Citrus

Title: Citrus
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, pre-slash
Rating: PG 

Citrus

 

Citrus limon

 

“My best indicator has always been our lemon trees because they blossom earlier than oranges and grapefruit".

                                                                                                                                   Kathy Oleson

 

 

Holmes and I are taking a walk in the Regent’s Park. It’s a warm September day and the sun has already started its inevitable decent towards the horizon. Holmes is not, thankfully in a black mood, but neither he is effervescent. Our conversation ceased almost as soon as we came out of our house and made our way here. My friend seems to be in deep thought, his face expressionless, although I fancy I saw a small sad smile distort his lips briefly, before he schooled his features back into a sphinx – like mask.

 I am sure he does not wander what is on my mind. Not only because he could not really care less, but simply because he cannot fail to see what must be written in my every expression, my every gesture, my every glance.

 I am startled out of my thoughts by the light touch of Holmes’ hand on my arm.

- Watson, look over there. They are selling fresh lemons. Do you think we should purchase some for ourselves and Mrs. Hudson?

 I nod in agreement as leads me to the makeshift stall, the smell and the sunny colour of the lemons enticing me, leaving no space for anything else to be noticed by my exhausted senses.

 

 Watson must have noticed something odd in my behaviour as he is unusually subdued. I just hope that my skills as an actor conceal the true nature of the “oddness”. I notice the lemons and although it’s a strange place to see a street vendor, the fruits look beautiful. Deceitfully beautiful, for they are so sour on the inside. I touch Watson’s hand to get his attention, and wish I could do much more than that.

 

Citrus paradisi

 

“There is a lot more juice in a grapefruit than meets the eye."
                                                                                                                            Anonymous
 

-         I find grapefruit to be a thoroughly strange fruit.

-         And why is that, Watson?

-         I don’t really know how to put this feeling into words,  or the reasons for it: after all feelings do not always stem from logical reasons.

-         That is exactly why I have no time for feelings, - snaps Holmes, wishing that this simple statement could make his feelings disappear.

 Watson smiles knowingly and returns to peeling his grapefruit, being careful to clean off all the thin white skin between the rind and the flesh of the fruit, which he knows to be the bitterest part.

 

Citrus sinensis

 

“An orange on the table, your dress on the rug, and you in my bed, sweet present of the present, cool of night, warmth of my life".

                                                                                                             Jacques Prever

 Holmes is on the rug in front of the fireplace. He is wearing only his nightshirt as it is rather hot in our house, and I find myself wishing I could be as Bohemian as Holmes. As he is not exactly lying still, the nightshirt has ridden up his legs to just above his knees, and I am indulging in the guilty pleasure of studying his well shaped calves. To divert myself I pick up a plate full of orange segments and place it in my lap. The fruit is fresh and delicious, but I am rather full to contemplate having more than a few pieces.

 

Watson calls out to me, and I lift my head to look at him. He is holding the plate with orange pieces out to me: I ignore it.

-         Come, Holmes, have some. It’d be a pity to waste it. You just have to eat it: see it’s peeled and separated into segments, as if for a child.

I feel rather in a mood to behave like a child, more so, like a spoiled brat. In one quick movement I abandon my spot, and take up position between Watson’s legs. I lean against the settee with my back, and stretch out my legs.

      -      Well, feed me then like a child.

I can’t see Watson’s face, but he probably looks exasperated and annoyed. I smile to myself. My poor friend. I expect him to either tell me off, or thrust the damned plate into my hand. What I certainly do not anticipate is to see Watson’s hand circling round to press a piece of sweet-smelling orange against my lips. All of a sudden I am not so sure about who won this round.