My first attempt at a Sherlock/Watson fiction. I have the characters portrayed from the Guy Ritchie film in mind for this. Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law.
Translations in italics not spoken by characters.
Please Review, I really hope you enjoy this!
Customary Badinage
"Watson, it makes me very curious how you concoct your tea," Holmes commented, peering over his half-rimmed reading glasses as he sat in the high-backed, scarlet-leather armchair by the fireplace. A large broadsheet was held between his hands.
White sunlight through a newly-cleaned window misted the otherwise shadowy room, exposing an incogitable variety of apparatus; dishevelled stacks of paper- the parchment ranging from thick and richly white to jagged pieces like yellow teeth, even a couple of red-splattered sheets slipping in a most undignified fashion from an oak desk drawer- were hither-dither about the lushly furnished apartment. The green wall-paper had flecks of an odd bluish colour by the door, from what was both completely unfathomable to Watson, who knew it was pointless to inquire to whatever situation had resulted in the oddly shaped blotches. Cut out crosswords and a multitude of half-full vials were scattered on the elaborately pattered Persian rug and there was a dubious collection of curiously sized forks, which were hanging from a washing line hung between a quaint portrait of a gypsy lady and her dog on the wall near the window to an upturned sweeping brush on the other side of the room.
"Holmes," Watson began, sitting in the green velvet chair opposite Sherlock. He continued to dunk his teabag in and out of his china cup. "Anything of normality stumps you."
"Comment fausses, mon ami! How false my friend!" Sherlock exclaimed. Watson sighed in resignation, observing his tea bag as he continued his ritual. "I read the paper daily-"
"Upside down, mostly, cryptically scrutinising the potential subliminal clues hidden by the press," Watson countered. Sherlock gave him a wounded look and took off his glasses, folding his legs. Watson gave him a cursory but absorbing glance. He spotted those wide, blue eyes, swimming with sparks; a fight, a debate, were the thoughts Watson spied there. Holmes' pupils expanded: Excellent.
"I eat and drink," Sherlock responded, stubbornly feigning hurt.
"Not at any Godly hour, Holmes, unless invited to a supper." Watson finally stopped water-boarding the poor little teabag and set it aside on a saucer. He shuffled his well-kept moustache before taking a sip. "Even then," he continued after a longer swig, "it seems you purposely wait until every other attendee has digested their meal to begin! You spend the duration observing them, perversely."
"Watson!"
"You're right; saying the word 'perversely' was superfluous."
"I take walks-"
"Impersonating a different person every three seconds."
"I visit the lavatory."
"No, you relive yourself in urns, vases, alleyways-"
"I have a weak bladder!" This startled Watson for a moment. He licked his lower lip, narrowed his shrewd eyes at Holmes and folded his legs.
"You were able to wait six hours to relieve yourself for one of your twisted experiments."
"I said I had a weak bladder, not a weak willpower."
"What-"
"I dress myself." With this, Sherlock pinched the pinstriped navy waistcoat he was wearing, as if to evince his point. He gestured his hands at the matching trousers and unstained white shirt. Watson's practically twin outfit- different only for the brown of his suit and the additional jacket- seemed far less elegant in comparison.
"Holmes, I walked in on you dressing yourself with merely your little finger as an aid." Sherlock's eyes darted upward in exasperation.
"Once!"
"Yes, once too many times!"
"I sleep."
"Eyes open."
"I ride carriages."
"Head lolling out like a dog," Watson retorted, snatching the broadsheet from Holmes' lap and opening it up, reading it.
"I have company," Sherlock said, proudly.
"Yes, me and Mrs. Hudson."
"Quality not quantity, John. And shame on you for forgetting Gladstone." Sherlock practically pouted as he gave an affectionate glance at the bulldog snoring under the desk.
"You befriend animals!"
"Oh, come now, John; I'm British! The Brits are infamous for their amities with their animals!" Watson exhaled deeply, like a withering father whose child's consistent question of 'why' passes the point of no return. The silence stymied Sherlock. His polished, black shoe flicked left and right like a contemplating cat's tail does as he chewed the inside of his lower lip. He eventually leaned back and rested his forearms on the chair's arms. "I breathe," he persisted, prolonging the verb with a determined force. Watson looked up from his paper and raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips and staring just past Sherlock's ear in consideration. Then, he nodded and returned to the paper, his head moving from left to right almost as if he wasn't reading it at all, purely using it as a shield against Sherlock.
"Yes. I'll give you that one. You breathe." Sherlock gave a short nod of victory and poked his tongue into his cheek, eyes looking through the window outside.
Watson thought a content silence settled between them for a few minutes, but when no sound came from Holmes' after four, he raised his head simply to assure himself.
He found Sherlock sitting there, both cheeks puffed out and eyes so wide he could see the whites all around his irises.
"Sherlock!" Holmes' seemed frozen in this position, like waxwork. "Sherlock, breathe out. Sherlock," Watson reproached, dropping the broadsheet to the floor. "Sherlock, come on. Breathe. Holmes! As your doctor, I order you to-" Sherlock was now turning ever so slightly blue, cheeks tinged pink. "Breathe. Breathe. Breathe!" When Sherlock did nothing of the sort, Watson shot forward and smacked both of Sherlock's cheeks, deflating him. The air shot out of him. "Holmes', you imbecile, what did you do that for!"
"I wanted to see how long I could hold my breath."
"And kill yourself in the process?" Watson asked, incensed.
"Watson, my dear friend, it would kill me much quicker to hear that I am normal." He spoke the word like it was an expletive, taboo. He reached forward and took Watson's tea and drank it all. Watson glared at him and pinched his nose before he could swallow. Sherlock spat the tea out instinctively, inevitably, right onto Watson's suit. Watson looked down at himself, officially vexed. "What a waste of tea..." Holmes asserted, miserably.
Please Review : )