Food Series 6

[le_russe_satan]

Title: 'Juniper'
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, slash
Rating: PG, possibly PG-13 for a kiss (yup, I'm finally there).
A/N: I am still sneezing from sniffing at the berries, so forgive me any typos. :)

Gin.

“A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey's gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind”
 John Cheeve.

Watson is away in the country for a few days. Few days only, and yet whatever I do, I feel his absence most acutely. When Mrs. Hudson brings the food in, there is no one chiding or encouraging me to eat. When I strike a match to light a cigarette, I cannot use it to light his and the match dies away slowly in the ashtray. I feel bored and no one's there trying to whatever he can to prevent me from using cocaine as an escape. I talk and no one listens, no one answers.
 And when I get a case there's excitement, yes, but when I get a cut on my hand from fighting with the criminal there's no one to bind it for me. And when I sit and drink my client's gin and tonic that he has favoured since India and listen to his stories of the place, the drink seems much more bitter and not quite real.

Juniperus communis.

"And as he lay and slept under a juniper tree, behold, then an angel touched him...",
The Bible.

 Stanford has been most kind: I am not quite sure how he wrangled an invitation from his aunt that allowed me to spend some days at her estate, but I am exceedingly grateful. The house itself is not very big but very old and charming and the grounds are beautiful, with a small lake, a flower garden and a park that seemed to stretch into infinity. It is so different from what I see in London and yet I cannot help but think of Holmes, hoping that the 'black' mood did not settle in, although he seemed on the way there when I was leaving for the country.
 The morning is fresh and clear when I set off for the walk to the park: the other inhabitants of the house are still at their breakfast. The sky is shrouded with a light grey gauze of clouds, but the dew still sparkles gently on the juniper shrubs, when I pause in my walk, stopping next to them. For a moment I look them over, breathing in the fresh sharp scent, then I pick a berry: when chewed fresh they leave a pleasant 'buzz' on one's tongue. I am so absorbed in my own thoughts, I never hear his footfall.

 Watson is looking at me startled and surprised.
'Holmes, what on earth are you doing here? Has something happened?', his eyes are worried.
'No, I wanted to apologise: when we parted a few days ago, I behaved abominably'.
Watson looks at me like I took leave of my senses, but then, perhaps, I have.
'You came all the way here just for that?' he asks incredulously.
I have not, but I do not know how to say it. I, the great Sherlock Holmes, do not know what to do. Very often I can deduce what is going on in someone's mind, but I cannot quite fathom the expression on Watson's face as I look at him, lost and unsure. And when his hand touches my face, a cleansing, refreshing smell of juniper reaches my nostrils, and when he kisses me, I do not know whether the 'buzz' on my tongue is from the berries or him, but what I feel is so sharp and clear and vivid that no deduction can ever compare with it.