Disclaimer: I'm afraid I'm not sexy enough to own Holmes or Watson. I just own everyone else who's not in the movie.
The burly muscular man had bulging biceps, and pulsing triceps. The mere bulk of him dwarfed the small, slight girl in the ring opposite him. Spencer's shortly cut hair, almost always in neurotic disarray, which even messier than usual. Her copper brown eyes glared at the huge hulking giant excuse for a human with clear anger. They buzzed slightly from drink. The crowds erratic cheering faded into a slight background.
The man lunged at her, and she sidestepped, jabbing him sharply in the ribs. A crack was heard, and Spencer fell back as the crowd gathered a collective gasp. The man howled in extreme pain. As he had thrown his body back from the pain of his fractured rib, he'd pushed the small girl away with a huge hand.
Following through, Holmes shoved her hand up into his throat, choking him, then sprang up and clapped her hands over his ears, then jabbed him into the eyes, before throwing her shoulder into his stomach and shoving him to the ground in a moaning heap. All this happened in no less than three seconds. The crowd fell silent.
"What the hell?!" yelled out one man in the crowd at the departing back of Holmes. She rolled her eyes before grabbing a towel and heading home, barely noticing the cut running blood down her stomach from the gashed skin across her left rib.
When she reached home, she left on her jeans and sports bra, feeling no need to change out of it. Slipping on Ben's white shirt, but leaving it unbuttoned and rolling up the sleeves, she picked up the violin and plucked at it with her fingers before grabbing the horsehair bow and beginning to play. It was only a song of how she felt, with no published sheet music and no words.
This is what Ben heard when he walked in the door. He looked at the door, which was Spencer's, and found it closed, with the wordless tune wafting from behind it. He opened it up, and found Holmes leaning over a pan, which was tied onto a small stool on a table, with a small lizard in it. The melody stopped, and Holmes cocked her head slightly.
"Murdock?"
"Yes, Holmes."
"Look at what I've discovered; when playing a happy energetic tune, the lizard nods his head faster. But when a slower tune is held, he seems to almost drift asleep. When certain notes are played, he will either walk in a perfect circle, or lie down like a trained dog."
Murdock hadn't been listening all that much. Instead he looked at the open bottle on the dresser. He lifted it.
"Holmes, this is meant for repairing and disinfecting wounds."
"My mouth needed cleaning, and we had no suitable soap."
Murdock suddenly caught sight of the red on his shirt.
"What have you done to yourself this time?!" He ran forward and pulled back the shirt more. Holmes didn't really mind him just seeing her clothed in only a sports bra and jeans. He'd seen her with just those on many times before, it wasn't new.
"Nothing, really. The bastard can just throw a really good smack. His nails were unclipped and ragged. That's what caused it."
"Holmes, I've told you to stop going to that damn club! It's no place for nineteen year old girls!"
Spencer gave him a look.
"Well, you aren't what you could call a normal nineteen year old girl, but still…" Murdock broke off when he remembered her at fourteen, taking on the meanest boy in the entire high school armed with only her fists, her pocketknife, and her wits.
She beat him with purely the last.
Murdock was just beginning to realize how the sweet young girl he'd known as a child had grown into a fierce young woman, armed to the teeth with cunning. She didn't need him to protect her anymore.
The thought made his heart ache for some strange reason.
"Come on, Holmes." He sighed. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Holmes followed him to the kitchen where he pulled open a drawer and began to sift through it. Meanwhile, Holmes opened up the refrigerator, then gave a little disbelieving gasp of astonishment.
"What is it Holmes?"
"We are out of orange juice."
"Okay. I'll get some later."
"We need orange juice."
"The world isn't going to end because you have no orange juice!"
"The world isn't, but my world might just do that."
"You aren't going to drop dead from no orange juice."
"I just may."
"Get some milk instead, Holmes!"
"Milk? MILK?! What if my cells have stopped producing lactase, and when I drink the lactose I start to throw up, then I die because we had no freakin' orange juice?! You would feel terribly bad because you have no me around and you can't live without me."
"You are so conceited."
"That's why you love me so."
Murdock just snorted, then with a quiet murmur of "Stay still." He began to stitch up the cut, feeling Holmes twitch slightly when the needle brushed her bone. Why did the girl have to be so damn skinny?! But, he had to admit that it took a lot of self control on her part to not jump away and make him hurt her more.
He finally pulled the needle through the last piece of torn skin and clipped the string. "That should come out in a few days on its own." He told her. She nodded, then turned away and began to browse about the scattered novels in the kitchen. Settling her hands upon Sherlock Holmes (The one with the lord Blackwood case… It's name evaded him for now) and plopping down in an armchair, she began to read.
"Holmes, put a shirt on." He told her, throwing her his now-bloodied shirt, not meaning for her to actually put it on, but just get the general idea. He wanted to wash it.
Without saying a word, Holmes slipped her arms through and put it on. Ben glared at the back of her head.
"Does this sound anything like today?" Holmes asked, before opening her mouth to begin reading from the story. Ben went into the state of bored imagining, not actually listening to Holmes as the words flowed from her mouth. Something about a fight scene and a dinner party. Nothing really too out of the ordinary, although it did have a similarity of what had occurred today.
As he was putting away his supplies and pretending to listen, he noticed something particular about his hands. They were glowing. Glowing a bright, dazzling gold. He looked up a Holmes, who had stopped reading. She, too, was glowing. As they watched each other, their background changed to the cobbled streets of London in the 1800's.