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[personal profile] leone
Title: Dignity
Author: [personal profile] leone
Rating: G
Character(s): Holmes, Watson, Lestrade
Summary: TLC for Watson, who is in no condition to appreciate it.
Warnings: Major character death (highlight to read; it's a bit spoilery), angst
Author's Notes: ACD book-verse. Two entries for Watson's Woes July writing prompts; fill for July 14 prompt: "TLC, whatever form (and rating) that means to you.  Meaning TLC for Watson, not given by." I'm afraid that, although Watson is receiving TLC, there is not so much comfort in this story. (However, the request for comfort was under the prompt, not part of it, so I'm disregarding that portion.)
Word Count: 100

Holmes couldn’t bear to see him like this—unmoving, unresponsive. In this condition, Watson would not know how Holmes washed him, changed his clothes, brushed his hair, but Holmes couldn’t bear the sight of him in any condition beside the characteristic dignified respectability he maintained in health.

The task done, he stepped outside, and collapsed bonelessly into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He would have waved Lestrade away, but the inspector refused to take a hint, holding his jacket out for him. The spread of fabric blocked the view of the undertakers, coming to remove the body.

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Title
: Guest
Author: [personal profile] leone
Rating: G
Character(s): Holmes, Watson
Summary: TLC for Watson, comfortless grief for Holmes.
Warnings: Major character death (highlight to read; it's a bit spoilery), angst
Author's Notes: ACD book-verse. Two entries for Watson's Woes July writing prompts; fill for July 14 prompt: "TLC, whatever form (and rating) that means to you.  Meaning TLC for Watson, not given by." I'm afraid that, although Watson is receiving TLC, there is not so much comfort in these ficlets. (However, the request for comfort was under the prompt, not part of it, so I'm disregarding that portion.)
Word Count: 221B

Watson’s lanky body shivered on the settee as he tore ravenously into the meal Holmes lay before him; the blankets around his shoulders and knees trembled with him.  Holmes rose stiffly to put more coal on the fire and poured him him another cup of tea. His fingers shook arthritically, but Watson said nothing, and eventually the cup was full and steaming once again. The flicker of firelight reflected off Holmes’s grey hair; somewhere a neighbor was listening to the wireless, and the muted voices combined with traffic noise to lighten the silence in the room. Watson’s face (so young—too young) became less wary, the pallor under his unshaven chin lifted, and finally he collected himself enough to speak.

“Why? Why me?”

The detective remained impassive, his only response for a long time an intent gaze at his guest. He took in the blond hair, the clean upper lip, the youth. The boy’s accent, so achingly wrong, proclaimed him a native of London, and his skin was white and smooth, having only ever seen London fog, with no experience of a burning Eastern sun. Finally Holmes said, “You have a good name.”

“It’s common enough, isn’t it?”

“In my experience, the bearer is uncommon. But that was a long time ago.”

Before dying out, a lump of coal burned brightly.

 

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