Good day to you. Could I possibly request some fluff material for my good man Charles Phipps with s/o who is a bit unhinged in a good way - wearing mismatched socks, blowing soap bubbles as a stress relief and can randomly start serenading him in the middle of the street
❝ Charles Phipps x UNHINGED (AFFECTIONATE) S/O ❞
⸻
❝ FIRST IMPRESSION ❞
ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴇᴛꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ.
The first time he meets you, it is in a setting that demands structure. Conversation is measured, movements precise, every person in the room aware of their place and role.
And then there is you.
Your socks do not match. Not subtly, not in a way that could be overlooked. One is patterned, the other plain, and you wear them with complete indifference. You hum under your breath between pauses in conversation, like silence is something you refuse to let settle too long.
Charles Phipps does not react. Not outwardly. He simply observes, cataloguing every detail the way he always does.
At first, he assumes it is a quirk. A passing eccentricity.
Then you begin blowing soap bubbles out an open window mid-discussion, completely unbothered by the presence of others.
That is when he realizes.
You are not careless.
You are simply… uncontained.
And for reasons he does not examine too closely, he finds that he does not dislike it.
⸻
❝ THE SOCKS ❞
ʜᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇꜱ ʟᴏɴɢ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ.
He notices immediately that they never match. Every day is different. Sometimes clashing colors, sometimes completely different textures. It is never accidental. There is intention in it, even if it is not structured.
At first, he says nothing. He simply watches, committing the pattern to memory without understanding why he is doing so.
Then one day, without comment, he places a small box beside you. Inside are several pairs of socks.
None of them match.
Different fabrics. Different patterns. Carefully chosen, though he would never admit how much thought went into it.
When you look at him, confused but intrigued, he adjusts his gloves slightly.
“I assumed consistency was not your preference.”
It is the closest he comes to teasing.
⸻
❝ SOAP BUBBLES ❞
ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ, ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ.
The first time you do it in front of him, it is during a moment that should not allow for distractions. Tension sits thick in the air, conversation tight and calculated, and then you quietly pull out a small bottle and begin blowing bubbles into the space between words.
He pauses.
Not in disapproval.
In understanding.
Your shoulders relax with each breath. Your focus steadies. The chaos in your expression softens into something manageable.
He says nothing. The conversation continues.
But from that point forward, the small bottle is never empty for long.
You never see him replace it. You never catch him checking.
And yet, it is always there when you need it.
⸻
❝ SERENADES IN PUBLIC ❞
ʜᴇ ʟᴇᴛꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇ ꜱᴇᴇɴ.
You do not hesitate.
A melody catches your attention and suddenly you are singing, right there in the street, in the middle of everything. People slow. They stare. Some whisper.
You do not notice.
Or you do not care.
Phipps remains exactly where he is. Composed, posture straight, expression neutral as always. As if this is entirely expected behavior.
When you take his hand mid-song, pulling him into your orbit, he allows it. He does not stumble. He does not resist. He simply adjusts to your movement with quiet precision.
Not drawing attention.
Not avoiding it either.
And when you finish, he gives a small, polite clap, voice even.
“Your timing is impeccable.”
There is the faintest hint of something softer beneath it.
⸻
❝ HOW HE GROUNDS YOU ❞
ᴄᴀʟᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ.
Your energy shifts quickly. One moment bright and scattered, the next distant and quiet. It can overwhelm others.
It never overwhelms him.
He does not try to fix it. He does not demand explanation.
Instead, he adjusts.
A gentle hand at your back to guide you away from a crowd before it becomes too much. A quiet redirection when your attention begins to spiral. A steady presence that does not crowd you, but does not leave you untethered either.
He learns your patterns without asking. Anticipates your needs without making it obvious.
You are never forced to slow down.
But you are never left to fall apart either.
⸻
❝ HOW YOU AFFECT HIM ❞
ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ.
Phipps is precise in everything he does. Every movement has purpose. Every word is measured. Every expression controlled.
You disrupt that.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But there are moments.
Moments where he allows silence to linger instead of filling it. Moments where he does not immediately correct something out of place. Moments where his gaze stays on you just a second too long before he looks away.
Once, when you start humming absentmindedly beside him, he does not interrupt.
He listens.
And that alone is a shift no one else would ever be allowed to cause.
⸻
❝ AFFECTION ❞
ᴅᴇʟɪʙᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ. ᴄᴏɴꜱɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛ.
He is not outwardly affectionate. Not in ways that draw attention or invite commentary.
But he is always aware of you.
Your coat is adjusted before you realize it has slipped. Your path is cleared without you noticing. Small inconveniences disappear before they can reach you.
When you lean against him unexpectedly, he stills for only a fraction of a second before allowing it.
His hand will rest lightly against yours. Not gripping. Not restricting.
Just there.
A quiet reassurance.
⸻
❝ HIS FAVORITE MOMENT ❞
ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘꜱ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ.
It is late.
There are no expectations. No observers. No need for composure beyond habit.
You sit near an open window, blowing bubbles into the night air, watching them drift and disappear. You hum something soft, barely audible, completely lost in your own world.
He watches you.
Longer than he should.
There is no reason to. No benefit. No purpose.
And yet, he does.
Then, as always, he adjusts his gloves and looks away.
Composure restored.
Routine intact.
But if anyone were to ask him what peace feels like, he would think of this.
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Hypnosis // sensory deprivation // “in my head you’re still alive”
Very loose interpretation of hypnosis, which means VAMPIRES BABY FOR SPOOKY SEASON!!!
*~*~*~*~*
Whumper cornered Whumpee in the alleyway, the poor dear trembling like a deer in shock, violently and so enticing. Whumpee kept backing up, turning their head left and right frantically but Whumper knew this alley was a dead end. He grinned as he stalked closer and Whumpee yelped, backing up all the way into a wall.
They flinched when they felt it. A sudden jolt of fear and panic as all blood drained from Whumpee’s darling face to their heart to be pumped around the muscles in their body.
Flee, flee, flee.
There was no fight impulse when a human faced a vampire, their body flooded with adrenaline to run, run as fast as they can.
“P-p-please! Please, no! Please!” Whumpee cried, holding their hands out in vain to create an illusion of control. Whumper stopped a metre away, tilting his head to the side, his grin exposing his fangs.
“You’re too pretty to be a chimney sweep,” Whumper said to the young boy covered in soot. He wore a peak cap and clothes that looked to be scraps of other clothes sewn together.
“Stay— stay back! I know what you are,” Whumpee announced, trying to be firm but their trembling lip gave them away.
“I know what you are too. Isn’t it illegal for girls to earn a wage?”
Whumpee stiffened. Their trembling ceased and they lowered their arms to their side, tightening their hands into fists. Her eyes sharpened dangerously.
“I’m a boy,” Whumpee said, her voice suddenly pitched down.
Whumper laughed and stepped forwards and Whumpee remembered to be afraid again and threw herself flat against the wall.
“I don’t like when my food lies to me,” Whumper sang, closing the distance between them.
Whumpee sucked in a fretful breath with an effort. “Th-thankfully chickens can’t speak.”
It was Whumper’s turn to freeze.
A surprised, melodic laughter bubbled up and out of his throat, stunning the girl into silence. She searched the area behind him, trying to see if there was any way she would be able to get by him, to skirt around him and make a run for it. Maybe if she kept making him laugh he would let her go?
“Child,” Whumper said fondly, fingers settling heavy on the brim of Whumpee’s hat. Whumpee’s hands shot up in panic, not thinking, as she held the hat over her hair.
“Please, please sir, don’t, please.”
A cold hand cupped under her chin and tilted her head up to meet the Vampire’s enthralling eyes. She was transfixed, locked into his gaze that seemed to be pulling her further in the more she looked, like the smell of chocolate from the corner shop that opened its doors after school. She forgot her fear, completely unafraid, all her worry leaving her as if it was just a suggestion, a silly notion that she was afraid at all.
“Good,” Whumper hummed and Whumpee almost melted at the praise. “Drop your hands.”
Whumpee obeyed, lost in the labyrinth of his gaze unaware of the minotaur that lurked, following her through every new corner.
Whumper removed Whumpee’s hat. Whumpee didn’t even blink, too afraid to miss the allure of his gaze. Her blond hair like silver thread fell over her shoulders, tarnished by the soot and the remnants of ash, but still magnificent. Whumper didn’t expect to be pleasantly surprised at how pleasing the human was to his eyes.
“There we are. Much better. Tell me, child, how old are you?”
“Sixteen sir,” Whumpee answered automatically. Her voice less boyish now, more dreamlike and light.
Whumper smiled. “Not even fully grown,” he hummed. “Why are you dressed as a boy?”
“To earn money, sir.”
“Why?” Whumper pressed, running a knuckle down the side of Whumpee’s face, tracing the prominent outline of her skull all the way down to her throat.
“For my family, sir.”
Hmph, extraordinary polite for a human. Whumper locked the information in the back of his mind, he hadn’t compelled the girl to call him sir, she just seemed to. A reflex.
“What about your schooling?”
“I—” Whumpee began, but hesitated, her eyes blinking back the fog. Whumper saw the beginnings of recognition flashing in her blue eyes, so he tilted her head up again to lock eyes with his and she was under his thrall once more. “I need to provide for my family, sir. So I dropped out.”
Whumper’s smile grew. What a strange creature.
“Where are your parents? Do they not—”
“They’re dead, sir,” Whumpee said, cutting over Whumper. Whumper raised a brow at her interruption, but he knew she couldn’t really control what she was saying so he let the slight go. “I’m all we have.”
“You provide for your siblings?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you the oldest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how old are they?”
“They’re—” the fog dropped immediately as Whumpee was suddenly back in their body, eyes widening initially at how close Whumper was before they shut them tight and shoved Whumper’s chest away. “No! NO! Get away from me!”
Whumper’s hand didn’t leave Whumpee’s chin. “Open your eyes child, I just want to—”
“No!” Whumpee cried, shaking her head. Her hair brushed her face and oh, yes, she forgot he removed her hat but she knew he did. “Whatever you’re doing to me stop it! Stop it! Let me go!”
Whumper stared as the child squirmed, throwing thin fists at Whumper’s chest and arms and trying to rip his hand away. How fascinating a child she was, determined and loyal, protecting her family more than herself.
It took a lot to break a vampire’s thrall, but it was near impossible to break Whumper’s and this slight of a thing, this small scrappy girl, masquerading as a boy, covered in soot and ash and coal, she was able to break it?
Whumpee’s eyes shot open when Whumper put her hat back on her head, surprise winding every muscle tight. Anticipation of something awful flooded her and she wanted to cry and scream for help, but if she did, only men would come running — men who would see her hair, dressed as a boy and lock her up in an asylum or something, and she’d never be able to see her family again. They’d be sent to workhouses or worse…
Whumper stepped away. Whumpee didn’t move an inch as he back up another step, then another, and turned his body to the side, allowing her to pass.
Her mouth was dry. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m letting you go,” said the vampire.
Whumpee didn’t move. “You’re trying to trick me,” she accused, licking her cracked lips. “When I walk past you’re going to —”
The world rushed suddenly around her and she gasped as a hand was on her throat, a thumb on her cheek, forcing the side of her face into the brickwork and she gasped, kicking her legs weakly as her air bled from her body.
Her hat vanished in the flurry of movement and Whumpee found herself locking eyes with the vampire again, her heart racing in her chest but she didn’t feel the floating absence of sensation she felt before, it was more like seeing a wolf in the woods on its own, the two of you hunting for game and seeing which would look away first, which of them would back out of the fight.
“If I wanted to kill you, dear, trust me, you’d be dead.” His voice carrying through air like the choir in church, soothing and pleasant. He dropped her and she fell to ground, landing on both feet and tipping backwards, leaning on the wall for support. Whumper was impressed. He pressed her hat back into her hands which Whumpee took with trepidation. He leaned down and grinned, exposing his fangs again and Whumpee flinched. “Run along now, little one. I’m getting hungry, and you don’t want to be here when I fancy a snack, hmm?”
Whumpee didn’t need to be told twice. She didn’t even put her hat on immediately and fix all the strands perfect, she did it as she half ran out of the alley, haphazardly throwing her hair up and smashing the brim of her hat low over her brows. Her heart pounded in her chest but she didn’t stop running until she made it home.
She looked over her shoulder, glancing around to make sure the vampire or anyone else hadn’t followed her before she snuck into the abandoned manor at the end of the high street, a condemned building, Whumper realised as he watched her throw open the doors to the cellar and with one last glance around, she disappeared beneath the ground.
Whumper smiled.
Clever girl. Observant, unlike so many other humans. Whumper would have to watch her over the week, see if he could see any of her siblings or the hint of a parent or guardian figure.
For now though, he was famished. The girl had been his meal before she was so intriguing. He wanted something fatty, he hummed, turning away from the manor and walking to the manor houses of the rich. A grin on his face.
A feast for his stomach and a feast for his brain.
John let out a small grunt and then groaned once he picked himself off the sidewalk, once he was done messing about with his shoes.
He rummaged in his pocket to pull the coin out into his hand. A single shilling in mint condition, a routine that John cleaned his coins that bordered on near compulsion. His thumb lightly passed over the engraving of the crown that sat upon the mature bust of Queen Victoria.
His eyes caught the horses that moved swiftly along, despite the people inside the cart; they moved expertly through the bustling streets of London with ease. His leg seemed to ache, and his left shoulder twinged at the prospect of a ride, yet this was precisely why John kept only a shilling on him.
Other than the muggings, he only armed himself with a shilling on days he wasn't out for errands. It kept his spending low and the target off his back for any nimble fingers.
He put the coin back into his pocket and adjusted the bag on his shoulder. The moment he started to walk, the aches and twinges began to fade with each step down Baker Street.
John remembered complaining to Sherlock, when he was sure the man wasn't paying attention, about the aches and pains he was experiencing during his walks. In his thirty minutes of ranting, he was suddenly cut off with a sharp, "Then don't." By Sherlock, who hadn't lifted his eyes off the paper he was reading.
"You aren't even listening to me! Why give such advice as that if you aren't truly following?" John knew these were fighting words; a challenge wrapped up in a little bow that was cut by Sherlock's lifted stare.
"I would follow more if it was not the same problem repeated in different flourishes of the word." He lifted the paper back up, but his eyes didn't leave Watson, "Do what I do. Imagine the world with one ear and listen with the other. Do that, and pain will go away." His eyes slowly moved back to the page, but seemed ready to look up again, as if he was prepared for another challenge from the doctor.
John had scoffed at that, crossing his arms, "How'd you come up with that, Holmes?" John swore he saw the twingest of twinges on Sherlock's lips when he said, "It stopped your whining, did it not?"
The John then had to leave to avoid his emotions spilling over, but the John now chuckled at the memory and shook his head with a smile that didn't falter in the slightest.
Sherlock was right, typically; with John's mind rather fueled by the imagery he was taking in, the aches and pains all seemed to disappear. Especially when he passed major landmarks such as the Marble Arch.
John couldn't help but visualize Sherlock at one of the walls, studying the sculptures and ornate detailing. Rambling on about different qualities of marble and the irony of the drab monument that was once tied to the wealthy.
John blinked, and the little Sherlock in his mind was gone, skittering into the back of his mind like an alley cat that had tasted food and warmth. His ramblings made him remember a fresh conversation that wormed its way into John's mind.
Sherlock mentioned a shift in John so matter-of-factly one day when he was shuffling through the messy documents on his desk. When John asked him why he was constantly gazing at him, Sherlock did what Sherlock does best.
"I would apologize for my stare, but you have worn your right boot on your left foot for the better part of the morning." He pointed down at John's very odd fashion statement to further rub in his point, "and have, on two separate occasions, poured the sugar into your tea and then proceeded to add a further three cubes." Sherlock's eyes flicked from the tea and then back to John, with, well, one might say, a judging look, but that was rather the norm for the detective.
"Unless you have suddenly decided to develop a sweet tooth and join a circus, it might suggest that your mind is, shall we say, otherwise engaged." Sherlock elongated the word with a raised brow. But then he did something quite shocking to John.
"Mind sharing who has gotten you all fashion-forward?" Sherlock queried into his fumbling mind. Hell, what must've shocked Holmes was that the Dr. Watson was fumbling.
John wasn't too happy with his response. Yet, he still isn't. As that was this morning and of all the words in his mind palace to conjure up a well-thought-out pronouncement, all he managed was a, "Biscuits!" before swiftly swiping the bag on the table and rushing out the door, tripping on his shoes down the stairs as he scrambled away.
He could feel the embarrassment burning at the tip of his ears when he remembered, which is precisely why he tried to swiftly forget. It didn't take much effort when two children raced past him, a mother calling out to them to stay close by.
He had made it to Green Park and could see the McGilfree brothers fishing in the St. James's Park pond from a distance. John wondered if the officers would push them in at this point instead of arresting them. John admitted to wanting to see the scene play out, but thankfully, it was only to himself.
He was about to continue his walk when something in one of the glass store windows caught his eye. The craft of a briar pipe did not escape the critical eye of Dr. John Watson, nor did the amber fittings that sparkled against the glass when the sun was just right. Though John Watson was not a man who was above a little bit of window shopping. He has experienced such stunning times many times and hasn't batted an eye, but that was because to catch the eye of man named Dr. John Watson, you must be interesting; and the pipe, only being a shilling, was just that.
John moved towards the shop with haste, which he had only used in Afghanistan. The door opened with a delicate little chime. Upon the shelves, the knick-knacks looked like those one might find in a household, filling space with a sentimental memory.
John gravitated towards the pipe and gently took it in his hands. His fingers feel the grooves and smoothness of it all. When John turned to the front, a woman peeked around the corner with a smile.
"Hello there." She said with a chipper voice as she noticed the pipe in Watson's hand. "Oh, I just knew that piece would sell!"
John cleared his throat as his heart seemed to pull. He felt a bit... wrong holding something so precious when all that was requested was a mere drop in its value. "Miss," he hesitantly said.
"I wasn't born yesterday, mister." She said it so confidently, John was a tad baffled. "I beg your pardon?" John asked, causing the woman to giggle, "You can't just beg for it, you have to earn it!" She laughed at John's increasingly confused and surprised look, waved her hand, her eyes playful and teasing.
"That thing there," she pointed down at the pipe in John's hand, "was owned by a bastard of a man." She chuckled, "He was the devil or at least related, I'm sure."
John looked down at the pipe, his fingers moving along the grooves. "Such a shame," he began with deep sincerity, causing the woman to pause and look at him with a quizzical nature. "For such a stunning object to be so tainted by the likes of a cad."
The woman smiled, "Tainted indeed, but thoroughly cleaned." She grabbed a box that looked lavish, setting it on the counter, "Perhaps it just needs a new set of lips to purify it." She said with a small chortle, causing John to smile, mumbling. "Or to taint it even further."
The woman smirked, "You like your women as dirty as your tea, I presume?" Her eyes raised at John before he cleared his throat and handed her the shilling.
She closed her fingers around it with a smile and pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business, my good sir." John nodded quickly, turned, but just as he fully exited the store, he sheepishly asked, "Could... you do something for me?"
"Goodness Watson!" Lestrade exclaimed when John came in. "You walked all the way here? In your condition?" He asked. His eyes were scanning. John was no fool; he knew those eyes weren't just looking for him, but for Sherlock.
"On such a pleasant day? I wouldn't dare sully a day like this with a ride." John stepped to the side before adding, "My apologies, Inspector, the detective is not with me today. Only in spirit." John handed the bag over to Lestrade, who opened it, peered inside, and then made a small, "huh," and then looked at Watson. "Biscuits?"
"Yes, inspector." John clarified with a nod.
Lestrade hummed again and then asked, "Holmes made these?"
John, this time, nodded slowly, "Of course, Inspector."
Lestrade glanced at John, broke off a small piece of a biscuit, bringing it to his lips as a crunch made the silence between them feel elongated.
"Dr. Watson?"
"Yes, Inspector?"
"Tell Holmes to keep his day job."
John chuckled, "I will not." with a smile, causing Lestrade to do the same.
"You are a smarter man than I." He took the bag and brought it over to a community table, and already, a few uniforms flocked over to take some biscuits.
"I have never been much a fan of Huntley's, more of a Peek Frean myself, but I do like the tin," Lestrade said, chuckling at John's slight surprise and quickly checking in the bag. Sure enough, the biscuits were still in their purchased tin.
"I should've known not to pull a fast one on you, Inspector," John admitted, rubbing his neck in the hopes of hiding his burning ears. "No feelings have been hurt, Doctor," Lestrade reassured as he walked to his desk, gesturing Watson to follow.
"It is a rather welcoming change of pace with your influence." Lestrade causally commented. John's interest was piqued. "Would you be so kind as to repeat that?"
Lestrade's lips parted as a small 'heh' escaped before waving his hand dismissively, "Oh, forever polite you are. If only Holmes could learn some tricks from you, he might make decent company."
John found himself leaning against the wall in front of Lestrade's desk. "You don't live with him." Lestrade nodded, putting his hands together as he looked to John with much sincerity, "Thank you for your service."
John chortled, tipping his hat, "I must be on my way if I wish to make it before nightfall."
Lestrade stood, "Nonsense, one of my men can escort you home." John smiled and shook his head, "Oh, I don't wish to be a burden, Inspector."
"Nonsense! I'm sure one of those bobbies has been sleeping in the archives since noon. It will give them a sense of purpose." Lestrade insisted, and before John could turn it down, he was gone and off towards the archives.
John was left to his thoughts once more as this thumb gently rubbed over a groove on the pipe, yet this was one fresh, new, and small. He could feel his nerves tingle and his heart quicken slightly. This made no sense. It was just a gift. That was all that it was.
So why did it feel like it was something that felt like much more than a gesture between good friends?
John thanked the Constable when he stepped off the wagon. The officer, still with crust around his eyes, gave John a small salute before he took off. Just as John was about to turn around and open the door, Sherlock was suddenly in front of him.
"Good heavens, Holmes!" He yelped, taking a few breaths. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, "What's gotten you jumpy? You know I live here, Watson."
John had his hands on his knees, "Since when did you become a doorman? Was Ms. Hudson hiring?" Sherlock let out a small 'bah' as he waved his hand, turning back into the building to walk up the stairs to their apartment.
John followed close by, with each step the question grew larger and larger like a bubble before it suddenly—"Why were you at the door, Holmes?"—popped.
Sherlock paused at the stairs for a moment. The seconds ticked by before he simply said, "Bored." before finishing his ascent up the stairs and unlocking the door to their apartment.
"Oh, truly shocked, Holmes," John said in his sarcastically deadpanned nature. He noticed Sherlock's eyes on him when he entered the apartment as the door closed behind them with a secure click of the lock.
"Go on, spit it out," John said with a slight groan, "How did Lestrade take the biscuits?" Sherlock asked as he walked over to his armchair, that still had his coat drapped over the back of it, and sat down. John smiled, "He enjoyed them, the tin mostly. Peek Frean was his first choice, however."
Sherlock nodded slowly before he asked, "How was the mall? Anything fancy caught your eye?"
Now, that surprised John. "How did you-", "Simple, you are fidgeting with something new in your pocket and were surprised when I mentioned the mall." Sherlock relaxed a bit as he continued, "You rarely get yourself anything unless you need it. You're surprise was that I knew because it was a surprise in your mind." His eyes furrowed slightly as he wondered out loud, "I hadn't a clue of who it is for just yet..." His eyes lifted up to meet Watson's, whose eyes was constantly full of awe, but this time.. there was a shift of nervousness in the way he carried himself.
"Watson?" Sherlock called his name, causing John to snap from his astonished state. "Yes, right, the thing is..." John pulled the box from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.
"..it's for you."
Sherlock took the lavish box, his eyes lifted ever so slightly in the rare moment of surprise. "A gift, Watson?" Sherlock asked, looking somewhat confused. "For what particular occasion?" Watson swallowed, finding this much awkward than it should've been. "Must one need such an occasion to gift a friend?"
Sherlock raised his brow at Watson's statement before opening the box to see the smoking pipe. His eyes taking in every detail in rapid succession: the briar wood, the amber fittings, and finally.. "A new pipe.." His fingers moved over a minor groove where 'S.H' was carved with a careful and elegant flourish, "..engraved with my initials."
Sherlock took the pipe in his hands, his voice soft, speaking as if he were the only one in the room, "You must have noted my old clay pipe is now quite beyond repair, despite my constant care." He rotated the pipe, seeing the upgrades this pipe provided, and couldn't stop himself from commenting, "The new tobacco blend I have been experimenting with required a different chamber size... and this incorporates it..."
Sherlock looked at the pipe and, then with the aloofness that gave him his signature charm, set it down on the side table beside him, "Things are of little consequence, Watson." He said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "They are but distractions from the real work of the mind." His eyes finally looked up from the pipe and to Watson. He paused when he saw how... nervous Watson was. The way he feverishly picked at the skin of his nails and bit the inside of his cheek. Usually, this sight didn't bother Sherlock, but it felt different with Watson. Watson always had a way to melt away the frost that accumulated around his heart. Sherlock cleared his throat and quickly stated, "I suppose this is a distraction I wouldn't mind. Your gift is very... practical."
John could feel the relief wash over him. That was close to a 'thank you' he was ever going to get. "I'm glad you enjoy it." John cleared his throat to shake the embarrassment of this encounter from his voice while he hung up his coat on the rack, which seemed to be that only he used. "I believe it's time that I turn in. Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes were on Watson, "Goodnight." He answered as the door was closing to the doctor's room. Sherlock felt the strange shift in the air, hell, even in Watson. He was confused by it all, and for once, it seemed like there was a book missing from it's self in his mind that could illuminate this odd change.
Perhaps he had thrown out that space long ago, and yet it felt like something was missing, not lost. Not knowledge that alluded him, no. Something much worse to Holmes. It was something that he couldn't understand.
His fingers moved to pick up the pipe as the lamplight softly lay on the engraving that was so delicately detailed. How could such a small number of uniformed scratches on an item make him feel so... warm.
He hadn't realized that he had been sitting in the chair looking at this pipe for the better part of an hour, and just as the hand ticked over to midnight, a piece of the blank jigsaw seemed to slot into place.
He has seen this before with cases involving broken families, the cases that truly struck Watson deep into his being. Was it because it hit too close to the heart?
Sherlock stood up suddenly as the adrenaline coursed through his legs and forced him to pace. Watson is a brilliant doctor; he would know his own mortality. Was Watson...—his pace abruptly stopped as he looked down at the pipe that suddenly felt small and fragile as a terrifying thought crossed his mind—...was his friend dying?
His fingers tightened ever so slightly as his feet began again across the floor. It would make the most sense; this pipe was a memento from the closest and only person he could truly call his friend. Was Watson preparing him for his timely death? With gifts and comforting words to ease the blow of the devastating news.
That word caused him to stop again, and this time, he had to sit down. Devastating. Yes, for once, that word truly meant its gravity in his life. His hands shook; this wasn't a problem, nor a case he could fix, and that truly scared the man of Sherlock Holmes.
Just to make this really clear this is during the 1890s in London. This isn't related to BBC Sherlock in any way.
A super big thanks to @doctorsoul29 for the illustrations that will portray what these characters look like; the first obviously had to be Sherlock and John 🥰
The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal by KJ Charles
4.75 Stars
What if there was a Sherlock & Watson ghost hunter team who was Canon Gay? And what if instead of most of their adventures ending with a neat and tidy bow, they won, but with grim costs and gnarly repercussions?
The style is unlike KJ Charles' other books, but it is wonderfully done for what it is. I think "homage" is a fitting descriptor. I have not read the ghost stories listed in the back of the book, but I might later.
Pride and a refusal to communicate play significant roles in the romance side of things.
4/5 on the "how much sex" scale (explicit open door).
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Posting this today as a birthday gift to myself. 🍰🎁 I'm enjoying this character immensely and I hope others do as well! I'm writing little slices of her life and working up a fuller story for her.
I'm posting this as part of ficwip5k 2022 and I hope you read some of the other amazing stories people have already submitted.
Cassandra is kind of stubborn, very clever, and loves her father and their bookshop more than anything else in the world. While Jack the Ripper is roaming the streets, William decides the only way to keep his daughter safe is to send her away to America.
Read it all here on AO3 and leave a kudo or a comment!
