The Best of Intentions
The night is blustering and brisk when Watson makes his final deliberate trip to 221B Baker Street, the lapels of his overcoat fluttering in the gusts and his hat clamped firmly beneath a hand. Why he chooses this evening to retrieve those few lingering possessions from his old residence is beyond him, but he trudges on, on, toward that house that still haunts him in his sleep.
He walks the streets like a ghost, his feet quiet on the stones beneath them, as he recalls the countless chases, the innumerable escapades through, deep beneath, high above, round and round the lanes and alleys. It is hard to imagine that he had once been unable to distinguish what side of the Thames he was on, as he weaved his way swiftly through the twilit streets. He had been forced to remember as he hung on to Sherlock Holmes' coattails, eventually able to keep stride with the detective as he dashed to every obscure corner of London.
Of course, his drunken wanderings after a night of gambling had forced the issue as well. But that is beside the point.
Watson brushes away the thought, and quickly smothers the itch to rekindle his capricious affair with Lady Luck.
Those days are behind him now—Right behind him, Holmes was right in quipping, but behind him nonetheless. He is to be married to Miss Mary Morstan, and is content in the knowledge that he is approaching the status of "respectable society." A veritably impossible feat in the company of the brilliant, socially tactless Sherlock Holmes.
No light illuminates the upper windows when Watson scales the steps, and he hesitates where he once would have continued across the threshold. After all, this is no longer his home. He knocks solidly once, twice, listening for any scuffle of feet or the muffled call from the landlady.
The only sound is the moan of the wind as it snakes its way through the alleyways and around corners, whispering dank, chilling nothings in Watson's ears. He turns up his collar to silence, in vain, the unwanted secrets.
The doctor knocks again, at the same time heartened and disappointed that Holmes is absent, before giving in. He fishes his old spare key out of his pocket and lets himself inside. The rooms are dark and eerie, the sickly light from the street warping old, familiar shadows into monsters, phantoms, ghouls come to steal away his sanity. Watson shakes his head at his morbid imagination. Divesting himself of his damp overcoat and his waterlogged hat, his cane leaning precariously by the umbrella stand, he proceeds slowly, carefully up the darkened stairs. He can't bring himself to conjure a light; the darkened, creaking hallways lessen, if only slightly, his guilt.
He stands at the door of what were once his private quarters, now stripped naked and lifeless, save for the murky shadows that creep furtively in the corners. His heart aches as he recalls the seemingly insignificant moments that have passed within these four walls, and his eyes cloud with memories. He can almost hear the squeal of the violin, can almost smell the tea and gunpowder and must of his medical volumes. Reading the paper aloud to the detective as he performed some absurd experiment… Watching him… Knowing he himself was being watched and carefully not acknowledging the attention.
Watson does not have time to blink before one of the room's inky specters rushes forward and barrels into him, thrusting him without ceremony into the wall.
The breath knocked from his lungs, the doctor gapes, wheezes, feeble beneath the solid mass of man pinning him to the wall. When his brain and his lungs finally decide to work in tandem, he squeezes out the only word he can think of:
"Holmes…"
The bitter chuckle that escapes the shadowed figure before him sends shivers racing up and down his limbs, as if small, frantic creatures had skittered from his pores.
"So, you are not, in fact, blind," the detective drawls, his shoulders slumping as he draws away, stepping into the faint light that filters in from the street. Watson yearns to brace a soothing hand against his battered shoulder, but holds himself still, wary of the feral man pacing before him.
"Holmes," he sputters again, ashamed that he has been caught in his peccadillo, but falters.
"I'm listening," the other man says, his quiet voice tinged with amusement at the doctor's stuttering, "What are you doing in my home?"
Watson has never been more thankful for the darkness than now, as it masks the flush of red that colors him to the very tip of his ears.
"I…" he begins, his voice still shaking in shame, but he steadies himself quickly, "I was merely looking to see if I'd left anything important behind."
Another bitter chuckle.
"I'd say you have, dear boy," the detective sighs as he leans heavily on the window.
The doctor is thrown, but he chooses to continue their mutual charade of non-acknowledgment, and makes a show of scanning the remnants of his quarters as best he can in the dark.
"Holmes, I don't see anyth-"
And once more, the detective is upon him, his eyes like lamps in the shadows.
"Look closely, John," he hisses, his voice grating on Watson's nerves like sandpaper, wrinkling the front of his crisp white shirt in his clutching fists, "Look very closely."
Ah. They aren't pretending any longer.
The use of his Christian name dazes him, and Watson is lost, staring back into those eyes he knows better than any others, seeing for the first time how deep the roots of his pain go, how tortured the soul behind them is. His blush deepens to a fine crimson, and he is sure Holmes can feel the heat radiating from his face. He averts his eyes, only to find the detective's mouth, once so firm and sure, just on this side of trembling.
He drops his gaze to his own feet, not trusting it to rest anywhere else.
Holmes releases him with a gentle push, turning his back on his dearest friend. "I take it that means I'm nothing to you, doctor?" he inquires, and if not for the suffering he had just witnessed in his eyes, Watson would have labeled the man melodramatic.
"You know that's not what I meant," he retorts weakly. He searches for something else to say, but everything sounds trite, trivial, unimportant. His lips clamp shut almost of their own accord, before he can say something to further upset the detective.
His sigh hurts almost as much as, if not more than, the earlier physical assault.
"I have something to say to you, Watson," he tosses back over his shoulder, watching his friend through narrowed eyes, "You may wish to take a seat."
The doctor slides down the wall and settles in an awkward heap, holding himself with care under Holmes' unnerving gaze.
Holmes turns to face him, those eyes never once leaving his face, and he begins.
"You are a womanizer."
Watson cringes, and opens his mouth to defend himself, but Holmes simply holds up a hand to beg him "Wait."
"You are a womanizer," he repeats, "who once boasted of having relations with women on three separate continents. You are an avid gambler-" once more he holds up a hand to stop Watson's protests, "You are the most invaluable companion I have ever known, for your strength and loyalty and courage, and you never shy from one of my adventures, no matter how dangerous. And yet, you are getting married."
Here Holmes stops and regards his friend, as if he were an intriguing puzzle.
"Perhaps if she were some exotic beauty- a mysterious woman from the Far East, perhaps- I would be less surprised. But a governess born and bred in London? What have they done to you, old boy?" he asked, with a hint of his old candor, before slipping back into seriousness, "I never imagined you to be one to slip into that morass that is societal respectability."
The accusation stings, but Watson remains obediently silent.
"Do you really think this woman is going to chase away all of your demons? Do you believe that a cottage in the country is going to satisfy the lusty adventurer you've become since our partnership began? And who's to say Miss Morstan isn't interested in bettering her prospects? That is the aim of every woman I've ever encountered," Holmes scoffs and narrows his eyes "Her tenderness toward you could be nothing more than a mask."
The good doctor sits perfectly still, holding his temper in check.
"You… you were a proud veteran. A hero, if only for a moment, in a military sense. And for much longer, you were a hero right here," and the detectives' hands, usually so steady and calm, now fidget, fluttering like birds by his sides, or in the air as he gestures. "Now, you are throwing yourself into that cage of marriage and fatherhood and eventual ambivalence to everything around you because you will grow to not desire, not yearn for that excitement that has thus far characterized our time together, because it is not right to want such things."
He cannot keep quiet any longer. Watson springs up, strides towards Holmes until he is mere inches from him.
"What do you care for my reasons? Even if I were to tell you the truth, you would refuse to believe it, and substitute your own absurd reality instead. Really, Holmes, why may I not have that cottage? Why do you detest the idea of me becoming a husband, a father? There is no abnormality in wanting such things! Not wanting," the doctor gestures about wildly, "this – YOU - anymore is no fault in me."
"What is 'this,' exactly?" Holmes is smug, pleased at his ability to stir Watson to such an outburst., but his hands still reveal his anxiety.
Watson throws his hands up and turns away, his brain refusing to form clear thoughts. He says the first intelligent sentence that enters his mind.
"I cannot want you anymore, Sherlock."
Silence reigns in the room. And just as the doctor is about to turn back to face the room, he feels a gentle hand on his elbow.
"Why can't you want me anymore?"
The words are so intimate, so vulnerable, so uncertain and childlike, that he starts, unable to control the jump of his shoulders.
"You must know… if I am capable of truly loving anyone…" the detective whispers, his hand still light on the other's arm, "That it must be you."
Watson inhales slowly and knows his resolve is cracking. For years, this has stewed, fermented, under the surface. Only ever remotely approached in drunkenness, this tenderness, this desire.
"You are well aware of my disregard for respectability," he continues, his voice still soft but determined, "Yet I would never risk yours."
The doctor snorts at the notion. So that's why Holmes insisted on inducing small, rapid-fire explosions in his rooms when he knew Watson was attending to a patient with a weak heart.
But Holmes does not take kindly to his incredulity.
Holmes' strong hands grip his waist and spin Watson, so he is face to face with the other man, and the detective kisses him, fierce and hungry. Watson is not so much shocked as relieved; the words are forgotten and he kisses back, all teeth and heat and need. He twines his hands in Holmes' hair and inhales deeply through his nose and the detective slips his hands lower, to his hips, pressing him back into the bare wall.
The kiss softens a little, long and slow and languorous and wet, and the doctor is sure that he is not getting enough oxygen but he can't pull himself away. Holmes' fingers press, firm enough that there will be fingers bruised on his hips tomorrow, and the walls beneath him creaks in protest, but Watson can do nothing but moan into the assault.
When they finally break apart, both are breathing hard, panting, faces melting together as they mumble and nuzzle into passion-hot cheeks. Holmes lowers his mouth to the exposed skin of his prey's throat, laving an apologetic kiss over the heated skin, and the doctor's strangled cry catches in his throat.
They still do not speak, except to murmur wordless desire into the other's ear as they rip away buttons and fabric, mouths gentling and warm. Watson looks down between them, noting his jacket heaped on the floor and his ripped open shirt (how was he going to explain THAT to Mary?) before his eyes drift lower…
The good doctor moans and drops his head to Holmes' shoulder as the other man presses against him, grinding against his thigh at a torturous pace. His nails dig into Holmes' biceps, leaving livid white crescent moons in their wake, but neither of them has the coherency to care as they writhe against each other.
"Holmes," the good doctor gasps into the junction of the detective's neck and shoulder, yearning to bite down there oh so gently, "Sherlock."
Holmes stills himself, hands still clamped on Watson's hips, and looks up out of the corner of his eye.
"Yes, old boy?" he murmurs, still as charming as ever, between hot huffs of breath.
Watson blushes that deep scarlet of before, and leans himself back against the supportive wall, thankful for its solidity as his head tips back. Shame roils in his core, but his lust and his relief and his shock temper the discomfiture – at least, enough for him to voice his request.
"Please…" he begins, uncertain of how to continue, but knowing by the mischievous glint of Holmes' eyes that he will have to, "Please, touch me."
"I was under the impression that I am touching you, my dear," the detective drawls, rolling his hips nonchalantly as his pinned friend whines. But then, as Watson is preparing to beg anew, Holmes relents and slips a hand down over his jutting hip. The hand is warm and light, but confident, and as it encircles him Watson cannot help his keen cry.
Watson feels lightheaded as his blood rushes downward, his heartbeat throbbing tangibly over every inch of his body as his breath flees his lungs. Holmes, ever the observer, allows his hand to contract ever-so-slightly, and drinks in the desperate pleading chokes his friend emits.
"My dearest Watson," he murmurs, slipping his tormenting hand up, down, swiping the roughened pad of a thumb over sensitive skin, "I have been a fool. Please," and here he lowers his kiss-swollen lips to the doctor's shoulder, "Allow me to make it up to you."
"Make it up to me," Watson gasps, "By putting an end to your verbosity."
Sherlock grins and obliges the good doctor, "I do believe this orifice could be put to better use at the moment."
As Holmes removes his hand to his hips and slithers down his body, nibbling an angry trail of red down his abdomen, Watson allows his head to fall back against the wall and his eyes to drift to half-mast. Even as his mind lingers on the illegality of their coupling, his heart beats faster than the rain that has begun to fall on the windowpane, overwhelming any sane thought and thrusting it from his head. After all, sane decisions have not precisely characterized their relationship thus far. Why start now?
All coherent thought flies from his consciousness as Holmes' mouth reaches its destination, and goes at the task before it with admirable fervor.
It does not last long, and at the rate the detective has been torturing him, Watson is not surprised. The humid heat of his lover's mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the vibrating murmurs… Watson tangles his calloused hands in Holmes' wild hair, and with a buck of his hips he is finished, crying out wordlessly.
The two men collapse into a jumble of sweat and limbs, the doctor completely limp and sated, the detective fingering a soft curl just behind his new lover's ear. They are silent for the time being, their surrender to each other absolute. Watson longs to curl up beside the warmth of Holmes' naked body, but rolls over instead, intent on returning the favor to him.
Holmes lays, propped against the reliable wall, watching the doctor with muted curiosity, and murmurs encouragement as Watson edges closer. He has waned somewhat, but as soon as Watson wraps his hand around him it returns, eager. Watson is intrigued, and it is his turn to study, watch as his lover's face contorts in a silent plea for more. Watson is hesitant – as a doctor, he has seen, touched many men, but he has never really touched any other than his own for this purpose – but he continues, stroking firmly until Holmes' gasps his release.
Watson gazes at the mess spattered over himself and the detective, and, still hesitant, lifts his hand to his mouth and laps the stickiness from it. Holmes watches him with hooded eyes as he lowers his lips to Holmes' abdomen and laves away the same mess there. The satiated man can only hum in response, and they curl around each other.
After they have laid thus for a quarter of an hour, Watson speaks, his voice thoughtful.
"I dare say, old boy, that I am obliged to forgive all your past trespasses, after that."
Holmes' chuckle is accompanied by a leonine, languorous stretch. "Thank heavens. And here I thought that I would be required to repeat the act to exhibit the extent of my penitence. Not that I have any qualms about performing said act again in the near future, of course."
Watson rolls his eyes and presses his body closer, noting that his shoulder is beginning to ache quite viciously. "Perhaps, after observing your fine example a few more times, I can endeavor to return the favor."
"All in good time. It is not my intention to rush you. We have all the time in the world."
"Unless Mary murders us, of course."
"Ah."
Fin.
R & R, please - Considering making this longer. Tried to keep it in present tense, but if I've slipped up anywhere, let me know.