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Soft, Soft Static (Sherlock Holmes fanfic)
Title: Soft, Soft Static
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 835
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes isn’t mine, etc.
Summary: Holmes/Watson. AU movie!verse. Holmes and Watson are pulled apart in the middle of the crowd. Reposted from kink!meme – prompt & original location under cut.
Title from Frightened Rabbits “Old Old Fashioned”
Original Prompt: Okay. So. Holmes and Watson being violently pulled away from each other by an angry crowd (for whatever reason) and both Holmes and Watson fighting tooth and nail just trying to stay close to each other, frantically kicking, biting, hitting who ever is pulling them apart just to reach for the others hand. Bonus points if Holmes manages to break free and kisses the hell out of Watson before being dragged away. Kicking, screaming, crying. Just give me Holmes and Watson freaking the fuck out about being viciously separated.
Originally posted here on the kink!meme.
…Soft, Soft Static…
“Holmes!” Watson yells, his fingers slipping away. Holmes’ hand stretches far, desperate to hold on for even a moment longer, but bodies have shoved their way between them and now they are separate, alone in any way that matters, the throng of people around them, the cacophony of noise pointless and obscuring the sound of Watson’s voice.
Holmes shoves the nearest person away, his eyes tracking through the crowd, trying to regain sight of Watson. It takes a moment, but he can see him, battling his way through the rioting crowd to get back to his side. At the far edges of the crowd, where the street meets the buildings, where the edges of their world crease and fold back in on themselves, are Blackwood’s men, the police and military who have capitulated and fallen in step behind Blackwood and the government he has forced upon them.
Here, in this square, as the people struggle against the men outside with their guns and batons, Holmes cannot find meaning in any of it, cannot find the will or desire to pay attention to any of the screams or struggling people as they are dragged off or beaten down, his entire mind focused on getting to Watson’s side—Watson, who is ignoring the bleeding and the crying to try to get back to Holmes.
“Watson!” Holmes screams through the crowd, sparing no mercy as he struggles through the thick bodies. A small, minute part of his mind flickers to the fact that if they are caught, they will be brought to Blackwood to face judgment. He wonders if they’ll fall into company with Lestrade—if Coward knows Lestrade betrayed them, or if he has managed to escape.
Another shove, and he can feel fingernails scrape down his arm, drawing blood through the cloth, but he ignores the pain, ignores the black eye he’s sure he’s sporting. He can see Watson, in a rage, beating through the people with his cane, but still, still he is so far—
“Watson!” he yells, again, and he can see how Watson is being shoved towards the men outside, and now Holmes is overcome with a fury, with a tightening in his chest that he cannot escape—“Watson,” he screams, “I’m coming!”
There is no possible way that Watson can hear him through the clamor, but Watson looks up and meets his eyes, tears on his face. Holmes, he mouths, still fighting—always fighting—Holmes.
They are so very close, now, and yet so utterly far away. Holmes is almost blind to those around him, swinging and shoving indiscriminately. Everyone else pales in the light of Watson’s anguished face—Watson, who for all his strength has a bad leg, a leg they’ve abused with the poor conditions they’ve been kept in as they avoided Blackwood’s men these last eight days.
Eight days. Eight days, and the world’s gone to Hell.
Holmes reaches out a hand through the crowd, grasping the edges of Watson’s coat. Again, he shoves through, this time Watson reaching back, and then, for one moment, they are standing in the middle of the fray, arms tight around each other as if they can stay together through mere force of will.
“Don’t leave me,” Holmes says, and Watson’s fingers trail along Holmes’ face and come away wet.
“I love you,” Watson says, and Holmes kisses him, kisses him as he always should have kissed him, as he always wanted to kiss him.
“I have always loved you,” Watson says, his tears falling on Holmes’ cheeks as Watson swears his dedication into Holmes’ lips.
“You are everything to me,” Holmes says, his fingers twisting themselves deeper into Watson’s jacket, determined to never leave his side, no matter what.
Mary is still lying dead in their apartments, from where Blackwood had her killed. Did Mrs. Hudson escape? Is she even now trapped in some cell? And Irene, did she escape with her mysterious professor?
Whatever has happened to them, Holmes and Watson are alone, now, in the din and furor of the throng, the press of bodies that move around them, that scream and cry on command.
There is no escape, but for this one moment—
A hand on Holmes’ jacket and a gun in his face, and they are pulled apart.
“Run,” Holmes screams at Watson—“Run!” he begs, as he is pulled back towards the waiting carriages, back to Blackwood, back to emptiness—“Run!” he yells, as Watson mouths his name through the crowd.
Holmes is nothing if not a man of intelligence. He should know that Watson cannot escape, that none of them can escape, that as much as they struggle they are trapped.
He fights against the men every step of the way, gun against his back and all.
“Watson,” he screams, tears on his cheeks.
He hopes, against all hope, that Watson can escape, but his hand is still outstretched as he is pulled back through the crowd, as if desperate to touch him one last time.
…Finis...
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 835
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes isn’t mine, etc.
Summary: Holmes/Watson. AU movie!verse. Holmes and Watson are pulled apart in the middle of the crowd. Reposted from kink!meme – prompt & original location under cut.
Title from Frightened Rabbits “Old Old Fashioned”
Original Prompt: Okay. So. Holmes and Watson being violently pulled away from each other by an angry crowd (for whatever reason) and both Holmes and Watson fighting tooth and nail just trying to stay close to each other, frantically kicking, biting, hitting who ever is pulling them apart just to reach for the others hand. Bonus points if Holmes manages to break free and kisses the hell out of Watson before being dragged away. Kicking, screaming, crying. Just give me Holmes and Watson freaking the fuck out about being viciously separated.
Originally posted here on the kink!meme.
“Holmes!” Watson yells, his fingers slipping away. Holmes’ hand stretches far, desperate to hold on for even a moment longer, but bodies have shoved their way between them and now they are separate, alone in any way that matters, the throng of people around them, the cacophony of noise pointless and obscuring the sound of Watson’s voice.
Holmes shoves the nearest person away, his eyes tracking through the crowd, trying to regain sight of Watson. It takes a moment, but he can see him, battling his way through the rioting crowd to get back to his side. At the far edges of the crowd, where the street meets the buildings, where the edges of their world crease and fold back in on themselves, are Blackwood’s men, the police and military who have capitulated and fallen in step behind Blackwood and the government he has forced upon them.
Here, in this square, as the people struggle against the men outside with their guns and batons, Holmes cannot find meaning in any of it, cannot find the will or desire to pay attention to any of the screams or struggling people as they are dragged off or beaten down, his entire mind focused on getting to Watson’s side—Watson, who is ignoring the bleeding and the crying to try to get back to Holmes.
“Watson!” Holmes screams through the crowd, sparing no mercy as he struggles through the thick bodies. A small, minute part of his mind flickers to the fact that if they are caught, they will be brought to Blackwood to face judgment. He wonders if they’ll fall into company with Lestrade—if Coward knows Lestrade betrayed them, or if he has managed to escape.
Another shove, and he can feel fingernails scrape down his arm, drawing blood through the cloth, but he ignores the pain, ignores the black eye he’s sure he’s sporting. He can see Watson, in a rage, beating through the people with his cane, but still, still he is so far—
“Watson!” he yells, again, and he can see how Watson is being shoved towards the men outside, and now Holmes is overcome with a fury, with a tightening in his chest that he cannot escape—“Watson,” he screams, “I’m coming!”
There is no possible way that Watson can hear him through the clamor, but Watson looks up and meets his eyes, tears on his face. Holmes, he mouths, still fighting—always fighting—Holmes.
They are so very close, now, and yet so utterly far away. Holmes is almost blind to those around him, swinging and shoving indiscriminately. Everyone else pales in the light of Watson’s anguished face—Watson, who for all his strength has a bad leg, a leg they’ve abused with the poor conditions they’ve been kept in as they avoided Blackwood’s men these last eight days.
Eight days. Eight days, and the world’s gone to Hell.
Holmes reaches out a hand through the crowd, grasping the edges of Watson’s coat. Again, he shoves through, this time Watson reaching back, and then, for one moment, they are standing in the middle of the fray, arms tight around each other as if they can stay together through mere force of will.
“Don’t leave me,” Holmes says, and Watson’s fingers trail along Holmes’ face and come away wet.
“I love you,” Watson says, and Holmes kisses him, kisses him as he always should have kissed him, as he always wanted to kiss him.
“I have always loved you,” Watson says, his tears falling on Holmes’ cheeks as Watson swears his dedication into Holmes’ lips.
“You are everything to me,” Holmes says, his fingers twisting themselves deeper into Watson’s jacket, determined to never leave his side, no matter what.
Mary is still lying dead in their apartments, from where Blackwood had her killed. Did Mrs. Hudson escape? Is she even now trapped in some cell? And Irene, did she escape with her mysterious professor?
Whatever has happened to them, Holmes and Watson are alone, now, in the din and furor of the throng, the press of bodies that move around them, that scream and cry on command.
There is no escape, but for this one moment—
A hand on Holmes’ jacket and a gun in his face, and they are pulled apart.
“Run,” Holmes screams at Watson—“Run!” he begs, as he is pulled back towards the waiting carriages, back to Blackwood, back to emptiness—“Run!” he yells, as Watson mouths his name through the crowd.
Holmes is nothing if not a man of intelligence. He should know that Watson cannot escape, that none of them can escape, that as much as they struggle they are trapped.
He fights against the men every step of the way, gun against his back and all.
“Watson,” he screams, tears on his cheeks.
He hopes, against all hope, that Watson can escape, but his hand is still outstretched as he is pulled back through the crowd, as if desperate to touch him one last time.
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You've really captured the horror and shock of them being seperated in this sea of faceless people! I can see their poor faces!
As always, I consider any fic to be a raving success if I can see the moment happening, so excellent job! And YAY for Holmes/Watson! I loved that movie!...annnnd I may have sampled your fanmix and burned it to CD and have it in my car! :DDDDD
....I also have no idea why I used this icon...*shrugs*
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And I'm glad you liked the fanmix, too! I think it's the one fanmix that I've actually been happy with after the fact.
Aaand yeah, I am spending way too much of my free time writing Holmes/Watson right now ;)
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<3 <3
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