our early days by making large gestures. When we first moved our things into 221B Baker Street I was making these concessions left and right. Upon arrival I noted the sheer number of material objects he'd collected throughout his life and compared them to my own, paltry belongings. Before he could voice the desire that I knew was there (if I may boast: from the start I was able to read him better than any other, save perhaps the elder Mr. Holmes) I myself suggested that he make use of more than his half of the sitting room, so as to accommodate his papers and chemistry tools. The only thing I did not willingly give up were the bookshelves but, fortunately, Holmes didn't seem too interested in those anyway. Indeed, most of his literature found its way onto our floor and under the couch.
Thus it continued. Holmes explained his profession – something that fascinated me from the very start – and I graciously gave him whatever he needed to pursue it. I allowed him to take the bedroom on the second floor so that he might hear when a client came knocking, despite the fact that I was in no shape to be climbing an extra flight of stairs. (Between you and me reader, this was also the first (and one of the only) times that I lied to Holmes; telling him that I had better sleep farther away so as not to wake him and Mrs. Hudson with my nightmares. It was a truth, but not the truth for that particular situation and I shall always be grateful for the deliberate indifference with which Holmes treated the situation. It is not easy for a man bearing my pride to admit to such nightly terrors.) In the same vein I agreed to vacate the sitting room whenever a client came by. Of course, this arrangement didn't last long – soon the clients were asking which of us was the detective! – but at the time I thought it a major adjustment; to forgo my own living space day in and day out so that he may better his professor, especially when I, still recovering, spent a great deal of my time indoors.
Everything, from the large to the small I gave him. The menu and times of our meals were re-arranged with Mrs. Hudson (god bless her soul) to better fit with his eccentric habits, the bull pup I had bought in a fit of desire for companionship was sadly given away to an acquaintance, despite my longing for fresh air the window was hardly opened for fear that a gust would destroy some crucial experiment… you understand what I am attempting to convey. I made these concessions over and over again, naturally and without regret, only hoping that they would showcase the admiration I had for my new friend.
However… well, no doubt you are already aware that Holmes is not a demonstrative man. He will certainly toss out the occasional expression of gratitude – "many thanks old man!" – but he is generally not given to displays of affection. Thus, in those early days I had no idea what sort of effect my willful adjustments were having on him – if they did anything at all. I resigned myself to being satisfied with my own (and often Mrs. Hudson's) recognition of my longsuffering allowances.
And yet, only three months into our acquaintance, I was given a bit of the acknowledgement I sought. Knowing what I now know of Holmes, I am no longer surprised that it came in a most unexpected manner.
It may (or perhaps may not) surprise you to learn that even after four months of living in the same space Holmes and I had yet to share a meal together. Our schedules had simply not aligned. The war and my subsequent illness had left my body craving a great deal of nourishment and thus I found myself indulging in Mrs. Hudson's excellent scones quite early in the mornings; far too early for Holmes to be up. I would then often lunch out, forcing myself to exercise my leg and begin re-establishing my old network of friends and companions. Dinner once again found me at our cozy table but Holmes was always absent. I realized only later that he was using the cover of darkness to trail those whom he wished to follow and to practice his seedier disguises. He would eat when he returned – long after I had departed for Morpheus's abode – if, that is, he ate at all.
So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I entered our sitting room early one morning to find Holmes puttering about the fireplace.
"Why, good morning Holmes!" I greeted him rather cheerfully and realized only a moment later that his mood may not be as jolly as my own. The head that nodded in my direction was weighted and there were purpling bags under his eyes. I do swear to you reader, it looked a bit as if a corpse had wandered into our rooms. Here was a man who had clearly gotten very little sleep. I mentioned as much to him.
"I did not sleep at all, Doctor." He responded, waving a hand at my dismayed expression. "No, no, do not fret. It is a common occurrence. It is possible to train the body to run on far less sleep than those idiotic physicians would suggest we – ah." He cast an apologetic look in my direction. "That is, some physicians who may be idiotic – not that all are of course."
I chuckled, shrugging off the unintended insult. I was glad to see that his lack of sleep had not been truly detrimental to his mood. "Well," I said, "you do seem alert, I will give you that. May I inquire as to what you were doing all night that kept you from your bed?"
"A case, my dear fellow, one that required little brains but quite a bit of legwork." From the inside pocket of his coat he pulled out a rumpled and stained letter. He waved it triumphantly before my eyes. "This bit of paper was frustratingly elusive but I give you my word Doctor, now that it is in my hands a powerful member of our royal army will be cleared of some abhorrent accusations. Elusive, yes, but worth it!"
I clapped my hands in praise. "Wonderful Holmes! I admit it does my heart good to know that you are looking out for my old comrades. Although, I suspect you would loose many nights sleep on behalf of the lowest laborer as well as the powerful elite."
"My blushes, sir!" But he was smiling. With a somewhat dramatic flourish he took up a short knife and fixed the letter to our mantelpiece. It vibrated there a moment, the wood ringing.
"Holmes…?"
"Yes?"
"It is hardly my place but… should you be damaging important correspondence in such a manner? It seems cruel to so viciously slice the defenseless paper…"
"Bah! Spare me your sentiment and poetic words. Go eat your scones man!"
Laughing, I did just that, settling into the chair nearest the window. It was my usual spot, one that I had chosen because it never failed to place the sun at my back. It was strong as ever now, warming my shoulders as I poured a cup of tea.
"Will you be joining me Holmes?"
"Hmm?" His attention was still fixed on the mantelpiece, inspecting some bit of grime that had wormed its way into the woodwork.
"I would very much enjoy it if you would. I do not believe we have eaten together since first moving in."
"Ah. A pity that. Yes, I do believe I could do with a spot of-" He turned and stopped, looking somewhat startled.
"Holmes?"
"What? – Ah! Nothing, it's nothing. Well, that is, if I may inquire…"
"But of course."
He cocked his head questioningly. "Do you always sit there?"
"Oh," I looked down at my seat, half expecting to find some strange and remarkable change to have taken place without my knowledge. Something that would explain why I would not wish to sit there. "Yes. I mean, it has become a habit of mine these past few weeks." I smiled. "I quite enjoy the sun."
"Ah." He said again, fidgeting slightly.
"Did you wish to-?"
"No, no, that's quite alright-"
"It really is no bother-" I was already standing from the chair, gesturing to it with open arms. "Truly Holmes, I have no preference on something as insignificant as seating at breakfast."
The look he gave me was truly fascinating, as it seemed to say that such a preference was far from insignificant and that I should care about such things. Deeply. But all he said was, "Then, I thank you."
With a gallant bow I left him to his window seat and settled myself across the table. Holmes, for his part, made himself comfortable, now looking far more at ease. For the next ten minutes or so the only conversation was between our scones and the knives that buttered them. However, I have always been a man who defines himself by his curiosity. I became a doctor because I was curious about human aliments and wished to see if I could contribute in some small way towards eradicating it. I write because I am curious as to how we might transfer memories – both real and imagined – onto the page. And, of course, I have always been curious about my friend Sherlock Holmes. So you can imagine that ten minutes was my absolute limit. After that, I had questions of my own.
"Holmes?"
"Yeeees?" He was balancing his spoon atop his saucer, attempting to prove heaven only knows what.
"May I inquire as to why you were so insistent upon having that seat?"
He looked up, mild surprise flitting across his features. "Was I insistent?"
"Oh no no, that is not what I meant. Rather, I was only curious as to why you were eager to sit there."
He shrugged, a lazy movement. He'd removed his spoon from the saucer and was twirling it nimbly between his fingers. I watched the deft display, impressed not only by his agility but also by how little concentration was required of him to complete the trick. I do not even believe he realized he was doing it.
"I-" My eyes snapped back to him as he began to speak. "merely have my own set of rules. I follow them without compromise."
"Rules?"
"Oh yes." The spoon was tapped against each long finger as he counted them off. "I do not drink while on a case – can you imagine the potential damage were I to become inebriated? – nor do I eat – it slows one down. Despite my many vices I do attempt to take care of my body. I practice my boxing at least once a week and my fencing once a month. I never go anywhere without a weapon," he pointed the spoon towards the stairs where I knew, at the bottom, was his weighted walking stick "and I am careful to never turn my back on anyone I deem suspicious. Likewise, I never sit with my back to a door." He spread his arms wide in a gesture that, supposedly, encompassed the explanation.
"Doors?" I parroted dumbly.
"Yes my dear Doctor, doors. They are dangerous objects. Turn your back on one and any scoundrel could waltz through, catching you unawares! It is always best to have an exit – all, if possible – in sight." He pointed to the open door at my back.
I recall gazing at him with a deliberately medical eye, wondering if I had been living with a paranoid.
"But Holmes, we are in our own home!" I exclaimed. "Surely you are not expecting Mrs. Hudson to attack you while you breakfast!"
"She is rather sinister with that cleaver…"
"Holmes."
"And I thought I observed her sprinkling something into your soup the other day…"
"Holmes!"
He leaned forward eagerly, "Tell me Doctor, have you been experiencing any strange symptoms lately?"
"No." I said, deadpan. "You?"
"No."
"She was probably sprinkling herbs then. Imagine that."
"Hmm, yes. A pity." He sat back with a grin.
Shaking my head at his antics - who would have guessed this brilliant man would have such a mischievous streak? - I began making headway on those scones. It was only when we had both finished and resolutely put down our napkins that I spoke again.
"So this is merely a habit then?" I inquired. "You do not really expect to be attacked here in our rooms."
The laziness that had clouded his eyes dissipated and I was suddenly pinned as affectively as that poor bird he'd dissected earlier in the week (one of my greater allowances: not knocking this foolish man's head in for contaminating our dining area. Clearly he is in need of a physician to explain to him the dangers of mixing putrid flesh with that flesh we wish to consume.) I could feel my neck heating slightly at his scrutiny, an unfortunate reaction that can occur when one gives me just a bit too much attention...
"Holmes?" I prompted.
"Do you really think this a habit?" he murmured, more to himself than me. "Yes, yes I suppose you might. Although, perhaps it is less a matter of ignorance... perhaps it is a problem of perception... Doctor," his attention snapped back to me. "You kept a gun on you during your service, is that not correct?"
My back tensed at his mention of the war, for my memories were still horrifyingly bright and loud, but I answered him with what I hoped was convincing humor.
"Now really!" I chuckled, though is sounded more like a cough. "What kind of question is that, Holmes? We were fighting, were we not? Of course I carried a gun!"
He shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I am asking if you carried a gun at all times, Doctor."
"Of course."
"On the battle field?"
"What a ridiculous-"
"And during meals? Was one near you while you ate?"
"Yes, one never knew when-"
"What about when you bathed? While you were at leisure?" He paused. "While you slept? Doctor, did you keep your pistol underneath your pillow, despite how terribly uncomfortable that would have been? Despite how much you would have longed for the simple pleasure of having somewhere comfortable to rest your head?"
"... Yes." I whispered.
"Was there ever a time - even once! - when you relinquished your weapon?"
"No."
"And now, Doctor? Do you still sleep with it under your pillow?"
I jerked, a whole body twitch of surprise and embarrassment. Holmes seemed not to notice it though, he merely nodded and began pointing at me in his offhand manner.
"There are signs," he said. "That mark there on your cheek - no, no, do not fret. It is hardly noticeable to anyone other than myself - and there is also the way in which you hold your neck. Subtle, yes, but indicative of someone who has not been sleeping on Mrs. Hudson's lovely feather-filled pillows. Now tell me, Doctor, why do you do this? Hm?"
I rubbed my cheek absently. "I am not sure-"
"Oh I think you are." He leaned forward, his gaze intense but, I was surprised to see, not judgmental. "Why the caution, Doctor? Surely you don't expect to be attacked in your own home!" He smiled.
I, in turn, sighed. "I suppose it has become... a habit."
"Indeed. And one for which I praise you. Do you understand now? A habit is sometimes more than just a habit. Your gun was a tool, required for the life you once led, and sleeping with it likewise became a necessity. Now that your life is a safe one and that same action has become - may I say it without offense? - paranoid, that does not change the fact that you still view this habit as necessary. It's just that the rest of the world does not." He shrugged, reaching to reclaim his pipe. "Me? I have never left that dangerous world and I doubt I ever shall. My war, my battle field is right here in the heart of this city." He spread his arms wide, encompassing all that surrounded us. "And these little habits of mine? They are my guns: seemingly foolish to many but quite necessary to me. Do you understand?"
I believe I did and, furthermore, I greatly appreciated the way in which he asked this question. There was no condemnation in his tone, merely the objective curiosity of a teacher waiting for understanding to dawn on his pupil. Actually, in thinking back on this moment, I believe there was even more to it than that. Perhaps the teacher wasn't quite so objective. Perhaps, he greatly desired his pupil's understanding, nearly as much as the pupil wished to understand.
"Yes." I said, simply. "I believe I can see the importance of your 'guns' - even if others cannot. My own habit however... well, that is one I would not terribly mind being able to break."
"This much." He held out his thumb and pointer an inch from one another. "Each night. Use that stubborn nature of yours - oh yes! I've seen it! Don't think you can hide that from me Doctor! - and force yourself to move that pistol a little farther away each time you lay down your head. Out from under the pillow, off the bed, into the bedside drawer. I think that a good place for it, don't you?"
"Oh yes!" I smiled, suddenly happier than I had ever expected to be so soon after my discharge. This man - this crazy, eccentric, somewhat terrifying man - would be very good for me. Quite good indeed.
"And you," I continued, "will take that chair!"
He blinked. "Doctor?"
"Yes, that will be your spot. I will find another place to feel the sun on my back. From now on, within these rooms, you will always sit facing the door!"
"I see… Thank you, Doctor." He would not meet my eye, looking a bit bemused, if I should put a name to his expression. Bemused and... surprised?
"That is... Well, it is very kind of you, Doctor. I thank you. Truly."
"Oh, think nothing of it, Holmes."
He gazed at me somewhat hesitantly. "Are you quite sure you don't mind?"
All at once my laugh bubbled up and spilled into the air. Out of everything I had already given up for this man, he was so very concerned about me relinquishing a seat! How odd he was. How odd and how wonderful.
"No Holmes," I said. "I do not mind. It would, in fact, be my honor."