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storypaint) wrote2015-02-08 08:48 pm
storypaint) wrote2015-02-08 08:48 pm
[Sherlock Holmes] it's been you all along (Holmes/Watson)
Title: it's been you all along
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Length: 817 words
Prompt: Sherlock Holmes fic battle: steampunkverse, Holmes/Watson (or Watson/Holmes), "The Last Time" by Taylor Swift
Pairing: John/Mary and John/Shirley
Other: Set in an AU-verse where Sherlock was born Shirley, but the setting is (mostly) retained with some occasional steampunk elements that don't show up in this fic. This is an infidelity scenario.
Excerpt: The snow was blowing furiously past the window when Shirley heard familiar footsteps on the chair. Watson didn't bother knocking -- really, he never did nowadays. He probably thought she wouldn't let him in.
The snow was blowing furiously past the window when Shirley heard familiar footsteps on the chair. Watson didn't bother knocking -- really, he never did nowadays. He probably thought she wouldn't let him in.
Sometimes she thinks that she shouldn't, but she doesn't get up from her chair, which is perched almost perilously close to the fire, so she might better sink in its warmth. He stamps in, shivering and shaking the water droplets from his hat before he sets it on the hat rack. His face is red, wind-burnt, and he's smiling, despite the weather. She's seen skies like this before, and she thinks he'll be lucky to make it home tonight, if he goes. The weather won't let up until tomorrow morning at the earliest.
She's already thinking about him leaving, buttoning his coat tight against the chill and promising to call on her again soon. From anyone else it would be innuendo, and sometimes from him, as well, and she presses him up against the wall and kisses him until they're both panting. But sometimes he leaves, light-hearted and friendly as he came, eager to be off to home. It just reminds her that Baker Street isn't his home anymore.
She doesn't move from her chair and Watson approaches, his brow a little creased with concern.
"I hope you haven't been out in this," he says. If he were observant at all, he'd know she hadn't left this room but for necessities today. She has been lazy today, with no cases to occupy her and cocaine in her veins.
"I didn't expect you," she says, and he stands there over her for a moment, awkward, before seating himself on the couch and waiting. He knows her moods, her lethargies, and he doesn't begrudge them. He has always been oddly patient.
"Ah, well," he says, "I had to drop Mary off at the station, and decided I might as well come by and see you. How did that forgery case shuffle out?"
"I was going to bed," Shirley says, watching the confusion play over his face. It is as if sometimes he forgot that, of his two lives, this is the morally ambiguous one. He dropped his wife off to visit her adopted mother, and then went to his lover. Nothing deplorable about that, apparently.
She can't really get up a good moral outrage, though. Shirley has a strong sense of justice, but that doesn't mean that her morality has to match with what's popular of the day. It does bother her, however, to be the afterthought. How many times have they done this? How many times has she wanted him more than anything?
She wouldn't marry him, so he went off to get his rings and paperwork with someone else. But he wants it all to be the same, even so. And it isn't. Shirley isn't anyone's second thought.
"Are you feeling all right?" John decides to ask.
"When are you picking her up?" she asks instead.
"Tuesday, at one o'clock," he answers, still confused. He's trying to read her expression in the firelight, but her face is shadowed, she knows. And even if he could read it, he wouldn't understand.
"You know where the other bedroom is," she says, and has crossed the sitting room into her own bedroom and locked the door behind her before he even gets up from the couch. She pulls the key out of the lock. For a moment, her shoulders shake. John tries to speak to her, but she ignores him, and eventually he goes away. She stays up most of the night pondering over an old case she'd never found the solution for, but comes to no further conclusions.
The next morning, when she unlocks the door, he is gone. There's proof of him all over the room, if you know what to look for, and of course Shirley does. He stood in front of her bedroom door for quite a while, but eventually returned to the fireside to stay warm. He slept uncomfortably on the couch, as if he expected her to sneak by him in the night or something. Silly Watson -- she would have done it had she wanted to, even if he were snoring there. But he left, early this morning, before breakfast.
But he will be back later, and if he knocks, she will let him in. She is not well-known for self-control. (There is a note on the sideboard, and she doesn't need to read it to know the way it runs: apologies, although he still doesn't realize what for; irritation, as his patience isn't infinite; uncertainty, because she could and does so easily break his heart.)
The sunlight through the window, reflected by the glittering snow, throws gold over her sitting room, and there she waits, reading newspaper after newspaper and listening for the right footfalls on the stair.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Length: 817 words
Prompt: Sherlock Holmes fic battle: steampunkverse, Holmes/Watson (or Watson/Holmes), "The Last Time" by Taylor Swift
Pairing: John/Mary and John/Shirley
Other: Set in an AU-verse where Sherlock was born Shirley, but the setting is (mostly) retained with some occasional steampunk elements that don't show up in this fic. This is an infidelity scenario.
Excerpt: The snow was blowing furiously past the window when Shirley heard familiar footsteps on the chair. Watson didn't bother knocking -- really, he never did nowadays. He probably thought she wouldn't let him in.
The snow was blowing furiously past the window when Shirley heard familiar footsteps on the chair. Watson didn't bother knocking -- really, he never did nowadays. He probably thought she wouldn't let him in.
Sometimes she thinks that she shouldn't, but she doesn't get up from her chair, which is perched almost perilously close to the fire, so she might better sink in its warmth. He stamps in, shivering and shaking the water droplets from his hat before he sets it on the hat rack. His face is red, wind-burnt, and he's smiling, despite the weather. She's seen skies like this before, and she thinks he'll be lucky to make it home tonight, if he goes. The weather won't let up until tomorrow morning at the earliest.
She's already thinking about him leaving, buttoning his coat tight against the chill and promising to call on her again soon. From anyone else it would be innuendo, and sometimes from him, as well, and she presses him up against the wall and kisses him until they're both panting. But sometimes he leaves, light-hearted and friendly as he came, eager to be off to home. It just reminds her that Baker Street isn't his home anymore.
She doesn't move from her chair and Watson approaches, his brow a little creased with concern.
"I hope you haven't been out in this," he says. If he were observant at all, he'd know she hadn't left this room but for necessities today. She has been lazy today, with no cases to occupy her and cocaine in her veins.
"I didn't expect you," she says, and he stands there over her for a moment, awkward, before seating himself on the couch and waiting. He knows her moods, her lethargies, and he doesn't begrudge them. He has always been oddly patient.
"Ah, well," he says, "I had to drop Mary off at the station, and decided I might as well come by and see you. How did that forgery case shuffle out?"
"I was going to bed," Shirley says, watching the confusion play over his face. It is as if sometimes he forgot that, of his two lives, this is the morally ambiguous one. He dropped his wife off to visit her adopted mother, and then went to his lover. Nothing deplorable about that, apparently.
She can't really get up a good moral outrage, though. Shirley has a strong sense of justice, but that doesn't mean that her morality has to match with what's popular of the day. It does bother her, however, to be the afterthought. How many times have they done this? How many times has she wanted him more than anything?
She wouldn't marry him, so he went off to get his rings and paperwork with someone else. But he wants it all to be the same, even so. And it isn't. Shirley isn't anyone's second thought.
"Are you feeling all right?" John decides to ask.
"When are you picking her up?" she asks instead.
"Tuesday, at one o'clock," he answers, still confused. He's trying to read her expression in the firelight, but her face is shadowed, she knows. And even if he could read it, he wouldn't understand.
"You know where the other bedroom is," she says, and has crossed the sitting room into her own bedroom and locked the door behind her before he even gets up from the couch. She pulls the key out of the lock. For a moment, her shoulders shake. John tries to speak to her, but she ignores him, and eventually he goes away. She stays up most of the night pondering over an old case she'd never found the solution for, but comes to no further conclusions.
The next morning, when she unlocks the door, he is gone. There's proof of him all over the room, if you know what to look for, and of course Shirley does. He stood in front of her bedroom door for quite a while, but eventually returned to the fireside to stay warm. He slept uncomfortably on the couch, as if he expected her to sneak by him in the night or something. Silly Watson -- she would have done it had she wanted to, even if he were snoring there. But he left, early this morning, before breakfast.
But he will be back later, and if he knocks, she will let him in. She is not well-known for self-control. (There is a note on the sideboard, and she doesn't need to read it to know the way it runs: apologies, although he still doesn't realize what for; irritation, as his patience isn't infinite; uncertainty, because she could and does so easily break his heart.)
The sunlight through the window, reflected by the glittering snow, throws gold over her sitting room, and there she waits, reading newspaper after newspaper and listening for the right footfalls on the stair.