A cozy, fluffy fic. Inspired by this pic. If anyone could tell me the artist's name... Would be great!
Word count: ~2600
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Watson and Holmes out in the green. Gladstone is with them.
Sometimes, when I watch his hair, black with a blueish hue, I simply want to reach out and touch it. But I do not dare. Sometimes, when I watch his hands, fumbling with the bow, the violin on his knees, I want to stand up, snatch it from him and put them to better use. But I do not dare.
Sometimes I sit motionless in my chair, watching him sitting on his tiger-skin rug, scribbling on some notes for his experiments, shirt wide open, eyes focused on some magical structure of chemical ingredients and I simply stare.
Sometimes he catches me unawares, throws one of his rare genuine smiles at me and asks: ‘What is wrong, Watson? Discovered a new world, recently?’ His smile is reflected on my own face. Yes, I wanted to say. Each day I discover a new world in your world of living. If only you knew…
Then, with a sigh, I stand up, ask if he would join me having some tea, he descends from his imaginary throne into the world of the ordinary people again, still smiling, hair in disarray, clutching his bathrobe around him, black eyes sparkling. A dark angel with ruffled wings.
“Something wrong with your tea, Watson?“ I sigh again, ripping myself from this image, forcefully and drink my tea. It’s too sweet. I know he has put a good amount of sugar in it without asking me before. He still smiles at me, white sugar crumbs clinging in his black facial hair, on his delectable lips… I hope he is unaware of his charm, the charisma he has, the sway he holds over me.
I ask him silly questions about his experiments and he joyfully begins to prattle on and on, circling my chair, not noticing that I love to hear his voice, devour every single hair on the back of his hands, revel in the smooth movements of strong muscles under layers of fabric.
I sit back in my chair, pretending to be very tired, what I am to be precise. I am hardly able to follow the flow of his words. My eyes fall shut and I allow myself to drift off.
I am floating in a perfect world. I lay on a big pad of green moss, soft and a little moist at my back. The sky above the trees is blue and birds are flying all around. Tiny butterflies in all rainbow colours passing me by… The air is warm and smells of tobacco… Tobacco? In paradise?
“Watson! Old chap! Come on! You fell asleep in your chair. Come. I’ll help you getting upstairs…” I blink at him, sheepishly. His face only mere inches away, I can feel his breath on my skin.
“Oh, sorry Holmes. I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t worry, Watson. It isn’t your fault. You had a hard day and I forgot about decency. Come now. Up with you.” I obey and a few minutes later my head hits the pillow, gladly I give in to a last thought of my secret obsession and descend into slumber.
Holmes sighs. Poor Watson. Slumping down in the chair, still warm from Watson’s body heat, he takes up his violin and distractedly begins to pluck the chords.
‘What is wrong with him? First he asks all this questions and then… But he’s a doctor after all. The whole day in his practice… Handling all the different patients with different diseases…’ A big yawn overcomes him.
‘A little bit tired myself… Maybe some sleep…’ And with that his chin drops on his chest, the violin still in his hand he surrenders to sleep, floating in a perfect world…
He is lying on a big pad of green moss, soft and a little moist at his back. The sky above the trees is blue and birds are flying all around. Tiny butterflies in all rainbow colours are dancing in the air… The air is warm and smells of Watson. A tiny smile spreads over Holmes’ face. Watson. He can see him hovering over his own still body. His smile is heartbreaking. And then his voice. Warm and rich all around him. He tells him a story, a fairy-tale...
"Once upon a time a giant lived in the darkest part of a great forest. This forest was on the top of a hill, called the Fichtel mountains. The giant’s deathly pale face is surrounded by a dishevelled beard, made of braided moss. On his head he wears a hat with a wide brim. In his hand he holds a cudgel made of a trunk, and his square built body is covered in a grey-black, wide, cloak like cloth, made of moss-lichen.
If he comes near you, you can protect yourself that way, that you lay yourself, face down to earth, flat into the furrow of the wheel’s marking on the way, banning his power.
Sometimes the wild hunt follows him.
Each Hoiman has his own forest, his own resort and therein his own ways, on which he only straight-way rips on through and whom he seldom leaves… But you can rely on his help, nonetheless. If you were attacked by an enemy he would stretch out his arm and carry you safely to your home on his big hands… Humming a bee-like song by doing so…"
Holmes wakes up with a start… Hoiman… Bearded moss… The wild hunt? Bee-like songs? What a foolish dream this had been? He rubs his eyes and finds Watson on his side.
“Pleasant dreams, old cock?”
“I don’t think so…” Holmes mumbles. He rubs his eyes again and asks:
“Do you believe in fairies, Watson?”
“Fairies?” The good doctor smirks. “No. I don’t think that fairies exist. And you, as a scientist yourself, shouldn’t believe it either.”
“But one could invent on that…”
“Finding a fairy? You’ll have to chase all over Great Britain, Scotland, Ireland and Wales, my dear man, to find any, if there are any. And how likely is that? No. I think it’s an effort wasted.”
Holmes thinks about this a little. Than he jumps up from the chair and announces:
“You’re right, Watson. An effort wasted. But look what beautiful weather we have. Do you feel fit for a picnic? We'll take a basket with us and Gladstone will be glad to get out, have some fresh air, hm, my boy, my nuppy pup...”
Gladstone yelps, straining happily under Holmes' cuddle attack, his long tongue lolling, hitting the rug with his short tail, causing small puffs of dust to arise.
Delighted to hear such a word from his all too pale friend Watson calls for Mrs Hudson.
"Good morning, doctor, good morning Mr Holmes." She says airily, patting Gladstone's head.
"I think the carpet needs a proper sweeping..." She smiles watching the dust twinkling in the sun.
"Mrs Hudson. We..."
"Nanny..." Hisses Holmes and turns to the mantelpiece igniting a pipe.
"...we would be obliged if you could prepare some food we can take with us for a picnic. Mr Holmes here..." He points at Holmes' direction who grumbles something under his breath...
"...needs a distraction. And you..." Watson bends down to Gladstone who licks his hands, "...you will come with us, huh? Good boy!"
"Oh, Dr Watson! There is a lot of roast beef left and a fine pie. I will put it in the big basket, don't you think? Would you like some scones too?"
"Of course! You know how much I love your scones, Mrs Hudson? What about...?"
"Doctor, I insist you take a glass of strawberry jam with you." She pats the doctor's arm ignoring the detective who sucks at his pipe eyeing her sharply.
"Fine. Gladstone!" The dog's big head turns sharply, the small eyes following the line of Watson's outstretched arm pointing to the door.
"Go, Gladdy, follow Mrs Hudson."
"Oh, come my boy. You are a good boy, aren't you?" Is the last they hear when Mrs Hudson closes the door with Gladstone in tow.
"Come on, Holmes. It will be a lovely day."
"Of course it will. Give me a minute..."
Ten minutes later they fetch the basket and Gladstone heading off towards Regent's Park.
“Here, Watson? Watson…”
"Perfect spot, Holmes."
"Here let me..."
"No, Holmes. Not in the dirt."
"Don't be picky. It's a dry mixture of clay, potsoil, mixed with chalk and..." Sniffing at it Holmes found himself kneeling on the ground the doctor's amused glance sweeping over him, secretly admiring the apple shaped rear side of his friend.
"...ash. Someone lit a fire here. Last year..."
"Holmes. Stop it. You are not here to deduce a crime."
"I'm always... deducing, my dear Watson." He licks at his fingers and squints is eyes while Gladstone freed from the leash jumps rabbit like around them, sniffing here and there, snapping after butterflies and bees.
Watson unfolds the blanket and lays it out in the grass. With a sigh he settles down on it, looking around admiring the fresh green colours. The grass is mingled with moss and as he lays back it is a little moist at his back. He exhales and his eyes flutter close…
“Watson…” A whisper in the breeze. He could feel the warmth of the sun's rays falling through the branches and leaves of the trees on his lids. Tiny insects flying through the air, around his head. They were blue and green… A robin chirps in the distant, he feels Holmes' body settling against his leg and hears Gladstone strolling through the grass.
Drifting away he hears Holmes' rummaging through the basket.
"Apple?" A rough whisper asks. He shakes his head, drawing in a deep breath, hands under his head he enjoys the peace of the moment.
When he opens his eyes again there he is, lying at his side, one arm under his head for a pillow – Holmes. Watson sighs, blinks. A green padded vest clinging tight around his upper body, white shirt open at the throat revealing his pale skin, long lashes throwing shadows on his relaxed features. Red lips, moist and pliant in his black facial hair, not a beard yet, but soft to the touch, Watson imagines. He can’t resist. A tender stroke over the black hair, down over cheek and jaw to his chin… scratchy and warm. Watson watches his own hand, enchanted. Holmes stirs in his sleep, stretches into the touch, smiling.
Something tugs at Watson's heart, his hands gliding up again, into the black curls, down again over Holmes' face, under the stubborn stubbled chin. Holmes elicits a purring sound provoking a hoarse laughing from Watson.
“What’s funny?” Holmes wanted to know.
“Watson? Is this a dream?”
“Can we stay here?”
“As long as we want to.”
“Let’s stay forever.”
“Holmes…” Watson furrows his brows.
“Forever…?” Holmes asks drowsily. The old chap was dreaming. He leans down.
“Wake up. You are dreaming.”
"I never dream, Watson."
"Yes you do."
“I don't.” Watson kisses his forehead and the detective sighs.
"Where is Gladstone? Gladdy? Come here, that's a good boy."
"He is sleeping under the cherry tree, Watson. Don't disturb him."
"Where? I can't see him."
"Over there... high grass... He is snoring." They both listen and hear a soft rasping sound.
"He's a lucky dog."
"He is. Shall we eat the scones, Watson? I'm starving."
"I'll feed you."
"Hmmmm... mother hen." Watson flashes a smile, noticing the tenderness of Holmes' lips.
"Come over here, then. Here, settle down in my lap..." Like a snake Holmes curls up against Watson's body, squirms until he finds a comfortable position, snuggling closer on his back his head in Watson's lap.
"Watson, how do I deserve you?" Staring into the brown eyes Watson can not speak. Gently he caresses the face, feeling the weight and warmth of Holmes' head, his fingers closing around his own. Hastily he reaches for the basket, opens it and unwraps lovely soft scones.
"Open your mouth." He demands and Holmes does without hesitation. Bit by bit he stuffs the delicate pastry between the white teeth, delighted how fast Holmes eats everything, devours the offered morsels like a chicken fed by its...
"Jam, Holmes?" With eyes closed Holmes sucks at the fingers, sighing contentedly. Watson swallows, his breath quickening.
"Holmes..." A mere whisper. He can not believe what he sees.
"Are you still hungry, Holmes..."
"Starving..." A pleading look and then their lips meet, their breath mingles, shivering they seek closer contact, devouring each other's lips. The taste of scones, jam and tobacco is sweet. But the strong hands ruffling his hair, the low mewling sounds coming from the detective's throat are even sweeter.
The fairies suppress their laughter. Holmes now on top of Watson presses their hips together, making himself a bed of squirming masculinity, living flesh, hot breath and soft sighs. Biting Watson's lobe he succumbs to the raw but tender force of his strong arms. Wordless pleas from moustache graced lips are translated into demanding kisses, more friction, endless joy of being together and alive.
They stay like this for what feels like eternity. Watson with his nose in Holmes' hair, one hands on his back the other on his buttock; the detective taking the doctor's pulse with his lips pressed against his throat. A radiant pulse, strong and soothing in perfect harmony with his own.
A warm breeze curls around them, the scent of grass, decaying leaves, honey and dog. Dog?
"Gladstone... off with you..." Grumbles Holmes. Gladstone sniffs, licks over Holmes' eyebrow and yawns. Suddenly aware of their awkward exposure in the middle of a public location Watson freezes in mid motion. A faint scent of raspberry jam hits him. His eyes grow big.
"The basket!" He entangles himself and sits up but the damage is already done.
"O no. Bad dog, bad dog. Look what he has done? Holmes!"
Hair ruffled with open shirt and a toothy smile on his face Holmes pats Gladstone lovingly.
"Have you found the beef, hm? Good boy."
"And you encourage him praising him for it."
"Of course. He's cunning... haven't heard him, good boy."
"What? He is our dog Watson. Look. He found the scones too..."
The doctor sighs a slight blush on his cheeks.
"...sniffer dog." Says Holmes, burying his nose in Gladstone's fur.
"Pilfer dog!" Cries Watson, re-wrapping the remains of their food and putting them back into the basket again. "Look at the mess he has made." He stands up staring in disbelief at the napkins, plates and sheets of paper which had found their way into the basket God knows how, strewn all over the place.
"Come, Holmes. Let's go home." Drawing the blanket from under Holmes' body Watson folds it military accurate, puts it on top of the basket's lid and offers a hand.
"Home? Why?" Holmes looks hurt like a child missing his favourite toy.
"There is still jam left..." The wicked glance in Watson's eyes brings Holmes to his feet.
"Oh!" He says and takes the proffered hand. The leash is pressed into his hand, an arm sneaks around his waist, a last lingering kiss they leave the spot, the imprints of their bodies still on the grass.
Arm in arm they slowly return to Baker Street. The last rays of the setting sun is warming their backs. Heartily greeted by Mrs Hudson Gladstone runs like a dervish to be the first through the door. As it falls shut behind them they exchange a glance.