Thank you!! No, I've only posted one other even shorter ficlet for Holmes fandom so far. My mind is constantly swimming in h/c concepts and dialog etc, but I always feel like in order to be worth posting it has to be a Real Fic with a whole Plot and everything, and I'm just way too lazy for that shit!! Really I should just try posting more self-indulgent no-context snippets like this, turns out people will eat that shit up even if it's not a Real Fic lol.

Sorry, I didn't have any plans for a second part -- I'll let you know if I come up with anything though haha. I'm glad you enjoyed it. 😊

"Watson!"

I knew that voice, but the sharp note of alarm in it was new to me.

"Watson -- oh God." There were hands on me, shaking me lightly, causing a slight groan to escape me.

"It's all right, Watson. You're going to be all right." My friend was babbling the same kind of meaningless reassurances I had given to too many patients to count, though in a tone that suggested it was himself he was trying to reassure more than me.

There was a sudden pressure on my abdomen which sent another spike of pain through me, and I gasped.

"I'm sorry, my dear fellow, I know that it hurts, but I must try to slow the bleeding. Lestrade has gone to fetch a doctor, he will be back soon."

I was awake enough now to open my eyes and take in the image of my friend leaning over me, his face pale and strained. He had removed his coat and was pressing it firmly against the spot where the bullet had entered my body. Despite this attempt to stem the bleeding, the coat was quickly becoming soaked and my medical instinct told me that I was unlikely to survive long enough for Lestrade's doctor to arrive.

Accepting my own death in that moment was surprisingly easy, given the manner in which it had come about. I had taken that bullet deliberately, to prevent it from reaching Holmes. What better or more honorable death could I possibly wish for? I was proud to meet my end in such a way. I attempted in a somewhat halting manner to explain this to Holmes -- to reassure him if this was my time to go that I did not regret it for one instant.

"Nonsense!" he snapped, interrupting me. "Do not be such a romantic fool, Watson. Surely you realize that you are of far more use to me in life than in death? Really, Watson, I should be most disappointed if you were to allow yourself to succumb to so -- so trifling an injury!" The flippancy of his words was belied by the slight tremor in his voice as he uttered them.

By now any motion of my body seemed to send another wave of agony through me. Even drawing breath was growing increasingly painful, besides which I was beginning to grow dizzy from the loss of blood. My eyelids fluttered closed.

"Stay with me, Watson," Holmes ordered in his sternest and most commanding tone.

"I will… try," I managed to gasp.

"You will not merely try," he insisted. "You will do as I say. Do you hear me, Watson?"

It was beginning to seem as if would be easier not to try to breathe anymore.

"Watson!" That sharp tone, ringing with iron, was like a slap across the face. "I know that it is painful, but you must keep on breathing. You are not to give up. I absolutely forbid it. I have not given you permission to leave me, do you understand? I have not finished with you yet!"

I gritted my teeth against the pain and forced myself to draw another breath.

The voice immediately changed, became gentle and soothing. "That's right, my dear fellow. You are doing very well. You have never failed me before, and I know that you will not fail me now."

It was absurd to suggest that I had never failed him -- he had rebuked me for such failures often enough, as he ought to remember. Still, the power that warm praise held over me was quite extraordinary, and somehow in spite of myself I continued struggling for breath.

I had not closed my eyes, but my vision was fading to black in any case. My ears were ringing strangely and Holmes' voice sounded distant and hollow. Yet even as my strength ebbed, the pain itself was also receding -- instead I felt oddly warm and drowsy. If this is what death is, I remember thinking, then perhaps it is not so bad. I confess that at that moment I desired nothing more than to simply relax and allow myself to softly drift away… but he had commanded me to live.

And I would obey.

Good to see more news about this project, I am still PSYCHED to see the full Norwood series finally!

I just finished reading ACD's memoir and one thing I picked up from it is that apparently he only became a doctor because his mother told him to get a medical degree so he could make money, he was never successful at it, and he was thrilled when he was finally able to quit medicine and become a full-time writer. Reading between the lines, it's possible he never actually liked being a doctor very much, and I feel like that kind of puts a different spin on Watson constantly ditching his practice to go run around with Holmes... like the idea of having this manic pixie dream detective come and snatch you away from your boring job that you hate and into a life of ~adventure~ is totally wish fulfillment lol.

"You don't mind breaking the law?"

"Not in the least."

"Nor running a chance of arrest?"

"Not in a good cause."

"Oh, the cause is excellent!"

"Then I am your man."

Kinda reading this as Holmes going "I know we've broken the law together before, but do you feel any differently about it now that you're like... married and have actual responsibilities and stuff?" And Watson is just like "Nope!" "Responsibilities, what are those?"

From The Albino's Treasure by Stuart Douglas -- the book is pretty meh on the whole, but I thought some other people might enjoy this bit lol. (Of course Holmes just had to fake his death again for Reasons, the guy who got "stabbed" was an actor.)

But it had me imagining an alternate scenario where Watson actually does beat Holmes up some before realizing it's him, and is then horrified and apologetic (while also aggravated at having been tricked again); while Holmes is just amused by the whole thing.

Holmes (examining his bruised + bloody face in the mirror admiringly): Impressive, Watson. I find it most flattering to know that if I were to be murdered someday, I would be so ferociously avenged!

Watson: *narrows eyes, not amused*

Me reading my first Nero Wolfe book (The Silent Speaker): Well Rex Stout was the guy who said Watson must be a woman because two men would never act that way toward each other, so presumably this series will be less shippy than the Holmes stories -- 

Archie Goodwin: Frankly, I wish I could make my heart quit doing an extra thump when Wolfe says satisfactory, Archie. It’s childish.

Me: Um. OK.

Even his iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch.

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting.

Realistically if Holmes went for that long without sleep he'd be like hallucinating and shit. Someone write a fic about this please.

Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long seven miles' drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen him so utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all our journey from town, and I had observed that he had turned over the morning papers with anxious attention; but now this sudden realization of his worst fears left him in a blank melancholy. He leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation. Yet there was much around to interest us, for we were passing through as singular a country-side as any in England, where a few scattered cottages represented the population of to-day, while on every hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from the flat, green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of old East Anglia.

Watson: Yeah our client was murdered and Holmes was upset about that I guess, but I was more interested in the cool scenery!

Women in the Sherlock Holmes canon storing things in their bosom

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away.

------

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same deadly smile on her thin lips. [...] She had drawn a little, gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt front.

------

She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. "These are my last words," said she; "here is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have done my duty, and--"

------

"How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of course you have. Open it!"

From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key.

Another Holmes-Moriarty parallel: both are Spiders.

He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. - FINA

---

He loved to lie in the very center of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. - RESI

---

"To the police?"

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before." - FIVE