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 A Better Pretense Than the Last, sherlock (victorian england)
Dr John Watson
 Posted: Apr 7, 2014 | 1:10 pm
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player: Jax
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The world came into a soft focus as Doctor John Hammish Watson opened his eyes. There was a light rain that morning in old London town that was speckling pinprick sounds on the window sill just near to his head. It was a gentle pattering that almost threatened to lull him back to sleep. There was a chill in the room out from underneath his covers, and he was reluctant to leave the comfort that the warmth of the bed offered. The darkness of the room, despite it being a descent time past sunrise, was not helping the matter at all. Listening past the sound of the rainfall outside, his ears searched for some other evidence of life moving within the apartment.

Downstairs, there was redoubtable movement, but that was to be expected. Mrs. Hudson was a staple of their lives, he and his living companion, a forever constant, always fluttering about in her own apartment. There was a good chance that she was already making some sort of breakfast to later be deposited in Number 221B. The idea of two men living on their own without a woman to manage them was deplorable in her eyes, and she made a point to maintain their lifestyles in the absence of such female attentions. Other than her, though, which was an unobtrusive sound at worst, there was nothing. Of course, that didn't mean anything. Just because he couldn't hear him, didn't meant that Sherlock was not getting himself into trouble.

Living with Sherlock Holmes was hardly a simple condition of life. Holmes kept the strangest hours, which meant that it was impossible to determine if they were going to be using the washroom at the same time. Watson himself kept impossibly regular hours, a habit that he could not break himself of since his military service, though he did occasionally struggle with the laziness from his days of convalescence. The sun came up, and Watson was usually up with it, no matter what hours he had been keeping the evening before. This usually only changed on the rare occasion that he consumed alcohol to the point of losing consciousness, but he was always out of sorts the next day. Holmes, on the other hand, could never nail down a consistent time for rousing. Watson could never trust if he would be up already and in the sitting room because he awoke early, or if it was because we never went to bed the night before.

Eventually, he managed to convince himself to remove himself from his bed, but in Watson’s book that meant he took, at maximum, three minutes to convince himself of such. The wooden floor was cold on his bare feet, so he was quick to move across the floor to gather his shaving kit and toiletries. Moving with the speed of a man who was not yet completely awake, he opened to the door to the main hallway, and stepped outside. His feet shuffled as he moved to the washroom, not awake themselves, but following the muscle memory ingrained into them from years of living in the same place. The floor creaked and moaned, but he did little to prevent. It would signal to the others who lived at Baker Street that he was awake, for better or for worse.

Being a man living as a bachelor, he saw no problem leaving the room in his nightshirt, and coming back in it. With the door closed, he removed the shirt and started the process of morning grooming and relief. He rarely took like, shaving taking up the majority of his time since he preferred a finely kempt appearance. He made a mental note, as he usually did, to check Sherlock for such expenditures on himself, only because the other man sometimes needed to be reminded. There were certain battles that Watson knew better than to play out, for his headache alone, but that did not mean he couldn't nudge Sherlock in the right direction of a mirror every once and a while.

The meticulous process of the razor shaving him clean was always a time that Watson took time to quietly reflect, and today was no exception. Today, like all other days since he had come to live on Baker Street, his thoughts first turned to the man who shared the rooms with him. His dear Sherlock Holmes. Living in such close confinement with the man might drive another individual mad. Sherlock was eccentric, and often moody. He smoked a strange Arab blend of tobacco that was both astringent to the nose, but sweet on the tongue. He played his violin music at the strangest times of the night, sometimes in the elegant of concertos, and other times in the most cacophonous mess that could barely be described as distracted music. The wild conversation that he would have with the dog would peek up, sometimes in the most high pitches of whispered that threatened to grate on the nerves of any sane person. But there was the rub of it. Watson clearly was not a sane man, in that all these assaults on his senses only ingratiated Holmes more to him as the days passed. He had found it to be a secret carnal delight that he allowed himself to indulge in the way that other people might indulge in desert. Truly, a creeping insanity had been buzzing around the doctor’s head and chest for weeks now, since he first came to learn of Sherlock Holmes and the mystery that was him, and more Watson unraveled, the more he wished to see…

He walked back to his room, again in little but his sleeping shirt, and got dressed for the day. It was his understanding that there was no ongoing business for the day, but that did not mean he shouldn't be prepared for it. Already, he had the mental image of Holmes running into the flat, grabbing some obscure looking box off of his laboratory table, his hair eschew, tracking mud and perhaps something else on the floor, before running out again, forcing Watson to either live in ignorance about the matter or chase after him. Watson was always chasing after him, it seemed, from one place to another, and never did he complain, even when he nothing to state at except the other man's backside.

...perhaps pointedly not complaining...

Not allowing himself to linger any longer on how Sherlock appeared moving, his view cast from behind, Watson finalized the appearance of his tie, and walked out of the room, ready to enter the sitting study, and prepared for just about anything. He may find it empty. He may find it on fire. He may find his bulldog wearing a funny hat. Just another day at 221B Baker Street.



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Sherlock Holmes
 Posted: Aug 1, 2014 | 12:35 pm
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Sullivan Mac Thámhais
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Eight-five hours, twenty-seven minutes, sixteen seconds. It was nowhere near the longest amount of time Sherlock Holmes had pushed past the limits of exhaustion; in truth the Great Detective was not the least bit haggard. Perhaps it was due to the rather seasonable weather lately. After his last case closed, it was as if the skies sought to congratulate their endeavors with a temperate clime. That is, until today. It seemed as though rain was the flavor of this morning…? Evening? Or whenever twirl about on the axis he currently was experiencing. More likely the cause to his vigil, however, was the copious amounts of cocaine scorching it's way through his circulatory system that kept him energized. His arm ached along his bicipital groove, an angry red target outlined with yellowing bruises from repeated injections. Just barely peeking out from his hastily rolled sleeves, a flourish to the cacophonous calligraphy that was the one and only Sherlock Holmes. But even through all of the ache, and possible minor skin infection though that was far from his immediate concern, Sherlock felt Inspiration.

It had been weeks, almost a month since he picked up his violin for an extended period of time. True; he always tended it, kept the strings and wood supple and in tune, but he had not the availability nor drive to truly give himself over to it completely. It was in these moods that Holmes oft lost himself; hair a bedraggled mess, face in desperate need of a proper shave. His clothes, though clearly not slept in, were wrinkled and heavily scented with his tobacco. His shirt was surprisingly unstained, though far too large, the collar abandoned at some point and left open past his sternum to show the sweat dappled pale skin. Sleeves still rolled up to his elbows, showing the play of strong forearms with each subtle movement of long musician's fingers. His nails were immaculate, a personal pet peeve that even in the depths of all his eccentricity could not take away. A waistcoat, far too fine for all save an evening with the upper echelons of society hung completely open off his shoulders to show his braces beneath. The brocade dupioni woven with a lovely knot work of embroidery and delicate silver buttons was something that Sherlock rarely took out of his closet. Perhaps it had called to him in his opiate fueled haze. Or perhaps it was the recent talk of engagements that had him spelunking into the depths of his boudoir for anything that could be considered eye-catching in the fool's errand that was hoping a certain physician would cast a look his way.

His pipe hung from his lips, a plume of tinted smoke wreathing his fervid brow as his bare feet spun about the room. Fraying pant legs sweeping behind him as he wove about the piles of debris that was the room at large. He paused, calloused fingers from this very action pulling a long wavering note as he tucked the bow underneath an arm to replace his pipe atop one of his books to billow and smolder without him. Retrieving his bow once more, he continued the melody, the sextet from Lucia di Lammermoor gracefully coming to life as his eyes fell shut. Eidetic memory helping to keep him moving and not collide with anything in his path. A dervish of Catharist delight, though the detective gleaned no joy from it all. It was at best a distraction; and none could ever hope to light a candle towards what truly caused his soul to fly. He did not notice whenever his beloved companion entered the room, so lost in every feverish note that matched his feverish mind. Only the music inspired by his one true muse consumed him; even to the point of not realizing when said heavenly creature finally appeared...



.::| ❦ |::.

scríobhaíso after so long of him grinding his feet into the dirt, my holmes muse has decided to speak. apologies on how late this is, lover mine. this is short, but as you know the man can be completely swept up in his own thoughts and requires some help out of them.

scáthánoutfit url

céilíchi mi frena in tal momento - lucia di lammermoor in d major op. 46

ina dhiaidh sinmy dear watson

A   D e l r i o u s    D e s i g n   by Jess

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Dr John Watson
 Posted: Dec 9, 2015 | 11:44 pm
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'I know my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.'
There were many flavor to the music that could be found in the B apartment. Watson himself was not much of a musician. He was lucky if he could pad out a rhythm with his hands while someone else labored at their song. That did not mean, however, that he didn't have an appreciation for a melody when he heard one. In fact, he was quite the skilled dancer, as his military training had demanded, and he had attended many concerts and operas since he had moved into London years ago. He could hardly be called a connoisseur on the matter, but he did have a very strong, always unspoken opinion of who stood at the echelon of modern performers and, perhaps in the musician's own way, composers.

Sherlock had truly missed his calling as a master of the stage. His abilities as a thespian were so paramount that he could easily fool Watson, a man who had come to live with the man for years now. He saw this man every day, and still, he could be fooled into believing that he was an 87 year old woman selling flowers on the street corner. But if Holmes was a master of acting, then he was surely a god at the violin, and Watson was not sure that he cared just how blasphemous that might sound if he ever said it out loud. He was not even down the hallway when he heard the first stroke upon the strings by the bow, controlled by the hands that Watson knew would be calloused from the instrument and the other labors he put those palms through. And it was as that chord settled around the apartment, Watson felt that familiar stirring.

It was almost enough to knock him to the floor. His entire body froze, and his hand reached out to gently cradle the wall under his fingertips. He had the hands of a surgeon, but if anyone has asked him in that moment to steady the trembling in them, he would have found the task impossible. The doctor knew of no other music that could move him, that could still his breath, that could catch his pulse, or quicken the nerves of his skin. It worked both ways, really. When Holmes needed the disorienting, mind stabbing, discordant snap of randomly plucked strings, it effected Watson with a keen migraine and flush of nausea. But when Holmes played, he was lost. John was thankful that Holmes seemed to drown himself in his music, since he did not know how he could explain himself if his companion ever saw the look that Watson knew was in his eyes as he looked upon the other man.

He had been caught only once. Mrs. Hudson, on one of her many excursions into the apartment that she let to them, had walked in one late night, coming in with the excuse of some chore or to announce come visitor. Watson had been in his chair by the fire. Some minutes before he had been stoking the coals, bringing the fire back up to the intense glow it had been before he and Holmes had been distracted by one of the many long night conversations. During the silence, he could Sherlock give one of those amused clucks in his throat. By the time Watson had returned to his chair, the bow was to the string, Sherlock gave him a light grin, with that twinkle in his eyes. It was not the first time that he had ever heard him play, and truth be told it was one of his favorite things in the world, those cold evenings with the wind whistling against the windows, but with that warmth that he and Holmes had perfected to fight it.

With the eyes of his companion closed as he fell into his euphony, Watson's careful constructed defenses collapsed. He knew that these moments of weakness were ones that he could barely permit, but with such profound distraction overcoming the only occupant of the room, he allowed himself to be swept away. The hands that slide and danced over the surface of the instrument were the ghost of his fantasies. The locomotion of his hips as he allowed his body to work the labor of his craft. The way the light danced over his face, as if the very notes held that touch of magic that moved the fire of the candles themselves. Maybe that was why watching him made him feel so warm. He dreamed of the things that must stir the man before him to play the way he did. He longed to know but dared not speak a work aloud, or else the spell be broken.

And it would be one of his greatest losses.

Transfixed as he was, he had not heard Mrs. Hudson come into the room, probably to retrieve that tea set that she had left with the men earlier that day. He did not know how long she stood there, the ghost that she could be, but it had been long enough to watch Sherlock... and to watch Watson. Finally, his sense detected someone else in the room, and he had turned to find her... Not watching Holmes, but watching him. He started a bit he saw her, but he more started at the look in her eyes. She knew. She could see it in John's face in this unguarded moment, when he thought he could hide even from Sherlock's acute senses. He gulped hard, and she cleared her throat enough to signal Holmes to stop before she entered the room, that damned smile on her face as she moved. Holmes was irritated with the interruption, and in the end it was that which continued to distract him while John recovered. It was all well, Holmes was in no mood to return to the music, and soon they were other occupied with another labor of Homes' occupation when a client suddenly rang the bell below.

And now...

With the wall separating them, Holmes in their sitting room, and Watson in the hall, John felt his defenses slip away again. His eyes fluttered closed, and he could picture it... Holmes disheveled, with no apparent need to tidy, with that shirt of his open to display the skin that modern society would have him conceal. And those hands dancing with the speed of the master's mind, his feet no doubt a flurry as that perfect brain of his protected him in his madness. The beautiful, infuriating, confident, perfect madness.

And then she was there again, watching him. Mrs. Hudson was upon him in the hallway, carrying that same tea set that she had designated as belonging to “the boys” even though it belonged to her and she lent it on a daily basis. This time, the smile that had been so clear on her face that cold night had faded, and was replaced with dark, sad eyes on this warm morning. Clearly, she didn't want him leaving either but... she knew why he had to.

All the same, he stepped forward, not wishing to stop that blissful music one second sooner than it needed to be, and took the tea set from her hands. One thing was certain, she was always eager to anticipate their needs. He had insisted before that she should take no trouble preparing the tea and brewing the coffee in the morning, even if Sherlock's temperament made him impossible to predict his needs on a daily basis. Watson had told “the Nanny” that she did not need to prepare two morning beverages just because Holmes was so often a brat, but she always insisted, and, after all, it was her home. He said nothing to her, but they matched eyes, and she had that look of knowing again before she turned to leave.

Watson went around the long way, and made his way into the sitting room by way of the back entrance to the room. He bypassed the main floor that was so often occupied by at the very least and experiment or two, and came around to find Gladstone lounging on the window seat, basking half asleep in the sun. After delicately checking to see if the dog was at least breathing, he came to the table that rested between his and Sherlock's loungers, and placed the set down, his own breathing coming in time, he realized to Sherlock's tempo. Watson made a guess, really, and set aside two cups and poured tea into both. Watson himself took one lump of sugar, but Sherlock so often took three or four, and John was feeling generous that morning. Tea poured, he settled into his chair, and lifted up the morning paper (another gift on the tea set from Mrs. Hudson) and set to reading the paper.

Or, at least, he could try... when his bright eyes were peeking over the edge of the parchment, finding ways to watch the Great Detective whenever the Good Doctor was certain he wasn't looking...

notes: I'm late. Shoot me.
words: 1509 | tag: my true companion

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