The city was dark. Out of the thousands of buildings there was one light remaining. Watson sat alone under the lamp by the window facing Baker Street pretending to read while he watched the clock on the mantle painstakingly tick away the hours until dawn. Holmes was gone again, out on another of his midnight excursions.
Watson didn't know where Holmes went when he disappeared from their flat in the middle of the night. The detective seemed not to care care what the weather was like nor what time of year it was. He would get up and leave unannounced in driving rain or blistering cold. Watson was sure he went nowhere in particular. He knew his partner was just wandering the streets, losing himself among the crowd, taking in the glittering sights and sounds of the ever changing metropolis. And that disturbed Watson more than a visit to the seediest brothel, casino or opium den ever would have.
Holmes was so much a part of London that Watson wasn't sure know if he could distinguish himself from it anymore. He knew Holmes no longer measured his life in when but where. There were no years or dates on the rare occasions when he shared personal information. There were just changes of street names, improvements to parks, the erection of new buildings. It was never when we did this or that. Watson was beyond sick of hearing, "This is he where did this. Here is where he did that."
Sometimes he felt London was better acquainted with Holmes than anyone else. It was a ridiculous notion, to be envious of a city. But, Holmes knew each back alley, each store front. For God's sake he knew where the toilets were in almost every restaurant. He knew every brick of every building, every sewer grate, every street lamp. It had taken him years to draw his map. And now what did Holmes see: himself or map of the city, the city or his life in the city? Watson was not sure anymore. But, he knew he didn't like it. After all, how could he ever measure up to the immortal titan that was London?
Watson was almost ready to give up salvage what he could of a night's sleep when he heard Holmes finally climbing the seventeen creaking stairs to their rooms. The rattle of the doorknob announced his return.
"You're back."
Watson coolly flipped the page as though he had been just been absorbed in his novel the entire night instead of waiting up. As though he could hide his irrational, illogical jealousy. As though he could hide anything from his partner's seemingly all seeing gaze. He could feel Holmes's mischievous, calculatingly intelligent eyes measuring him.
"You're angry."
He snapped the book shut and set it aside in a crisp gesture that positively screamed his annoyance. Holmes raised an eyebrow.
"I'm tired."
He was. So much so that he barley noticed that he had gotten up and was closing the distance between them. However, he knew what he needed. Their kiss was violent, bruising. Holmes hands roved over Watson as though his form was the map and he was lost in it. Yet, it was only when he caught his partner's look of bewildered excitement as he snuffed out the light was he sure that the lakes and valleys his body made were as enthralling to Holmes as his beloved London.
