Title: Portraits of Baker Street: Doctor John H. Watson Rating: PG (Language, mainly) Summary: Just some short studies of the men of Baker Street. Mainly a writing exercise.
Mr. Mycroft Holmes Mr. Sherlock Holmes D. I. G. Lestrade Mr. Jim Moriarty
The thing about John is he has no dress sense. I mean, he can obviously put clothes together, because he doesn't clash horribly or anything. He sort of scuffs round in comfy but battered brown boots, lumpy jumpers and jeans that probably remember the nineties better than he does. His face is lined and ordinary and standing next to Sherlock (most voted by pretty much everyone as a major hottie), he looks grey, so dull.
But then you look at him in action, not sitting on a bench with an old friend from a life he'd rather forget, but standing in front of the most dangerous man he's ever met. His jaw is set, and his back is straight and he radiates calm- command. He's in his element and that warehouse suits him so much better than the ostentatiously comfy chair in his therapist's office.
And as he gets out at Baker Street, you don't think about him crying alone in his room any more. You look again. The oatmeal jumper and well-worn shirt suddenly reveals what it was so good at hiding- the muscle, the alert soldier's stance. The lines aren't so much of a problem, because you suddenly realise that his eyes (and those change colour, do you know how many rows you can get into over exactly what colour his eyes are?) are watchful, and more than a little arresting. Then once you see that, it's easier to spot again. The coat, which to be honest looked a bit granddad before, suddenly highlights the slim but sturdy line of his body. And then he smiles, a genuine grin, a relieved giggle, and hey, that's where 'Three Contininents' Watson comes in. Frankly, I'm amazed Sarah hasn't had him curled up on the end of her bed and sprawled out underneath her. What he lacks in conventional looks he makes up with sheer charm, charisma, and well, girls love a uniform, don't they? And some people wear a uniform even when they're wearing a cardi.
He's not stunning, is John Watson, not the bizarre ethereal beauty of Sherlock, or the down-and-dirty silver foxiness of Lestrade, but. It's there, all the same. A sort of down-to-earth hidden-steel type of handsome.
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Portraits of Baker Street: Doctor John H. Watson
Sep. 6th, 2011 09:48 pmRating: PG (Language, mainly)
Summary: Just some short studies of the men of Baker Street. Mainly a writing exercise.
Mr. Mycroft Holmes
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
D. I. G. Lestrade
Mr. Jim Moriarty
The thing about John is he has no dress sense. I mean, he can obviously put clothes together, because he doesn't clash horribly or anything. He sort of scuffs round in comfy but battered brown boots, lumpy jumpers and jeans that probably remember the nineties better than he does. His face is lined and ordinary and standing next to Sherlock (most voted by pretty much everyone as a major hottie), he looks grey, so dull.
But then you look at him in action, not sitting on a bench with an old friend from a life he'd rather forget, but standing in front of the most dangerous man he's ever met. His jaw is set, and his back is straight and he radiates calm- command. He's in his element and that warehouse suits him so much better than the ostentatiously comfy chair in his therapist's office.
And as he gets out at Baker Street, you don't think about him crying alone in his room any more. You look again. The oatmeal jumper and well-worn shirt suddenly reveals what it was so good at hiding- the muscle, the alert soldier's stance. The lines aren't so much of a problem, because you suddenly realise that his eyes (and those change colour, do you know how many rows you can get into over exactly what colour his eyes are?) are watchful, and more than a little arresting. Then once you see that, it's easier to spot again. The coat, which to be honest looked a bit granddad before, suddenly highlights the slim but sturdy line of his body. And then he smiles, a genuine grin, a relieved giggle, and hey, that's where 'Three Contininents' Watson comes in. Frankly, I'm amazed Sarah hasn't had him curled up on the end of her bed and sprawled out underneath her. What he lacks in conventional looks he makes up with sheer charm, charisma, and well, girls love a uniform, don't they? And some people wear a uniform even when they're wearing a cardi.
He's not stunning, is John Watson, not the bizarre ethereal beauty of Sherlock, or the down-and-dirty silver foxiness of Lestrade, but. It's there, all the same. A sort of down-to-earth hidden-steel type of handsome.
Oh boy.