Ah ha ha finished!
Title: Recompense
Length: 9509
Warnings: None, afaik.
Rating: Mature, for sexuality and brief violence
Pairings: Adler/Watson, Holmes/Watson, Morstan/Watson
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain in the United States; no disclaimer is intended, implied, or necessary.
Notes: I can't believe this is the first Adler/Watson fic on the AO3. I can't be the only one who thought, "Adler & Watson, 1893! They fight crime! Totally!" ...Though, there is less crime-fighting here than I originally planned. I owe a huge shout-out to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
damned_colonial's posts on shirts in the movie and to hradzka's post on ACD's word rate, as well as to the other writers and vidders in this fandom, who are inspirational. (Speaking of which, if you're on my reading list and you think you see a shout-out to your own personal fixation in here, you're probably not wrong.)
Read it here on the AO3, or below.
London, November 1893
John Hamish Watson woke on the rug in front of the hearth in his sitting room, his dressing gown spread over him like a blanket, and for a sickening, disoriented moment he thought he was lying on the tiger-skin in Baker Street N.W., 221B. But the unmistakable scent of Parisian perfume rather than Persian tobacco put paid to that notion almost immediately, and the contralto voice, flatly accented as only an American could mangle the Queen's English, pounded the final nail into the delusion's coffin.
( Continue... )
Title: Recompense
Length: 9509
Warnings: None, afaik.
Rating: Mature, for sexuality and brief violence
Pairings: Adler/Watson, Holmes/Watson, Morstan/Watson
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain in the United States; no disclaimer is intended, implied, or necessary.
Notes: I can't believe this is the first Adler/Watson fic on the AO3. I can't be the only one who thought, "Adler & Watson, 1893! They fight crime! Totally!" ...Though, there is less crime-fighting here than I originally planned. I owe a huge shout-out to
damned_colonial's posts on shirts in the movie and to hradzka's post on ACD's word rate, as well as to the other writers and vidders in this fandom, who are inspirational. (Speaking of which, if you're on my reading list and you think you see a shout-out to your own personal fixation in here, you're probably not wrong.)Read it here on the AO3, or below.
London, November 1893
John Hamish Watson woke on the rug in front of the hearth in his sitting room, his dressing gown spread over him like a blanket, and for a sickening, disoriented moment he thought he was lying on the tiger-skin in Baker Street N.W., 221B. But the unmistakable scent of Parisian perfume rather than Persian tobacco put paid to that notion almost immediately, and the contralto voice, flatly accented as only an American could mangle the Queen's English, pounded the final nail into the delusion's coffin.
( Continue... )
