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For those who read my previous post: this is what I wrote to cheer me up.

Title: The Silent Biographer
Author(s): [livejournal.com profile] drachenmina
Rating: G
Character(s): H/W
Summary: Watson's Woes Challenge 009: Watson has been playing rugby, and not without consequence. Holmes is most distinctly not amused.
Warnings: Slash, melodrama, fluff.
Word Count: 1,000
Author's Notes: It's my first attempt at Sherlockiana. Be gentle, I pray. With huge thanks for the beta read to the wonderful [livejournal.com profile] storyfan

"In God's name, Watson, what on Earth were you thinking?"

Holmes' face was as black as thunder; in truth, he was as angry as I have ever seen him. In the normal course of events, I dare say I should have tried to placate him, but I fear that in my current condition I was in no position to attempt to either distract or mollify my friend. A newly broken jaw is not, after all, conducive to easy conversation. I was forced to lie abed as mute witness to Holmes' distress, unable to utter one word to alleviate it.

And I had little heart to do so in any case. A sorry picture I must have presented: my face bruised black and blue and grotesquely swollen, to say nothing of the ignominy of the whole affair.

"Rugby! A fine pastime for a man with your injuries!" My friend's furious rant was alas, all too apt. As is so often the case with him, he turned to mockery to express his utter contempt for my actions. "Will the coming season see you entering the ring as a prize-fighter, or apprenticing yourself to a lion-tamer?"

Holmes abruptly ceased his restless pacing about the room and came to a halt by my bedside; a fact for which I was sincerely grateful, as my head was spinning. It was a not unexpected legacy of the hefty boot to the jaw which had so humiliatingly ended my participation in the Blackheath Old Boys' match. "I refuse to believe, Watson," Holmes continued, "that you have entirely taken leave of your senses, but I'll be damned if I can explain your actions in any other way!"

It was then that my worries truly began, for I saw a light come into his eyes that I knew full well meant that an intriguing puzzle had presented itself, and Sherlock Holmes would not rest until he had divined its solution. It was a sight to strike fear into my heart; for indeed my motives for participating in the match would not bear close study, least of all by Holmes.

"Let us examine the evidence," he began in dictatorial fashion, resuming his pacing but with his hands now clasped behind his slender back. "We have one John Watson, a man who was, in his youth, a keen sportsman. Not yet past the prime of life; he has, however, suffered injuries in his Army career that afflict him even now. It would not be too far off the mark to call them debilitating." Holmes nodded to himself, and seizing a chair, turned it around to sit astride it facing me, with his chin cradled upon his forearms. "This Watson is not given to indulging in reckless physical pursuits, yet one day he ignores all common sense and allows himself to be drafted into a team for that most physical, one might even say dangerous, of sports: rugby football." Slender, sensitive fingers began to tap upon one linen-clad forearm. "A common motive for such a display, it must be acknowledged, is that the subject wishes to prove his virility to an observer. Whom, then, did our Watson wish to impress? Perhaps he wished to persuade his contemporaries that he had aged as well as they? By no means, for the rest of the Old Boys were fully ten years younger than our Watson. For whom, then, was this peacock strutting designed?"

A cloud passed over Holmes' face, and I groaned in spite of myself, although the sound I produced was grotesque and indistinct. Dear God, he had discovered me, and all was lost! Why had I ever been such a fool as to try to draw my friend's attention to my physical form in this ridiculous manner?

"A lady, then, one must presume," Holmes spat, to my great relief. "For there were several present, although none of them, I might add, has troubled herself to enquire after the extent of your injuries." He hurled himself out of the chair with such force as to almost topple it upon the ground.

I watched in some amazement as Holmes seized the fireplace poker and began to swing it around forcefully until I feared for the safety of every object within my room. "So," he continued. "There were present a Miss Millicent Cuthbert, a Miss Edna O'Brien, and two married ladies. To whom, then, did our Watson dedicate his lamentable display? Not to either of the married women; for he is nothing if not honourable. Not to Miss Cuthbert, for she is quite the silliest female it has ever been my misfortune to waste an hour in company with. As for Miss O'Brien, she has neither wit, nor grace, nor elegance…"

An extraordinary stillness fell upon my friend just then; I found myself holding my own breath in sympathy. At length he turned and regarded me with a softened mien. With quite a different voice, he addressed me directly. "Watson…" He faltered. With no little astonishment, I observed that he was in the grip of some strong emotion. "Watson, was this all for me?"

I could not speak; yet the tear that rolled unhindered down my cheek must have made eloquent answer for me. "Watson," Holmes repeated, his face pained. For myself, I was in an agony; was the cause of his distress my perverted regard for him, or merely the foolish way in which I had sought to express it?

Holmes' noble features twisted in a rictus of anger, and I feared the worst. "Watson," he said again, in a low and threatening tone, "if you ever attempt something so devoid of all reason again, I swear by God I will break your jaw myself!"

I was not long left to puzzle over the meaning of his words, for flinging himself down upon my bed, Holmes leaned over to kiss my bruised and swollen lips. "You have no right," he snarled, "to risk all that is most dear to me with such ape-like posturing. You have no right," he repeated more gently, his elegant, capable fingers caressing my brow as his dear face softened into lines of love.

At that moment, I would have given my soul to be able to tell him I loved him; yet in the next breath I realised that would be a fool's bargain, for Holmes had divined it already, as he did all things.

And I would not have had it any other way.
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