I could have sworn that this thing was exactly 1000 words long...

Anyway, this is the first of four short Sherlock Holmes fics; a bit of a challenge for myself, as it were. All of them are at or dancing around 1000 words. Each is based upon one of the four seasons of the year. It should be noted that though they do connect to each other in a chronological manner, that you CAN read them separately. They are also slash, so expect Holmes/Watson innuendo. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Spring

Springtime in London: the only word that can successfully describe it is misery. The dreary rains day after day grated upon my nerves like nails upon a blackboard, and the odd climate change—hot to cold and back again—made my head ache with an unholy fury. While Holmes, the bloody devil, ventured into the city rain or shine, I was forced to remain at home, racked with debilitating migraines; a cold cloth upon my forehead and our well-worn chaise lounge were my only companions on these frequent occasions. Each time Holmes found me in such a state, he would shoot me a heated look as if greatly offended, and despite the fact that I was completely within my rights to abstain from his hare-brained adventures, a lump of guilt would invariably rise to my throat as I drifted into yet another pain-induced stupor.

"Justice and discovery wait for no man, Watson." He would spit this little quip at me every morning while I writhed in agony, just as he had done this particular morning, but the raging fire that smoldered in my skull had been so intense that I hadn't even the power to nod in agreement, let alone retort in my defense. With that said and a curt nod, I watched him leave and waited in agony for his return.

Hours passed. I felt the night approach without so much as opening my eyes; these days they were closed so often that one would think that I played at blindness. The house cooled suddenly, the light beyond my eyelids dimmed, and the busy street fell silent. Strangely though, when I rose blearily to check the time, the old grandfather clock's face read four-o-clock. Before I had time to question, an earsplitting crash of thunder broke the relative silence, sending a blinding shock of pain through my head. I fell back to the chaise and uttered a groan of contempt. Had God no mercy?

"Just another one of your bloody storms, I see." I grumbled blasphemously. "Is there never a time in this accursed season when a good man can get some peace?"

As if mocking me with some great cosmic joke, the front doors swung open with a bang and in barreled Holmes, hat and cloak sodden, face stony and unreadable as always. It seemed that even Sherlock Holmes could be foiled by the weather, I thought to myself spitefully. I was repaid with a spasm of pain in my neck. Without a word—at least, a word detectable by my muddled senses—he shed the outer layer of his clothing, leaving himself only in his chemise (I found my eyes shamefully drawn to the unbuttoned collar) and trousers. Stopping only to don his slippers, he headed for the staircase.

"Watson." Surprised to find him addressing me while in such a disagreeable state, I answered without a thought.

"Yes, Holmes?" I winced at another stab of pain.

"You are still feeling…er, "under the weather" as it were?" He was uncomfortable with his little witticism, I could tell.

"Y-yes, a bit." "A bit" hardly described the extent of my discomfort, but to appear weak before Holmes…I had found the prospect suddenly unthinkable, though I was sure that his sharp mind could see right through my façade. Motionless at the foot of the stairs, he continued to stare at me; his eyes, dark and rich as baker's chocolate, bored into mine: pale, watery and no doubt bloodshot and red as Hell. Then he was back on his way, as if nothing had happened between us at all.

What had I expected, really? Pity? A ludicrous thought; such a notion bordered upon the impossible. Rarely did Holmes engage in such a sycophantic emotion, particularly toward people. I slumped back against the velveteen spine of the chaise lounge once more, pressing my now flaming cheek to its soft skin. I felt another hard lump rise to my throat, this one derived from disappointment. What a fool I had been, to expect any form of affection from a man like Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps my gloomy musings, combined with my pain, had overtaken my senses, but I never heard Holmes come into the silent sitting room; nor did I notice him light the fire in the hearth. To me, the sound of the violin seemingly came from nowhere, like an angel's song. I rose weakly to find my detective friend sitting at the foot of the chaise, eyes downcast and the tiniest smile upon his lips. I soon recognized the song as Vivaldi's "Spring"—the second movement, to be precise. The violin sang its sweet lullaby as the rain pelted Baker Street, a score set to the opera of nature.

Finally I could no longer restrain myself. "Holmes…"

"Hush, Watson." I obeyed and he continued to play, his long, ink-stained fingers caressing the strings of his beautiful instrument. I found myself envying it. As he played, his murky eyes moved from his violin to me, and the sensation that followed was akin to that of the lightning that flashed in the sky outside. Soon enough, however, the song ended and Holmes rose from his seat, my heartbeat following the same pattern as he approached me.

"My dear Watson," he chuckled, his deep voice hanging in the air. "You look positively pathetic." I frowned indignantly, which he found very funny. "Did you enjoy the song? Did it, perhaps, soothe you?"

"Yes. I thank you, Holmes." With a small smile, he reached down and, with the back of his blotchy hand, stroked my hot face. If my heart could burst from my chest, certainly it would have done so. Stranger things have happened. "No fever. Good." And as quickly as it had came his touch was gone, Holmes along with it. I was left alone with the flickering fire and the thundering night.

Upon the only star that was visible from my place upon the lounge, I wished that the misery of spring would never end.