A/N: Hello, everyone, Aya here! I have like three notebooks filled with Holmes fanfiction ideas, one full-length multi-chap fic in mind, several one-shots I plan to post, and this here is my first dive into posting on the Holmes fandom. So please-have mercy XD Also, to those who don't know me from the anime-realm, I'm a slasher by nature, so these will all be (either lightly or blatantly) HolmesxWatson romance. Don't like, please don't waste your time here :)
These will be a collection of one-shots, both book- and movie-verse, mostly lighthearted and usually rated K+ to T
I'll give info for it in each chapter, so onward!
Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc
"After this, therefore because of this"
Title: The Art of Seduction
Warnings:Nothing more than a little HolmesxWatson
Disclaimer: I own quite a bit of Holmes paraphernalia, but alas, my deity Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the original Holmes and Watson, and RDJ and Jude Law aren't mine, either.
The Art of Seduction
Now, Holmes liked to consider himself a reasonable man. Yes, he was aware that most people would scoff at his assuming so, and he was content with that. After all, his actions were rash, his personality abrasive, and his class non-existent. But reasonability, he liked to think, was measured not by one's social savvy, but in ability to plan one's actions before carrying them out. And he did. Someone as smart and capable as himself just didn't give a damn enough to do this when in public. Why take into consideration how someone's feelings might be hurt? If they truly valued his presence, they would look past his lack of respect in social conduct. Being charming…even being human were not any of his concern, genius that he was. But indeed Sherlock Holmes was in his definition a reasonable man. He reasoned when he chose.
But these skills were failing him at the moment. And it was all because of the only person alive who was able to throw him for a loop at whim. He sniffed a bit and sat back farther in his chair, looking over newspaper clippings. He was conscientiously working to keep his eyes on his case work, but oh, how they did wander. Within moments, his mahogany orbs, totally observant, were watching how light refracted against a color as peculiar as the one he studied.
His fingers, dirty nails and scabbed knuckles against calloused dark flesh, moved uncomfortably over his pipe, tobacco staining them even darker. His deep brown eyes flitted back to watch them. Really now. What was a detective to do? He knew he was considered arrogant, but was this too much to assume?
All the evidence pointed to yes. But a sneaking suspicion said…no. Data versus instinct. Holmes seldom found the two things serving as antitheses to one another. He was just that great a detective. But…hm…
God damn you, Watson.
A single thought moved through his mind over and over. That stupid doctor friend of his…
Again his brown eyes moved to stare at the doctor he was observing, who sat at the window reading. The setting sun's rays moved through the window to illuminate his features. His dark blue eyes were reflection the late-afternoon sun's yellow rays magnificently. It wasn't just the sun casting a lovely glow on him, though. Watson wasn't dressed the way he normally was, enhancing the beautiful air to his features.
It was nothing noticeable to the common on-looker. Gray dress pants, tailored so they were not to short on his long legs. They hung gently against the curve of his narrow hips. The color was aesthetically pleasing: the faintest hint of blue woven into the stone-colored fabric. It was not very often that the doctor didn't wear his suit jacket along with his matching pants; perhaps the absence of said jacket could be attributed to the heat in the room due to Holmes' inability to let the fire die down. (He liked to drop logs in and watch the flames consume them while he contemplated cases, and oftentimes found the room quite warm already with a fully loaded fireplace.) Instead, the doctor was only wearing his white button-up shirt which again seemed to be designed for the specific purpose of accentuating his frail figure. Finally, he wore a black tie, loosened just slightly with elegant designs on it in blue.
Very classy. Yet very simple. What no one else would pick up on save for London's greatest detective was that the degree at which the doctor's appearance was nicer than usual. It was just a bit fancier than usual…and there was no reason for it. Holmes knew for a fact that Mary was out of town visiting friends. It was just another Saturday afternoon with no patients or visitors expected. So why did he look so…nice?
Again the notion of being arrogant flitted through the dark-haired man's mind as he sought answers. He cleared his throat as if to speak, then didn't. It was not until after the silence had fallen again (save for the crackling of that damned fire) that Watson's deep blue eyes flitted up to observe Holmes.
It occurred to the messy-haired man as he watched his friend's lips move that he had failed once again to keep his eyes to himself. He looked at the doctor, dark brown settling on fierce blue. That was the best part of the look Watson was sporting—the faint hint of blue in his clothing not only highlighted a body svelte-enough to grab onto and refuse to let go of, but they brought out the less-than subtle shade of sapphire in his eyes as the sunlight hit them, refracting against the orbs beautifully. They were not run-of-the-mill light blue which, piercing though the color may be, was prone to fading into green or gray depending on how the person who owned them dressed. No…that color was indeed pleasant but Watson's weren't like that at all. They were like the sea in the midst of an angry tempest, dark and unyielding to any other color. They were cool without being icy and bright and intense without twinkling too much. And Holmes could stare into them all day, god he loved them—
Oh yes, he had been asked a question.
"Something wrong?" Watson repeated himself, book still in hand.
"Um no I was just—"
"Staring eerily," he finished with an arched eyebrow.
"Ah yes…" he kicked himself inwardly. "Forgive me. I was just looking at how…keen you appear today."
"Oh. Thank you." He shrugged and resumed reading.
Opening his pocket watch and listening to its therapeutic tick, the dark-haired man sighed. He could have asked just then. And answered so many questions…honestly, now, was he thinking too highly of himself in making such an assumption as…?
Time passed slowly and when the clock struck six, the doctor rose to feed Gladstone. Holmes' eyes moved as he followed his friend's movements and suddenly he could take it no longer. His hand grabbed the fabric of his friend's sleeve.
"Watson, may I ask you something?"
"Yes?" he stood, awaiting the detective's question as the messy-haired man felt himself suddenly hesitant. But then again…when did Holmes ever care about being tactful?
"Are you dressed like that to seduce me?"
There! He had asked it. The lighter-haired man blinked, perhaps surprised by the aberrancy of the question. Then, expression still level, he responded:
"Ah, charming." And he didn't feel at all hesitant to tug the taller man down onto his lap rather roughly. Watson didn't seem to mind either as he dipped his head down to capture the detective's lips against his own.
What a relief—so it hadn't been Holmes' imagination.
I hope you liked! Plenty more to come. Please drop a review to let me know what you think-or what you'd like to see. Any suggestions for chapters are welcome! I hope to see you soon!