The Tell-Tale Heartby Dana KujanFandom: Sherlock Holmes
Written for: Naath in the ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
yuletide 2003 ChallengeLink:
http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/archive/2/thetelltale.htmlThe year 1894 was coming to a close. Although the curtain had risen late on this drama, commencing in the spring with the sensational re-appearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the adventure was fast-paced and sustained itself until, in the wink of an eye, the final act had begun. Little did I know that this grand spectacular still had one more encore waiting in its wings.
The evening about which I write had come at the end of a quiet day. Over a late breakfast we had each learned that the other planned to spend the day in-doors, occupied in his own way. I had set my mind to organising the three massive volumes of notes which had accumulated since our return to Baker Street and the resumption of our adventures together. Holmes, rising from the table, had announced that he intended to begin research for a monograph on eyeglasses and the clues which they could provide as to the facial and personality traits of their owners. He returned to the table with a good-sized box of assorted frames and lenses, and I had to hurry through the remainder of my breakfast lest a stray monocle land with a splash in my coffee. In very little time, the table was cluttered with glass, metal, and paper, and I took refuge at my desk near the front window.
No word had passed between us for several hours when Mrs. Hudson came in to ask if she could clear the table for lunch. Holmes made some small noise of impatience that sent her back downstairs with a rueful shake of her head. She returned some twenty minutes later with a cup of tea and a saucer of finger sandwiches for me, for which I was indeed grateful.
I can't say whether it was the sparsity of my mid-day meal or the natural consequence of holding mind and body to one task for a protracted period of time, but eventually my thoughts began to wander and I became increasingly aware of an ache in the lumbar region of my spine. At length, I gave over and stood to stretch my limbs. I paced a bit, weighing whether a walk in the brisk December air would do me good or more harm, and came to a stop in front of the window.
Looking out on Baker Street was enough to renew my spirit if not my flesh, for there was no city lovelier than London at Christmastime. Garlands of greenery dressed up nearly every doorway and candlelight flickered from many a window. Carriage horses sported bright ribbons of red and green and bells of a gold that matched the buttons of their drivers. Pedestrians, too, were gayer than usual, with ladies favouring hats of jewel-toned velvet and feathers, which were very popular that year, and their gentlemen donning top hats and spats. Even the street lamps seemed to shine a little brighter, and this night I could see clear to Oxford Street, where a group of carolers had just begun rounds.
With a smile, I turned my attention back in-doors. Holmes was furiously scribbling on a sheet of paper which looked to be already covered on both sides with his precise hand. I knew better than to disturb him; he would never be persuaded to go for a walk amongst our jolly neighbours. I could have gone alone, but I was loath to leave my friend so soon after regaining him.
I contented myself with ambling about the room, admiring the seasonal embellishments that Mrs. Hudson had insinuated into our living spaces over the past fortnight, as Holmes put it, "every instance our backs are turned." Ivy swags bridged the windows, which gave them a charmingly simple elegance. There was a healthy bounty of holly draped over the mantel, and I took a moment to light the candles that were nestled amongst her leaves. I stood back a bit to admire my handiwork and was pleased to see that the room had taken on a festive glow.
Standing as I was almost in the center of the room, I had a good vantage point to assess the decorations as a whole. To my right were the windows and before me were the mantel and fireplace, which I may have only imagined was giving off the aroma of chestnuts. To my left was the dining table and Holmes, and beyond them, two doors, one leading to the first floor landing and the other to Holmes' bedroom. It was only then that I noticed that even the doors had not been spared Mrs. Hudson's attentions. Both cross frames were adorned with unmistakable white berries set against pale green leaves, and I confess that, upon this discovery, I had to cover my mouth with my hand to keep my smile from spilling into laughter. If ever there was a man upon whom the social tradition of mistletoe was lost, it was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
I shook my head and, once I had regained my composure, looked over to find him balancing a sterling silver pince-nez on the very tip of his nose. His work was his life and his life was his work. And this night, his raison d'etre would no doubt keep me from my supper as well as my walk. I turned away from him and sank onto the settee with a resigned sigh.
"On the contrary, my dear fellow," said Holmes, suddenly, "I would be neither shocked nor surprised."
Accustomed as I was to Holmes' breaking in on my thoughts, I failed to grasp any connection to his remark. I twisted round in my seat to regard him. "I beg your pardon, Holmes?"
He removed the pince-nez, and I thought I discerned a twinkle in his eye. "If you were to favor me with a kiss beneath the mistletoe."
"My dear Holmes!" His words were as shocking as they were unexpected and, beyond my initial ejaculation, left me quite speechless.
Holmes narrowed his eyes, fixing me with his steady gaze. "You deny that is what you were thinking?"
I felt my face grow hot under his stare. If this was his idea of a joke, it was a decidedly poor one. Finally, I managed to croak, "I was thinking nothing of the kind."
"Tut-tut, my dear boy," said he, in a conciliatory, almost apologetic tone. "Coyness does not become you."
I shook my head in order to clear it. This was really most unworthy of him when I had done nothing but defer to him and accommodate his every whim not just that day, but for the past nine months.
"Very well," said Holmes.
I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that he had tired of this tasteless tomfoolery, though I tensed anew as I observed him carefully set down the pince-nez and rise from his chair. He assumed an expression and stance I knew all too well, that of a professor addressing one of his duller students. It was then that I realised that he was quite serious and confident that this deduction was on the mark. I wavered again between anger and outrage, and yet part of me was curious as to how he came to such an unnatural conclusion.
Holmes began, "After an entire afternoon crouched over your notes, you became stiff and restless. You thought a walk might do you a world of good, so you went to the window to check the weather. In the street below, you couldn't help but notice quite a few of our neighbours roaming about, some enjoying the mild night, some on last minute errands. There were, no doubt, more than a few lovers strolling arm-in-arm. This turned your mind to romance, as you are and always have been a hopeless romantic."
So far, his reasoning was sound enough, but I opened my mouth to protest this characterization, at which point Holmes held up an old issue of the Strand magazine. I knew only too well what he thought of my accounts of his cases, "tinged with romanticism as if you had worked a love-story into the fifth proposition of Euclid." I scowled, but held my tongue.
Holmes continued, "Christmas, with it promises of love and redemption, not to mention the man-made traditions of social gatherings and gift-giving, is a very romantic holiday. With these thoughts dancing in your brain, you turned away from the window to examine your own bonds of affection."
"I don't deny that I hold you in very affectionate regard," I muttered. I stopped short of adding that, at times, I had no idea why I held him so dear.
"Oh, I think it's a little more than that," Holmes said dryly. With a sudden flick of his wrist, he tossed the magazine so that it landed squarely in my lap. "Every word you write betrays your feelings for the hero of your little tales."
"Now, see here," I cried, springing to my feet.
Holmes regarded me for a moment, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"You then lit the candles on the mantel, to soften the atmosphere of the room. When you stepped back to bask in the charms of our now-cozy sitting room, it was then that you noticed the mistletoe which Mrs. Hudson has so hopefully, if not futilely, affixed above every threshold in the house. Your attention naturally returned to the object of your own unrequited affections, and you thought, 'Now, there's a man who would be surprised to receive a kiss under the mistletoe and shocked were that kiss to come from me."
As he concluded his insulting inferences, Holmes had shut the door to the landing and stretched to reach the leaves and berries. He pulled down a sprig and advanced upon me, stopping so close I felt his breath on my face. He held the mistletoe a few inches above our heads as he looked down into my eyes. "So, my dear Watson, would you like to test your theory?"
That he had carried his strange game this far was really beyond the pale. I reached up to take the mistletoe from him and hurl it, with all the vehemence of my disdain and disgust, into the fire. I could only imagine that Holmes misinterpreted this move, as he had all my other actions, for his free arm slipped around my waist and pulled me to his breast. His mouth was upon mine before I quite realised it.
My mind rebelled at this intimacy, and yet I made no move to end it. I willed myself to hold still as I went over my actions again, from his point of view, and it was then that I realised that he hadn't deduced my thoughts but my feelings, feelings I had dared not admit to myself. This man was everything to me; I wanted to be more to him than his friend and chronicler, a mere assistant. That he seemed to finally be able to open his heart to me and give me that opportunity was a chance I had to take for both our sakes.
I entwined my fingers with his, crushing the mistletoe under the strength of my desire. With my free hand, I cupped his cheek, tilting his head slightly. Being the more experienced of we two, I maneuvered our mouths into a more comfortable and accommodating position. Holmes made a small noise of satisfaction and his lips parted slightly as our kiss intensified.
When we finally parted, I looked up at him shyly, but confident that I would see all my love reflected in his eyes. Quietly, I asked, "What am I thinking now?"
I like to think he spoke for both of us when he replied, "I shall never let you go."
Tags: my fic, sherlock holmes, slash
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