ezzentric

It was one evening, before we had retired for the night, that Holmes resurfaced a shared memory of ours that I had seemed to have lost. He had explained it was from a time we had barely spoken to one another as frequently or deeply as we do now, despite my documenting of a few of his cases at that time. Holmes reminded me, on one of his particularly agitated nights, he had gone from bed a quarter past the third hour to employ his opium as he would often do when he lived on his own (a task he had attempted to neglect from his retelling). This was a time when he was insecure to my vexes towards such substances. Oh! How much has changed! Anyhow, he was surprised, however, to find the sitting room fire place alight with a hunched figure before it. 

I was curled over, with my nightgown sleeve pulled over my left arm just to my shoulder, with a distasteful, in Holmes’ words, copy of Poe’s novel sprawled open upon my lap. For a second, he remembered my poor leg and panicked at the thought of my falling over fainting. He was immediately relieved to see my breathing deeply so much that my back heaved. He had only taken a step towards me when my eyes met his. Holmes noticed a shine to them as they reflected the flickering orange light of the fire. 

“Can’t sleep either?” I had asked him.

He hesitated, “I don’t often do. Not when on a case.”

“Right. Of course.”

There was a silence that hung over us. He remarked it was not uncommon at that time, though it was not any less uncomfortable to sit in. I laughed and urged him to continue.

I apparently had eyed the needle in his hand. 

“An evening sedative?”

“Ah, this, I had not expected you to be up this hour—“

“It’s alright, despite my opinions, it is not an unfamiliar sight to me.”

Holmes thought that he must have been staring awhile as I had remarked, “You could tell couldn’t you? That I was- well, I’m sure it doesn’t take a master detective to do so…” 

He shifted where he stood, fiddling with the rubber band he held. “I… didn’t deem it appropriate to ask, or state, so directly.”

I chuckled, he said, to which I noticed a tinge of red alight his cheeks as he recalled it. 

“Not to worry,” I said back then squeezing my bare arm, “I wouldn’t mind confessing myself to you. Besides, I’m sure you have deduced what the matter is already.”

“…Yes.”

I beamed then. “Hah! Fascinating indeed!” I exclaimed. It was here Holmes had turned our candlelight away from his face as he spoke. 

On the floor of the sitting room, Holmes watched me squeeze my arm a little more, and the previous light in my eyes fade. I had turned away from him. It was then noticed a sun-like shape just covered by my bunched sleeve, its rays creeping over my skin, interrupting every freckle it struck through. 

“It was… it was so cold. And, stiflingly damp. Yet, I was surprised I could feel at all.”

“And this,” I said, pulling back my sleeve a little more, “To try and pry my uniform off it felt like peeling a second skin off, excruciatingly slowly.”

I went quiet. Holmes had guessed I had sunk into a swirl of memories. 

“How did you end up getting out? From the cave?” He asked tentatively.

I gave a slight smile. “The cavity— which I had yet to mention— was blocked off by the explosion’s debris, so I didn’t. Not by myself at least. I was rescued.”

“I sat and breathed those same damp shadows for days apparently. I-I was… I was useless.”

I stopped my speech to breathe again, Holmes still standing where he was watching me. He felt lost at what to do and looked down at the materials in his hands. He felt foolish then, and placed them on an adjacent table and took a step forward.

“You were… Your resilience was- is fascinating. Your survival then, and your existence now, is an incredible feat in and of itself.”

My eyes shot up to meet his again, which startled Holmes. But what was more startling, however was the soft smile, he said, that had warmed my face and eased my eyes. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

Suddenly, I yawned and chuckled, standing and pulling my sleeve back with a renewed energy. I picked up my novel and tucking it underneath my arm, said, “My! It seems your kind words have soothed me greatly. Or, even my own war stories have bored me.”

I brushed past Holmes to my bedroom, “Good night, friend. Enjoy your vices. Just for the night—”

“Ah, Watson...”

“Yes?” I answered, holding my doorframe. 

“… Good night.”

I smiled then, an expression that I never did tire to give Holmes, and finally went to bed. 

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something im planning on drawing for laterz YAYYYY, ive been in the habit of writing (and completing!) short stories lately

this was fun, something i wanna work in is my "victorian" voice. oh nooo guess i HAVE to read more sherlock to do so 🙄

LESTRADE: Hmm… I’m focused on my job…

WATSON: Little, sallow… Rat-faced, ferret-like hoe!! (these were actual words pulled from acd! and totally including the last one)