John Watson would never stay. Sherlock Holmes would wake to crumpled bedsheets, and it would be cold. It didn't matter that Watson only moved to the other room. John would wake up, cold, and remember the previous night. He would dress in silence, and across the hallway, Holmes would do the same.
John wouldn't be surprised that some of his clothes would be missing, and he would allow himself a small smile. There were reasons he went through what he did. He would see his secret lover again at breakfast, but there would only be a businesslike meal, before they began a day of work together as friends.
Sometimes during the day, if Mrs Hudson went out, or there was nothing much that needed doing, Holmes would steal kisses from Watson. John would not deny him, but it would make him feel uneasy to be in broad daylight. Watson could not deny Holmes. He protected Holmes, kept him on the straight and narrow when his obsessions with cases threatened to take over, or he fell into one of his deep depressions, but he would never stay a whole night in the man's bed.
Because he couldn't quite admit to himself what they were doing. He was not an outcast, he was not used to being an outcast. To go against the rules of society was difficult, especially to the kind of levels they did. It was illegal, for goodness' sake!
The worst part of it all was Mary. She loved John very much. Not only did John not love her back; he betrayed her most nights for Sherlock Holmes and then lied to her face about it. John was no liar. That was the thing he hated the most. And then he would have to kiss her, to sleep with her. He would hate himself, because he would just think of the detective.
More than once, Watson considered ending it with Sherlock Holmes. But then the night came, and he would climb out of his own bed, and into the bed of 221B Baker Street's owner, and that owner would show him why he wouldn't leave. The touches Holmes gave, which Watson reciprocated. The kisses, deeper and deeper that Watson would receive. The total and unconditional need and love both of them would show. Watson lived for that. He lied, he betrayed, he broke all the rules for love.
And yet, he would not stay. He knew he loved Sherlock. It hurt just enough to be love. John never stopped to think how selfish he might be.
Sherlock Holmes needed this as much as Watson did, and he did not like having to hide. But he never took much notice of the rules. But he was lonely. He had his doctor, his love. But he felt as pushed away as Mary sometimes, when Watson wouldn't speak to him for days, and languish by himself. When Watson left him, every single time.
It hurt Holmes. He felt perhaps he was not good enough, would never be good enough for John Watson, respected member of the community. The one who picked Holmes up when he fell. The one who fitted the pieces back together. The one who filled the gap left by a missing piece. But he would never stay with Holmes. Would never stay through the night, into the early hours of the morning when the loneliness was it its worst.
Holmes turned to his violin to take his mind off things, playing mournful notes before dawn. Watson would hear every single one, and know why, and his heart would constrict.
A year or so after they had started their illicit affair, Watson could stand his regret no longer.
"Holmes...we cannot do this anymore. I..." his words sounded poisonous to himself, and the detective he was speaking to said nothing. John had to watch as Holmes' heart broke. He left that very evening, staying out for days, mulling over what he had done.
He found that being apart from Holmes was worse than being with him. Holmes himself sat in his chair, barely moving, unable to believe Watson was gone. But John was afraid to go back. He could not face being rejected, because he would know it was completely his fault. Weeks passed with Watson not daring to return to his home. He found solace for himself in the underground boxing ring; sustaining injury from men far bigger than he, was like redemption. Every time John climbed out of the ring, he felt as if he had been to confession.
Holmes sat alone still, curtains closed, only eating when the hunger voided all other senses. He kept the pain and the loss close to him, to stop him becoming a waste altogether.
After a particularly nasty encounter, John was left in the middle of the floor, bleeding. He was barely conscious. Luckily for him, Irene Adler happened to be in the crowd. She recognised him and ordered for him to be taken back home. She accompanied him, but after listening to his broken story on the way, she left him standing at the door alone, accepting her weakness may not be fulfilled.
Holmes heard the cab pull up outside his house, and waited for it to pass. However, it did not, and there was a firm knock on the front door. He dragged himself unwillingly from his chair, and down the stairs, lethargic and shockingly pale, underweight. He opened the door and looked at his guest with black-ringed eyes, which widened in shock when he saw the man standing there.
"Holmes I..." Words were useless. The detective stared at the bloodied and broken doctor. Wordlessly, Holmes turned back and went upstairs, neither encouraging nor stopping the doctor following him, so follow him Watson did.
He caught up with Holmes in his bedroom, and knew any explanation he might give was useless. Any regret he still held completely disintegrated at the sight of saltwater producing a shimmer in Holmes' eyes. The detective looked at his doctor with the complete and utter despair of a street urchin. "Why is it that you come to me once more, when I know you will never stay? And why do I find myself letting you in, and falsely hoping that you will not flee again?" It was a terrible thing, seeing a great detective so completely dazed.
"I'm sorry, I..." The doctor could not find any words adequate enough. "Forgive me, Sherlock Holmes. Your hope is no longer false, for I love you more than anything." Holmes looked positively shocked, and his eyes widened even more, if that were possible.
Watson stepped forward so he was only a few inches away from Holmes, and held his face in his slender hands. "Look at you," he whispered, sadly. "Look what I've done to you. You've barely eaten, you haven't slept," he traced one of the dark circles around one of Holmes' eyes lightly with an index finger. "You have to take care of yourself. I can't keep you on the straight and narrow all the time." Watson gave a small smile, before taking Holmes' lips gently with his own.
He pulled the detective into his chest, and Holmes listened to his heartbeat. "Forgive me," Watson begged. Holmes closed his eyes and nodded, lacing his fingers into Watson's.
When Holmes woke up the next morning, there was warmth and closeness next to him. John Watson stayed the night in Sherlock Holmes' bed.