Okay, so it is not very slashy, but IT GOT AWAY FROM ME and then there was no more time for slash, because having to write 19th century medical techniques with no resources at hand and no time to extensively Google things frightens me. Similarly, I stand by no historical accuracy here. FLASH FICTION UNITE!
Holmes was laughing like a maniac, and making himself of very little use when it came to moving forward.
“I will never,” Watson grunted, Holmes’s arm slung around his neck and warm side pressed up against his, “understand why you find lying to hansom cab drivers so amusing.”
“That is because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life, old boy.” Holmes lurched to the side again as he spoke, and Watson barely caught him in time to prevent him from toppling over, staggering himself. The hansom rattled off into the darkness behind them, and Watson hauled Holmes up the steps and into 221B. Mrs. Hudson had left a lamp burning, and under the flickering light, the full extent of Holmes’s dishevelment – and of his bruises – became more readily evident. His shirt tails were hanging out, his wrinkled jacket and scarf thrown on haphazardly. His left eye had begun to swell shut and his face was slowly turning ugly colours in several locations. He moved like a drunkard, or perhaps like a man trying to ride a bicycle while upside-down underwater, all of which did not assist Watson in his generally thankless job of dragging him back to Baker Street after a boxing match.
Watson shot a most dubious look at the staircase in front of them, then grimly started up it.
“Are you ignoring me?” Holmes sounded terribly amused by the prospect, tapping steps with Watson's cane as they went along.
“How you could possibly think so, given that you are currently threatening to pull me off the staircase with you—” Watson let go of Holmes's waist to grab the rail, and he held there until the worst of Holmes’s momentary lurch had passed. “—I have no idea.” Watson was a stout fellow and the taller of the two, but Holmes was heavy and stumbling, and while Watson generally went about without great trouble from his bad leg, it became quite difficult to avoid placing his weight on it while supporting another party’s.
“I am not about to pull you off the stairs,” Holmes scoffed, even as his opposite shoulder hit the wall, dragging Watson with him. “I am simply having some small bit of trouble with my equilibrium.”
“Small?” Watson said with a hint of incredulousness, finally wrestling him upright, up the final few steps, and into the hall.
“Infinitesimal.”
“I do hope that this infinitesimal experience will dissuade you from allowing an opponent to crack your head against the floor again in future.”
“It was a diversionary tactic,” Holmes insisted. “I had him right where I wanted him.”
“I’m certain,” said Watson, whose tone suggested nothing of the sort, as they came to a halt outside the familiar door. If he released Holmes, Watson strongly suspected that his companion would tumble, and as partially tempting of a thought as that was, as a physician, he could not allow it. Thus, instead of finding his own heavy set of keys, Watson simply shifted the arm already around Holmes’s waist and reached into his jacket pocket.
Holmes blinked at him exaggeratedly and said immediately, “Why Watson, I never knew you cared.”
(1/2)
Holmes was laughing like a maniac, and making himself of very little use when it came to moving forward.
“I will never,” Watson grunted, Holmes’s arm slung around his neck and warm side pressed up against his, “understand why you find lying to hansom cab drivers so amusing.”
“That is because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life, old boy.” Holmes lurched to the side again as he spoke, and Watson barely caught him in time to prevent him from toppling over, staggering himself. The hansom rattled off into the darkness behind them, and Watson hauled Holmes up the steps and into 221B. Mrs. Hudson had left a lamp burning, and under the flickering light, the full extent of Holmes’s dishevelment – and of his bruises – became more readily evident. His shirt tails were hanging out, his wrinkled jacket and scarf thrown on haphazardly. His left eye had begun to swell shut and his face was slowly turning ugly colours in several locations. He moved like a drunkard, or perhaps like a man trying to ride a bicycle while upside-down underwater, all of which did not assist Watson in his generally thankless job of dragging him back to Baker Street after a boxing match.
Watson shot a most dubious look at the staircase in front of them, then grimly started up it.
“Are you ignoring me?” Holmes sounded terribly amused by the prospect, tapping steps with Watson's cane as they went along.
“How you could possibly think so, given that you are currently threatening to pull me off the staircase with you—” Watson let go of Holmes's waist to grab the rail, and he held there until the worst of Holmes’s momentary lurch had passed. “—I have no idea.” Watson was a stout fellow and the taller of the two, but Holmes was heavy and stumbling, and while Watson generally went about without great trouble from his bad leg, it became quite difficult to avoid placing his weight on it while supporting another party’s.
“I am not about to pull you off the stairs,” Holmes scoffed, even as his opposite shoulder hit the wall, dragging Watson with him. “I am simply having some small bit of trouble with my equilibrium.”
“Small?” Watson said with a hint of incredulousness, finally wrestling him upright, up the final few steps, and into the hall.
“Infinitesimal.”
“I do hope that this infinitesimal experience will dissuade you from allowing an opponent to crack your head against the floor again in future.”
“It was a diversionary tactic,” Holmes insisted. “I had him right where I wanted him.”
“I’m certain,” said Watson, whose tone suggested nothing of the sort, as they came to a halt outside the familiar door. If he released Holmes, Watson strongly suspected that his companion would tumble, and as partially tempting of a thought as that was, as a physician, he could not allow it. Thus, instead of finding his own heavy set of keys, Watson simply shifted the arm already around Holmes’s waist and reached into his jacket pocket.
Holmes blinked at him exaggeratedly and said immediately, “Why Watson, I never knew you cared.”