Slashy nap

Meanwhile, I've been writing more Sherlock Holmes fic lately and it seems that "Chapter 6" of my novel DIM is turning out to be at least 10 chapters long! This chapter is the one with the Speckled Band case, retold in much greater detail. Years ago, when "The Reminiscences of Helen Stoner" was in 1st person point of view, I managed to make it only 3 parts long, but since changing it to 3rd person to include Holmes/Watson, the story has greatly expanded, and I'm still not done. So clearly I will have to revise the old outline, renumber it, and add more quotations. That's going to screw up all my prior posts using the previous numbering, though.

This also means the overall novel DIM will be 30-ish chapters at minimum. Like, wow. That's the most ambitious I've ever been in Sherlock Holmes, and I've written 50+ chapter epics in other fandoms. (AO3 does make it easy to just keep adding onto a work in progress and never end a story.) But DIM has a clear storyline planned and a definite ending. I just need to find the time to actually finish...

To give a taste of why it's worth the expansion of Chapter 6, here is one of the new scenes. Holmes and Watson stay at the Crown Inn, and they decide to take a nap together. They've been up since 7AM and need to be out all night on a vigil, so it makes sense to nap, even though Watson never told us they did so in his account.

By the way, Sherlockian Chris Redmond's 1984 book acknowledged that gay characters do exist in the canon, but he seemed to think that gay content only shows up in stories without any female characters. I don't know why he'd think that. Slash is in every Holmes story; it pervades the canon, including stories with strong women like Irene Adler and, as I write her, Helen Stoner. In the Speckled Band, it's in everything from the "knocking you up" joke, to Holmes bending the poker straight to impress Watson, to Holmes whispering in Watson's ear at night (when he could have just given Watson the warning ahead of time at the Crown Inn). As I've said before, Helen Stoner is a conduit to slash. See for yourself.

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Fandom: Sherlock Holmes

Story: Deeper in Memory, Chapter 11 of the new outline

Pairing: Holmes/Watson pre-slash, Holmes/Helen Stoner, Watson/Helen Stoner imaginings from a jealous Holmes.

Warnings: PG slash, bisexual feelings, unresolved sexual tension

Again using the story that they were architects, they engaged two rooms at the Crown Inn. Watson sighed at the implausible lie, but he humoured Holmes by signing the register as John Watson, not mentioning that he was a doctor, as he knew of no doctor architects. However, as Watson started to go upstairs, Holmes did not follow him. Going to the front door, Holmes said he would get some supplies in the village shops.

So Watson went upstairs alone. The bedroom had twin beds, and there was a fireplace in the sitting room. Most useful of all, he could indeed see the windows of Roylott Manor from this place. Watson unpacked his toothbrush and his gun from his pockets. Noticing how dusty his clothes still were, he took off his coat to try to shake it clean. He also tried wiping the grass stains off his trousers with his handkerchief. No, that didn't help. If only Holmes had let him pack an overnight bag! They certainly did need more than a toothbrush if they were going to stay until 3 AM and later. Watson wondered if he could send a wire to Mrs. Hudson to send a change of clothes to them. Hmm, but would she hesitate to go into Holmes's room to pack for him? The detective didn't like having his things disturbed, and had forbidden the maid to go into his bedroom to clean.

Sitting down at a table, Watson wrote in his notebook about their investigation at the house. He decided to omit mention of the broken stile and the repaired walls. The whole thing made Holmes seem silly, especially his petty remark about the animals being locked up during the day. How moody Holmes could be, when he was so cheerful this morning! Watson wondered how long Holmes would be gone, and he worried that Roylott would abuse Miss Stoner again as soon as he got home. Surely they should have sent her to her aunt in Harrow and just had her leave the window open tonight? They could have watched Dr. Roylott's window from here. Why did she need to stay?

When Holmes returned at 3 PM, he had only bought a cane, candle, and matches. Those were his supplies? Not that Watson had expected any clothing stores in such a small village; people probably made their own clothes and only bought fabric and sewing things from the shop.

As Holmes chattered about the local gossip he heard about Roylott and the blacksmith, Watson tried to ask him more about Miss Stoner's case, but Holmes would not answer. He abruptly said that they should nap so they could be fresh when they went out later tonight. "I have already asked the innkeeper to wake us for supper at 6."

"Oh, right, we'll have to be out until 3 AM at least." So Watson put aside his notebook, and they went into the bedroom together.

Holmes closed the curtains, then turned to see Watson swiftly undressing by one of the two beds. Holmes suddenly realised the awkwardness of not having any sleeping clothes with them; moreover they had never slept in the same room before. When Watson took off his shirt, Holmes noticed his scarred shoulder. He had never seen the doctor's war wound before and was fascinated by its shape and colour. He was curious about its texture and stepped forward.

Holmes considered asking Watson about his wound, but recalled Watson's embarrassment the last time he had mentioned it. At their first meeting at Bart's, Holmes had observed the wound while Watson was fully dressed, and had deduced that Watson had served in Afghanistan. When Holmes later explained his reasoning, Watson had been so displeased that he had struck back, correcting him that Afghanistan was not in the tropics, and forcing Holmes to admit his ignorance of geography.

So when Watson caught Holmes staring at him, Holmes cautiously said with chagrin, "I am sorry I made us go without properly packing."

Watson shrugged dismissively. "Army life has made me a rough and ready traveller." He sat down briefly to remove his shoes and socks, then stood again to take off his trousers. He folded them neatly over the chair that held his other clothes. As he slid into bed wearing just his underwear, he noticed that Holmes was still standing fully dressed at the window. He reached for the bedside lamp. "Would you prefer to undress without the light?"

Holmes said, "No, I'm fine." He approached the other bed and began stripping too, placing his clothes on another chair. Life as an actor on the stage had taught him to change in and out of costumes at a moment's notice, often in shared dressing-rooms or even in the wings backstage. He wondered whether he ought to mention those years to Watson, but then he would have to mention why he became an actor, to become adept at disguise. Watson had not seen him in disguise yet, so perhaps it was better to hold off telling him. Holmes did not know why, but the thought of playing a prank on Watson with a disguise amused him.

Soon Holmes took off his own shirt and began to fold it neatly.

Behind him, Watson stirred and Holmes realized that Watson must have seen the needle marks on his left arm. Holmes paused, waiting for him to speak, but Watson said nothing. So Holmes continued undressing and finally lay down in his bed.

He turned off his bedside lamp, as Watson did his own, and there was silence for a moment. Despite the curtains, afternoon sunlight still broke into the dim room.

Watson finally ventured a question. "Holmes, were those injection scars?"

Holmes turned to face him. "Yes. Morphine."

Watson still stared at him, evidently stunned that he was wrong in his first impression that Holmes lived too cleanly to indulge in a drug habit.

Holmes considered whether to roll over and end the discussion, or whether to strike back and ask about Watson's wound, since he was already upset anyway.

Watson decided to be bold again. "How long have you been using morphine? What for?"

Holmes continued matter-of-factly, "Years. To help me sleep. You have seen how keen and active I am while on cases. It is sometimes difficult to come down from such excitement afterwards and to rest."

"But surely laudanum--"

"I need it for pain as well." Holmes ventured his foot out from under his blanket. "My scar from the university bothers me sometimes, as perhaps your war wound bothers you."

Watson had forgotten about Holmes's dog bite, which he had not mentioned in years. Watson still looked at Holmes with scepticism about the word "sometimes." The needle marks were too numerous. He said only, "I do not use morphine for my wound."

Holmes shrugged and merely withdrew his foot beneath the blanket again. He rolled away and closed his eyes to end the conversation.

Taking the hint, Watson started speculating on the case instead. "You said a cat in his room? When I was in India, I heard stories about rajahs training cheetahs to hunt for them. Royal pets, as obedient as dogs or falcons. Hmm, cheetahs have spots. Speckled band... Could she have glimpsed the tail?" Watson drifted off into sleep.

Holmes ignored the ridiculous suggestion of course. The cheetah couldn't get into that fortress of a room, and even if it had, there was no murderous attack it could inflict that wouldn't be detected afterwards. Except perhaps pure fear, as Miss Stoner speculated. But Holmes doubted that Roylott would rely on fear as a weapon, unless the young lady had a weak heart.

How clever Roylott was; he knew he would be a natural suspect by the police, so he devised a murderous scheme that no one could commit. If anything, Roylott had seemingly moved his stepdaughters into the most secure room of the house; no doubt if Helen had been engaged first, he would have found some excuse for the building repairs to pierce her room then.

Holmes found his mind drifting to Watson's time in India and Afghanistan. Watson had joined the army before the war broke out, so he had been attracted by romance and adventure. Perhaps he intended to meet such rajahs as he'd heard stories about? Perhaps he thought he would be treating soldiers and civilians mainly for snake bites. Snake bites, and yet Watson didn't see.

Holmes wondered whether, if not for the war, Watson would have worked near Calcutta as Miss Stoner's father the major general had. Watson might have met her if Roylott hadn't already moved the family to England in 1875. If not for his father making him earn a doctorate, Watson might have gone to India years earlier. He might have met any other Indian-born Englishwomen there as well. What would they have been like? Wearing English clothes or the natives' saris? Would they have liked to eat curry? Would Watson have tried to shoot a tiger as a trophy, and not merely in fright when the cub peeked into his tent?

Holmes couldn't understand why his mind was wandering so much. Unable to focus on the case with his usual rationality. Miss Stoner was in danger. Tonight she would signal to them, then retreat to her old room, the room he had refused to examine. He had not merely declined to see it, he had refused when Watson suggested that they look inside to make sure that the building repairs were false.

Holmes was irritable, and insistent on moving to the centre room. He had no desire to see her actual room, the one perhaps decorated with things from India. Possibly even containing her wedding dress, for surely that was why she had remained in London instead of going straight home from Baker Street. Would the dress be her best Sunday dress, or would it be a white dress, which was the new custom after Queen Victoria's wedding gown? Holmes disliked that he even knew that fact about fashion, but his grandmother had once remarked on the new custom when speaking of the wedding of his deceased parents. No memory or mention of them could be sacrificed from his brain attic.

Stop drifting! Why couldn't he get his mind to settle? All day, since this morning, he was distracted. He almost wished he had morphine with him to help him sleep. But what would Watson think then?