Where None Can Spy

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "warm hands"

Holmes peered between the slats of wood, his gaze fixed on the dark house across the field. There had not yet been so much as a flicker of light in the windows, not a single candle flame. His quarry had not yet arrived even after all these hours.

Beside him, Watson dozed, wrapped in blankets. It was better than he slept, even if slumber while sitting and leaning against a wall would tax his old wounds. Watson was faithful, incredibly so, but not made for long vigils over empty buildings.

Long vigils over empty buildings still filled Holmes with excitement. On the hunt, his senses were sharp, his attention keen. He could quite easily remain focused with only the occasional little fidgeting. He had no desire for artificial stimulants, or for anything else to occupy his time.

A couple more Holmes studies from Devil's Foot!

On Moonless Nights

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "singing in the candlelight"

Cw: war and injury-related PTSD

Night after night, the battlefield invaded Watson’s sleep. Sometimes he was haunted by the fighting itself, with the whistle of bullets, cries of wounded soldiers, the urgency of an army surgeon to get his patients to safety. Those dreams were upsetting, but manageable.

There was another sort of dream, though, one that left him shaken and frequently incapable of getting back to sleep at all. That nightmare, which returned all too often, concerned his war wounds.

Tonight’s dream had started like the others, with the battlefield itself. And then the sharp, searing pain in his shoulder and thigh, the sound of his own screams, the smell of his own blood. Other doctors working on him, trying to put him back together while he screamed and screamed and…

And then there was singing, soft and soothing. It drifted through the dream, across the battlefield and through the field hospital, a strange serenade that interrupted even the pain.

The Calm

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "Silver Sparks"

Cw: past drug use, depression

“Holmes, you’re in the paper!”

Holmes groaned and curled up, pulling his favorite blanket tighter around himself. He had been ensconced on the settee since last night’s return to London. He had no intention of moving. “Really, Watson, must you make me even more miserable?”

“Listen to this,” Watson said. “The headline is ‘Silver Sparks Fly!’, and the story runs ‘Despite a mysterious detour, sparks flew as Silver Blaze soared across the finish line. The champion racehorse, which was reported missing earlier this week, returned to the track due to the heroic efforts of the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes’.”