A collection of one/more-shots ranging from dark to light and black to white. Some canon, some AU, some happy some sad, some are slash some are friendship. Writing as diverse as Holmes' moods. Ratings vary from K to M.
I haven't abandoned 'Que Sera Sera', sometimes you get ideas in your head that just won't leave you alone, you know what I mean? Well... Here we go then, wish me luck. This collection of one/more-shots will forever be in progress and will be updated randomly.
Reviews would be very much appreciated =]
Warnings: Slash!
I am uncertain as to how he managed to persuade me to brush up on my hand to hand skills in the first place. He has taken it upon himself to personally find any and all weaknesses in my unarmed fighting technique, and for the past fifteen minutes he has responded to my feeble efforts with ''No Watson, you have once again failed to cover both your right and left side simultaneously! Again, this time with determination! Concentration is the key!'' or ''Watson, your footwork is atrocious! At this rate, you will trip! Surely you are capable of much more than you are currently demonstrating?''.
At this moment in time, he has generously granted me a moments break (exactly 5 minutes according to Holmes), a break I intend to fully make use of. I light my pipe, blowing a few experimental puffs as the flame begins to ignite my chosen tobacco, observing him thoughtfully as he mimics my actions. He blinks, his liquid silver eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second as he exhales a particularly large cloud of smoke into the room. There is an unusual spark in his eye tonight. I avert my gaze a little too quickly.
The room is too hot for my liking, but, of course, no windows are to be open. According to Holmes, many of our past and future brawls do not allow for the comfort of good ventilation, and he wishes to ''recreate the most common conditions that we are both used to fighting in, in order for my skills to improve as if I were fighting any other opponent.'' At some point during this trail of thought, I notice that I have wasted most of my precious break on idle speculation. I sigh, and instead I opt to follow with my eyes the way Holmes' fingers tap the edge of his own pipe. For a second I feel like rushing past the curious man standing in front of me to open the windows anyway. I decide against it, despite feeling my body temperature steadily rise.
His smoke curls around a lit candle on the table undeterred by said heat, mocking me as I try to convince myself in vain that the sudden warmth I feel around my collar is the product of the obvious lack of ventilation. Of course it is. The sound of Holmes' voice drags me from my dark thoughts, yet I struggle to meet his gaze once more. Oh how far you have fallen John Watson, how far indeed.
''Ready for round two? Or, are you perhaps wanting to back down and surrender?''
I blink, scandalised at such a suggestion and scandalised even further that he would mention surrender to me after knowing of my time abroad in the field. Setting down my pipe carefully, I reply defiantly, raising my fists like he had shown me. ''Not a chance old boy, you do credit your experience in this area of combat too highly!''.
This of course earns me a surprised expression, then a small smile that sends a curious shiver down my spine. I decide then and there that a smile such as that, the kind of smile he dons when he is the first to deduce the available facts and thus come to an accurate conclusion, is a warning to be heeded in such a situation as this.
This has to be one of the most distinguishing characteristics of my... colleague? Friend? Pest? I am unsure. He is- no. Let me rephrase. He has always has been and certainly always will be a man of many odd habits and odder luck, but I must say his most agitating and endearing characteristic yet is his ability to gain the upper hand, no matter the time or situation, place, opponent or activity. He is still smiling when I move forwards suddenly and aim a slack jab with my right hand to the left area of his chest. I hesitate for a second, a mere second, still unwilling to properly hit him. Too late, he takes full advantage of my momentary weakness and deflects my attempt at a fist strike with the outer area of his left elbow whilst simultaneously grabbing my left wrist. I try to ignore the searing sensation of his skin on mine; the heat of his hand even hotter than my own.
With both arms temporarily disabled, Holmes wastes no time and charges forwards with enough strength and speed to catch me completely off guard. His chest hits mine, the blunt trauma winding me slightly, forcing me backwards despite my attempts to remain upright. His boxing has gifted him with a surprising amount of strength concealed within a tall, thin frame, and I soon find to my horror that he has pushed me so far back so quickly that the back of my legs hit the low table behind me and I fall, taking the now extinguished candle with me.
My vision is instantly flipped 90 degrees, and I find myself staring at the ceiling. My back collides with the floor harder then I would have expected; it was indeed lucky the candle had gone out before it hit me. I lift my head slightly to see Holmes standing at the other side of the coffee table, his hands in waistcoat pockets, wearing an expression of triumph. ''What, pray tell, did I tell you concerning your foot work? Such a blow would have easily been avoidable had you moved your left leg backwards. Your body weight would have been distributed more to that leg, and it would have acted as an anchor for you to produce an effective counter.''
My head hits the floor once more, and I close my eyes. They don't need to be open for me to know that Holmes is doing that inquisitive... thing with his left eyebrow. He lets loose a loud ''Hah!'', which of course thoroughly startles me, and suddenly the stifling temperature of the room gets the better of my senses. I see him turn from the table and practically stalk over to the window to gaze at the full moon and the emptiness of the street; I slowly rise to my feet and reach for my cane.
His back is still to me as I take a step forwards, unsheathing the concealed blade with an artful practised elegance that I had acquired over the years of using such a weapon. I ensure he hears the metallic sching of its unsheathing and the sound the blade makes as it slices through the air. I bring around to his left cheek in one fluid motion of my wrist and apply a slight amount of pressure; not enough to cut as long as he remains looking forwards. Adrenaline courses through my veins and I swear he freezes completely for a second, caught off guard by my sudden boldness.
''Watson...''
He says my name, low and breathlessly; sensually, and I feel a well mixed combination of lust and pure needrush south at an alarming speed. The man isn't even looking at me directly and I can feel the burn of his gaze, the flicker of a candle reflected against tempered silver.
His eyes close abruptly; I watch through our reflection on the glass, both his and my own composure dangerously close to slipping. It is almost as if he is savouring the feel of razor-sharp steel against the tender flesh of his face, savouring the dangerous instrument at his cheekbone. I bite my tongue somewhat harshly. I taste blood; I would have never thought Holmes to be a closet masochist for physical pain, not until he, eyes still closed and breathing still shallow, slowly, deliberately, turns his head to the left, grazing his cheek against the recently sharpened edge of my blade. I hold my breath as a single droplet of blood runs from the shallow wound beneath his eye in a twisted parody of a rouge tear.
My breath is still held painfully within my chest as that single droplet runs further still, staining a thin trail of crimson. It is a stark contrast against his ivory skin, an accidental splash of colour against an artists monochrome masterpiece that only serves to hint at yet another mystery entirely; the legend that is the great Sherlock Holmes. His own personal mystery. It takes every last shred of self restraint to witness that ruby tear reach its final destination, caressing the corner of his mouth, staining it lovingly, like it did his skin, bright red. He repeats my name thrice over in the same sensual manner as before yet I am unprepared for the flash of crazy calm in his eyes as he does so. My breathing becomes irregular despite my best efforts to retain its normalcy.
''Watson... Watson... Watson...''
I cannot trust myself to speak and before I can lower my blade and back off a respectable distance, my strange flatmate regains his composure instantly. Something about the way he positively smirks as his tongue darts out to the side of his mouth to gather that gem of blood tells me his composure never left him to begin with. The great Shikari-Moran was indeed a fool to ever dream of killing this hunter, for this creature is far more dangerous and far, far more intelligent than any tiger.
''My dearest, dearest Watson...''
Those eyes of his stare straight into my soul, and suddenly all becomes too clear for comfort. I am found out and I am a dead man, for I have seen better men hang for lesser evils, minor vices in comparison than that which I desire with all of my pathetic existence. He should turn me away but he doesn't, he should turn me in, but he hasn't yet made a move and I simply cannot fathom why! His smile and that curious glint in his eye is telling me that my... 'affliction' is hardly a new piece of the puzzle, but his eyes... why do they challenge me to reveal more, to act upon my wants?
''I am indeed aware of your most... immoral... alignment...''
Once again, his ability to probe into my innermost thoughts astounds me, even in my current state of arousal and shock. My blood runs ice-cold despite the persistent, lingering heat about my collar and I find myself praying to false gods and long forgotten deities that he doesn't delve deeper, lest he find scenarios that I am none too proud to have conjured up guiltily during those lonely restless nights - those nights where sleep eluded me with a vengeance, the sound of his violin sorrowfully penetrating the thin walls of our residence, forcing my hand lower against my will, rendering me powerless to resist. Again, his voice pulls me from my dangerous trail of thought, yet it cannot pull the flush from my face nor rid the grin from his.
''There is nothing you betray in your actions on a daily basis to suggest your... questionable alignment to other people... particularly and most importantly our dear friends over at Scotland Yard. I assure you that you are quite safe, as I am sworn to silence. Your reputation...'' He pauses thoughtfully as his eyes glance to his reflection upon my blade. ''And neck will remain entirely whole.'' Somehow I find my voice, but am unable to keep it as steady as I would have preferred.
''Holmes... How can you remain in my presence after deducing such a terrible secret? Such an unspeakable perversion... '' I trail off. I feel the rest is unnecessary to speak of. He blinks, but only once, presenting me with another cat-like smile, his metallic eyes reflecting against my drawn blade, creating an illusion that there is not two, but four of those hypnotic orbs watching my every move, calculating, cataloguing my every reaction.
''Why should I turn tail from one of my own kind, Watson? That would make me a terrible hypocrite, would it not?''
Something inside my mind snaps, my very soul feels constricted but strangely alive all at the same time, yet this revelation is too much for both my body mind to comprehend and I find myself frozen to the spot with such rigidity that my whole body aches from the unconscious strain. Words fail me again for the second time tonight and I can only stare with my mouth slack as he raises his eyebrows at my reaction. It is his next move that unfreezes my voice; he laughs, in an octave deeper then his usual voice, he laughs. Low, breathlessly, so utterly him, he laughs in a tone that I have never heard him use and lord it inflames me. If I wasn't going to hell before tonight, I surely am now.
My eyes narrow as I speak, my tone as low and dangerous as his yet nowhere near as controlled. I understood him perfectly well yet can't help but question him. Something deep within demands he elaborate and spell it out word for word, each syllable for my ears and mine alone. For me, only me. ''One of your own kind, Holmes?''
His eyes never leave mine, even as he lifts up a hand and runs the tip of his forefinger down the flat length of my blade lightly, as if inspecting for dust by touch alone. I shudder at the implications of such an action. Such an innocent movement should not command my body as I find it doing.
''Yes... I do believe what I said was to that effect.''
''Do not toy with me Sherlock Holmes! This game you're playing, explain yourself!''
My voice rings harshly in my own ears, I know for a fact I did not intend to come across so... angry. Holmes however, appears to be completely deaf to my outburst, and chooses to answer with another small smirk. I increase the pressure of my blade against his cheek.
Apparently, he is also deaf to warning, as he responds with another ''Hah!'' and turns to face me, this time grazing the bridge of his nose against the razor edge of my sword. My eyes widen in horror as he finally stands facing me; I hastily step backwards. Perhaps it was shame. Or, perhaps... perhaps I felt small amount of fear.
''This is no game Watson, although you do present me with a perfect opportunity to say 'your move.''
I glare at him, jaw clenched, sword still raised. '' My move is it?'' I lower my blade to his neck and increase the pressure, ensuring the skin breaks. It doesn't take much; the blade slices through his flesh without having to apply any friction. I smile somewhat sadistically when he winces; my 'move' created a thin slice, mimicking a paper-cut. ''Checkmate.''
He follows my movements with his eyes grinning all the while, even through my cut, and I find my reason slowly being taken away by his proximity. He brings two fingers to his lips, silently closing his eyes. I have seen him do this on many an occasion, but never in a situation so inappropriate and so damn arousing. ''Do you intend to hurt me... Watson?'' He sounds infuriatingly amused. I ignore him, not wanting to ask myself the same question.
''Explain yourself Holmes.''
Another smile. ''Then perhaps I should level the playing field?''
I freeze, and before I can utter a single word, her reaches for his belt and takes out a revolver. My service revolver.
He must have had it concealed under the back of his waistcoat, and, like a fool, I missed it in my eagerness to surprise him. He flicks open the chamber, tutting. Of course... The chamber is full. I loaded it this morning. Shrugging, he spins the chamber playfully and slowly backs away from my blade.
''Holmes-''
He cocks the gun in amusement and aims it at me, the sound itself silencing me, but he finds it fitting to cut me off regardless with an sharp ''Be quiet Watson!''. I lower my sword abruptly before I even realise it, before I can even think about stopping myself. I could never quite stop myself from obeying when his demands when spoken in that tone of voice. My military training has rooted itself too deeply into my mind, corrupting all. Sometimes I am simply powerless to overcome it. His orders should not effect me as they do, but they does anyway. No doubt he knows this already; I am certain he does. ''Three times tonight you have nicked me with your blade, once was completely your own doing. I think three shots should do it.''
''Do what, Holmes?'' I reply, my voice akin to the very steel I am holding. I stare him resolutely in the eye.
''Bullets Watson. Three bullets aimed at your person should level the game out completely, don't you think? Oh I do love a good game and I know for a fact you enjoy a game of chance.''
He fires the first over my weak shoulder; it lodges it firmly in the wall behind me. I do not physically react, at least not in the typical sense of the word given this situation, but the sight of him stood there, wielding my gun, baring marks that I gave him, looking at ME, half crazed with the thrill of the fight... It does damnable things to my mind and suddenly my trousers feel too tight. I blush and he notices; of course he notices, and he positively smirks with satisfaction.
''I think I am not the only one who is enjoying this situation a little too much... '' He cocks the gun again; I wince and close my eyes, thanking the Lord on high that Miss Hudson had chosen this particular weekend to visit her sister up north. I open my eyes once more to see he has brought those two fingers to his mouth again. He is thinking, deducing, planning. ''John Watson... You will by under no circumstances interrupt what I am about to say. Failure to comply with my simple request will result in another shot being fired. I cannot guarantee your absolute safety, only you have that power. Have I made myself absolutely clear?''
His voice has lowered to that sensual tone I adore so much. How can I possibly refuse? ''Answer me, Watson.'' I nod hastily. I almost jump out of my skin when he fires another shot over my other shoulder. ''No Watson. Answer me.''
Again with that silk-soft tone... ''Yes Holmes. As you wish.''
He smiles lightly but doesn't lower my gun even an inch. There is something... dark about the way he stares at me, yet I cannot place it. Or, perhaps I can indeed place it, but desperately restrained myself from doing so. Denial is a wonderful thing. Holmes raises his eyebrows a little, as if to agree with me. ''Now... Where to begin? I suppose I will start by elaborating on what I actually meant, even though I am well aware that you already know full well the meaning behind my words. Yes, I suffer from the same affliction as you yourself have battled with over the course of time, although unlike yourself, I have successfully managed to fully embrace said affliction.''
I open my mouth to speak, but he jars my revolver sharply to draw attention to the fact that it is him in control of the situation and not myself. I am desperate for him to let me speak. I beg with my eyes for him to give me the time I need to absorb all that has already transpired. It it simply too much for me. The opportunity doesn't come. Instead, smouldering liquid silver meets my gaze and I am reduced to clenching my fist, the glove squeaking loudly as leather is forced against leather. He smiles and continues on, his sensual tone softening slightly yet still an octave lower than usual. ''I first realised I was an invert at the age of seventeen, although I will not enlighten you with the details of my discovery right now. Perhaps when you too come to terms with what you are and learn to accept that it is no great perversion as you are currently so adamant upon insisting, I will share the details of my dark and... pleasurable... past...''
He pauses momentarily to watch me fail to suppress a shiver, then continues on. ''Yes, I have known that you are indeed an invert for quite some time now. I have watched you Watson; the way you move or react in certain situations; I have collected data and catalogued your every preference down to the most minute detail, and come to a conclusion that it is quite possible for you to come to terms with what you are. I will not stand and simply watch you exist in torment; I will assist you.''
I make to object, to voice my discomfort, but he snarls a warning at me and I am silenced once again. Such aggression... Lord, the realm of hell itself will be my final destination, for I find I enjoy the abuse and cannot stop my body from reacting as it does. I disgust myself. Assist me how? How could he possibly? I watch him run his tongue across the front of his teeth, as though simply speaking of my perversion out aloud taxes him. He feels he should not have to give this topic a voice, yet as much as I try to stop him, I want to hear more. He obliges me, his tone gliding across my senses me as silk would. ''No, I have never taken it upon myself to follow your trail whenever you choose to seek out companionship, even as interesting as I am sure those occasions are. You are not alone in this respect; there has been many an occasion where I have sought the same nocturnal relief as you, yet I always do so whilst you were away from Baker Street. Your presence here is distraction enough, even if I can think of more interesting ways to pass the time between cases.''
Images of Holmes doing as I had done on those nights flood my thoughts before I have chance to stop them, and I have to turn away from him lest he see the unrestrained lust in my eyes and the more physical reaction of my body. I know it is a futile effort, a wasted movement. He has already read the contents of my mind, already knows of my unforgivable sins. Curiosity pulls at me; I wish to know more but I simply cannot face him. There is a click and I know he is inspecting the ammunition left in the chamber of my gun. It is another warning, a warning I must ignore with every fibre of by being. I attempt to leave and seek the comforts of my own room, but the fluid, almost musical tone of his voice freeze me where I stand. ''Watson...''
He takes a step or two forwards until he is pressed flat to my back. I dare not move; the heat of his body against mine sets fire to every nerve ending. I should flee. I don't. I can't. Here and now, right this moment, right this very second, we are held in the light of a single candle. Nobody else exists. We are but two solitary figures, both soothed by the steady synchronised ticking of our pocket watches. We are timeless. Ageless. Flawed to sheer perfection, projected and enhanced by the flicker of a temporary flame. He reaches around me; his hand snaking up underneath my shirt; a weightless entity bestowing feather-light touches; benevolence to an undeserving soul. I feel the cold steel of the gun against my chest; the smooth surface of the barrel daring me to breath. ''Your sins are nothing in comparison to mine, John...''
He is taller and much more graceful in his movements than I. I feel him bend slightly to whisper at my ear; feel his heated breath tickle my overly sensitive skin. His tongue glides against my neck and I stutter a choked nonsensical response; he hums deliciously low in approval and tastes my neck a second time, more for my reaction than the taste of my sweat and unease. I shiver. He almost breathes his next sentence, each word designed to debauch me and everything I ever stood for, everything I could ever stand for. ''Give in to me...''
With the uttering of those four words I know I am his tonight, regardless of any protests the tattered remnants of my morality may make. With my sword in hand, the devil himself at my back and the roar of depravity and lust pounding within my veins, I brace myself for the inevitable: I have never been able to deny Sherlock Holmes anything. My body and soul are apparently no exception.