Disclaimer: Don't Own.
The Devils in My Head When You're in My Bed
CH.1
Adultery has always been deplorable to the good doctor, but in light of recent events, he finds himself seemingly a hypocrite. Always justified in his belief that he is an honest, loyal, and above all else, faithful man; now, he can't help the way his body betrays the morals of his mind, he feels himself falling apart around the edges of his pristine ethical structure. He is a happily married man, for god's sake! His lovely wife, full of trusting innocence and bountiful beauty, he's ruined that; taken the sanctity of their marriage and spat upon its foundations, he's sickened with his straying thoughts of another.
Watson leans back heavily in his office chair, thoroughly exhausted, a long week at the clinic. The edges of dawn streaming in through his window, the busy roads on London still whirling around him, the sound of horse's hooves clopping along, the business professionals making their way off to work, and the despicable still trying their craft at pick-pocketing. Watson, just leans back against the leather of his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb; he's really in deep this time, his mind a jumble of thoughts, none easily decipherable.
The doctor pushed himself up from his chair and makes the climb up the stairs to his bedroom, where his lovely wife is sleeping, she looks heavenly; she is most unquestionably an angel. Watson shrugs off his coat and unbuttons his vest and his white dress shirt. He strips off his trousers as well, leaving his shorts on, and throws on a nightshirt, climbing into bed with his wife. He makes sure to jostle the bed as little as possible; he can't stand to be met with her guiltless smile when his thoughts were so vile. He shuffles over as far to the side as he can; his heart a thunder. He manages a glance over in his wife's direction; she is at peace in sleep with no worries clouding her countenance. The doctor's disgusted with himself, how could he think such things, when he had his wife to come home too?
He turns on his side, facing away from Mary, his beloved wife, his supposed everything; he just can't stand the depravity he has fallen into. Sleep does not come for the doctor; he just lies in bed, wishing he was with another. His mind racing his pulse to high to be considered safe, sweat forming along his brow and perfectly groomed mustache; he soon gives up on notions of sleep, though it would only have been for a couple of hours, and descends the stairs to the dining room, grabbing the paper on his way, takes a seat and begins to occupy is mind with trivial matters, waiting for the arrival of his landlady and his morning cup of coffee; it comes shortly along with Mary. Watson's insides constrict and he feels his lungs collapse, and he's reduced to a wheezing mess, Mary seems to be ignorant to his plight; thank god for small miracles.
She sits down most elegantly in her chair across from her husband, her face alight with genial exuberance, and all Watson can think is: ignorant. He does a full bodily glance over her flawless form, and can't find why he would stray from her trust; he figures his mind has finally left him. Mary notices the stare and returns a quite look in his direction, a petite smile highlighted across her lips. Watson just gives a half-hearted upturn of his lips in return, Mary just takes her breakfast gratefully and lets Watson return to his reading. The morning remains quite, no one speaking, one out of dread and the other out of respect. It seems perfectly normal, everything in its place, everyone in their place, but the doctor knows better, it's just a matter of time before this ghastly nightmare comes collapsing down on top of them.
Watson sets his paper down and excuses himself; Mary just nods her head, Watson making his way back to their room to dress for work. He grabs a clean, crisp white shirt, a nice waistcoat, a pair of khakis, and an understated tie to round off his ensemble. He pads back down to the entrance hall, grabs his coat and medical bag and starts his way outside to hail a cab to his practice, before he can escape his home, Mary grabs his arms. Her eyes glistening in the light, a smile playing on the edges of her mouth, she brings both hands up to cup his face, Watson lets his features fall into a cool mask of acceptance, while inside he's breaking apart, churning flames in his chest, mind wild. Mary just looks on adoringly, and Watson knows when things come to light, they will absolutely destroy this magnificent woman, and he will have no one to blame besides himself, and his disobedient thoughts.
"Have a good day my dear," Mary brings her lips to meet Watson's in a kiss so soft and full of love, Watson feels his eyes prickle with unshed tears, "will you be home in time for dinner? I know the practice has been keeping you extra busy, along with Mr. Holmes." Watson is positive, his complexion is paper white at the mention of his friend's name, Mary just steps back, but before she has time to inquire further, Watson pulls himself back together; steps back up to his wife, because that is what he is expected to do, and kisses her forehead, in an insincere display of affection.
"I will be most late tonight my dear, a full day of appointments," he holds Mary away at a distance by her shoulders and gives her a dazzling look, and she's sated. Taking his coat off the rack and his bag from beside the door, he's off and able to breathe again. The London air holds a slight chill that serves to refresh the doctor; he awaits the attention and arrival of a hansom to carry him off to his practice.
The ride over is quite and calm, but Watson is thoroughly unnerved by his desire to be away from Mary, being with her makes him ill, and his mind race. The cab pulls up alongside the building that holds the doctor's practice; he gets out and pays the driver, and is on his way. The day passes by in a string of hacking coughs, runny noses, and watery eyes; Watson diagnoses his patience in a monotonous drone of 'make sure to drink lots of fluids,' 'make sure to cover up, so you don't catch a chill while suffering under a cold,' and 'take this, it will help relieve you of most of your ailments'. By the start of dusk, the good doctor is running on autopilot, ready to leave, but still not ready to face his wife; barely making it through the tense hour in the morning.
Watson decides to go to the one place that can drown out all his problems, but also the place that has caused most to begin with, he would go see Holmes. The thought of just being back inside his old digs, makes Watson's heart rate accelerate, his breathing quicken, and a low burning in his groin, he's without a doubt in deep with this one. Watson can't help to realize that the feelings home invokes are similar to what Mary brings out in him, but for opposite reasons, Mary makes his heart quicken in fear, his body heat up in panic, and his breathing catch in terrified adrenaline. Holmes makes Watson's body respond with joy, desire, and sexual tension, it's most intoxicating to just be around the detective, he feels high, like he's floating, weightless, and he revels in it. Unfortunately Holmes does not seem to get the same high when around the doctor, most unsatisfying.
Watson arrives at the door of Baker Street and is struck with indecision. His heart telling him to go in, his head telling him to turn tail and run, grab a cab back over to his residence, back to his wife, to Mary. He immediately enters the flat with the thought of returning back to his wife, he climbs the seventeen stairs up to the sitting room, finding the door ajar. Watson pushes the door open further with the bottom of his cane, and makes his way inside, his heart hammering in his chest, the bones going to give way any moment, he can feel it.
The surly detective is reclined in his chair, hair disheveled, pipe between his chapped lips, eyes alive with mischief and mirth, Watson feels his heart stop, and coughs on a lungful of air, gaining the detectives intense gaze. Upon the acknowledgement from the detective, Watson smiles at his friend and steps over to him, seating himself in his (old) chair. The detective just eyes his dear doctor, dissecting and analyzing. Watson just shrugs out of his coat, hangs it over the back of his chair, and lays his cane down beside him, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt.
"My dear Watson, what a surprise, may I inquire to your most welcomed visit?" The detective's eyes shine in the dim lighting, as the curtains were drawn shut, and just a sliver of light penetrating the room, the fire a glowing ember, but Watson can still see the heat in their depths.
"I figured that I would stop by and make sure you haven't completely destroyed the flat in my absences. I also wanted to make sure that you have been taking care of your person," Watson stated with a wave of his hand, Holmes just chews on the end of his pipe, thoroughly disbelieving of the doctor's excuses.
"Hmmm, see I assumed it was because you were trying to evade your lovely wife," Watson tenses, Holmes beams, "seems that I have assumed correctly then my dear Watson." Watson turns to face Holmes fully and gives him a most venomous sneer.
"Don't bring Mary into this. You also assume wrong, I can't come around and see a friend?" Watson smoothes his countenance back to one of blank indifference, "may I be so bold to say you do not want my presence in your room?" Watson made a show of beginning to stand. Holmes immediately darts up from his chair and over to Watson's, clutching the arms of the chair, effectively pinning Watson to his seat.
"No, my dear doctor, and please forgive my rudimentary accusations, it was out of line. I do thoroughly enjoy your presence at Baker Street," eyes locking with the doctors, then drifting up towards the door, "better than nanny's obtuse companionship." Holmes returning his attention fully to the doctor, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips, Watson returns the look, positively elated by Holmes upfront response. Holmes loosens his hold on the chair and stands fully in front of his friend, "care for a glass of brandy, old boy?" Watson nods his head in acquiescence.
They drink in companionable silence, Watson reveling in his shared time with his friend, though feeling a sad pain in his chest, unable to confront Holmes on his most depraved feelings. He just concedes to his small, stolen glances of the detective, sipping his drink, staring into the fire. Holmes aware of his friend's behavior lets the glances go, till he can take the treatment no longer.
"Watson, do I have something on my face?" He catches the doctors blue gaze with his dark one. Watson swallows heavily, and just shakes his head in repudiation. Holmes hums to himself, seemingly a response to Watson's quite reply. "Then why old boy, are you staring?" Watson, refuses to dignify that question with an answer, and remains steadfastly mute. Holmes huffs in irritation, getting up to refill his glass.
Watson stands from his chair, grabbing his coat from around the chair, and his cane from the floor, ready to make a hasty departure, escape the madness and brain dizzying mess that is Sherlock Holmes. Holmes rounds on him suddenly, drink forgotten, grabbing Watson by his shoulders, holding him stalwartly still, glaring down at him.
"Now, please be forth right with me Watson, something is deeply troubling you," Holmes holds up his hand at Watson's start at refusal, "and please don't insult my intelligence by stating otherwise, there is something weighing on your conscious. You can tell me, because it is obviously something that you cannot confide in with your wife," if there is more force behind Holmes' last word, Watson resolutely ignores it, his senses fuzzy with the feel of Holmes' hands on his shoulders, the wisp of his breath over the doctor's lips, and his pleadingly dark eyes staring into the doctor's own.
Watson's reply is just a ghost of a whisper, "my feelings are out of sorts, I feel deplorable in my wayward thoughts. I have been unconsciously unfaithful to Mary, thinking of another," Watson's vision blurs and he feels his cheeks warm, the detective just appears taken aback, not expecting a truthful statement from the doctor, use to his stubborn dismissals.
Watson can feel his body acting on its own volition and his hands reaching forward to grasp a hold of the detective's unruly hair, yanking slightly, making Holmes issue a tiny hiss. Watson without further thought leans forward and kisses Holmes squarely on the lips, damn his morals.
TBC