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invaluablesilence
Mar. 1st, 2019 03:54 pmHe'd gone long stretches without resorting to chemical means of mitigation before. While on a case, or a stretch of them, or while traveling in other lands, the pursuit of novelty had distracted him, and while there was (though he never admitted to his doctor this much) some physical component to his usage, yet he managed to maintain that addiction was not one of his vices.
But to combine the avoidance of both his chief vices together was fast becoming intolerable.
The case had been a relatively minor one, a country estate and a will contested with a slightly entertaining twist of mistaken identity and a prize poodle in the mix, but it had afforded Watson the pleasure of bullying Holmes into what he called a "rest" and what was, in actual fact, an attempt to wean him off of his supposed dependence as if fresh air and the too-quiet of a remote cottage were somehow a cure for utter boredom. But fresh air had turned into a freak April snowstorm and the too-quiet had been rent by John Watson slipping on an unsure path and twisting his ankle to the point where Holmes was worried about him walking on it, lest it aggravate the wounds that had never fully healed from his service.
This, of course, meant that their remote cottage (provided by the generous and grateful recipients of the aforementioned will) was now a death trap, in which Holmes was solely responsible for cooking and caring for the aggrieved veteran, and thus he could not afford the mollifying qualities of the needle. He did the best he could, though the limits of his cooking were warm porridge and cold sandwiches. He spent most of the rest of the time pacing, rifling through the personal belongings of the cottage's last occupant, and various nervous habits that, under other circumstances, he might have curbed with a case or his violin or chemical aid.
But what was to be done?
The proximity of one John H. Watson, MD, had long been both a boon to Holmes and a burden. So much so that he seldom took notice of either quality, simply taking the other man's presence for granted, with occasional bouts of despondency whenever Watson became briefly enamoured of the idea of marrying again. Holmes had long since resigned himself to his own perversion, as well as the corresponding need to repress it. That Watson only had eyes for the ladies was almost as important as the fact that Holmes refused to be the instrument of his corruption, and so the ache had dulled into mere background noise, erroneous data Holmes could file away and ignore. When it got too difficult, there was murder and morphine and music to pacify him. And as long as he kept to this regimen, he behaved himself where the person of John Watson was concerned, and Watson stayed.
However, after two days in this silent prison of over-stuffed comfort, Holmes thought like to go mad, and the constant presence of his companion, with no other means of distraction, was becoming a bother. He found himself looking for excuses to touch Watson, tucking in a blanket or brushing fingers along his shoulder as he handed him soup. But every time, he would chide himself silently and fall further into a mood. Holmes was becoming irritable, a not uncommon phenomenon but one it was usually more possible to escape from.
Just now, he had finally brought himself to be seated, eyes on a paper roughly a month old though they saw nothing, his fingers tapping away on the table in a rhythm that might have been pleasant, had it been in the employ of some actual instrument.
But to combine the avoidance of both his chief vices together was fast becoming intolerable.
The case had been a relatively minor one, a country estate and a will contested with a slightly entertaining twist of mistaken identity and a prize poodle in the mix, but it had afforded Watson the pleasure of bullying Holmes into what he called a "rest" and what was, in actual fact, an attempt to wean him off of his supposed dependence as if fresh air and the too-quiet of a remote cottage were somehow a cure for utter boredom. But fresh air had turned into a freak April snowstorm and the too-quiet had been rent by John Watson slipping on an unsure path and twisting his ankle to the point where Holmes was worried about him walking on it, lest it aggravate the wounds that had never fully healed from his service.
This, of course, meant that their remote cottage (provided by the generous and grateful recipients of the aforementioned will) was now a death trap, in which Holmes was solely responsible for cooking and caring for the aggrieved veteran, and thus he could not afford the mollifying qualities of the needle. He did the best he could, though the limits of his cooking were warm porridge and cold sandwiches. He spent most of the rest of the time pacing, rifling through the personal belongings of the cottage's last occupant, and various nervous habits that, under other circumstances, he might have curbed with a case or his violin or chemical aid.
But what was to be done?
The proximity of one John H. Watson, MD, had long been both a boon to Holmes and a burden. So much so that he seldom took notice of either quality, simply taking the other man's presence for granted, with occasional bouts of despondency whenever Watson became briefly enamoured of the idea of marrying again. Holmes had long since resigned himself to his own perversion, as well as the corresponding need to repress it. That Watson only had eyes for the ladies was almost as important as the fact that Holmes refused to be the instrument of his corruption, and so the ache had dulled into mere background noise, erroneous data Holmes could file away and ignore. When it got too difficult, there was murder and morphine and music to pacify him. And as long as he kept to this regimen, he behaved himself where the person of John Watson was concerned, and Watson stayed.
However, after two days in this silent prison of over-stuffed comfort, Holmes thought like to go mad, and the constant presence of his companion, with no other means of distraction, was becoming a bother. He found himself looking for excuses to touch Watson, tucking in a blanket or brushing fingers along his shoulder as he handed him soup. But every time, he would chide himself silently and fall further into a mood. Holmes was becoming irritable, a not uncommon phenomenon but one it was usually more possible to escape from.
Just now, he had finally brought himself to be seated, eyes on a paper roughly a month old though they saw nothing, his fingers tapping away on the table in a rhythm that might have been pleasant, had it been in the employ of some actual instrument.
