It didn't take long for his books to return to his, no, no, their, old apartment. It started out simply enough. Holmes had to borrow medical books and Watson simply had to make Holmes read an article about the speech patterns of someone with a half paralyzed tongue which was sure to explain why the witness of their latest case thought the assailant didn't speak English. He always meant to bring them back but it was late, after all, much later then Watson had meant to stay in the first place, and he was simply much too tired to carry them to the buggy.
His tools came second. His new house was tidy. Everything tucked away into its proper place. It simply did not fit the proper setting in which his tools should be were used to chaos, he reasoned, as were his fingers. It didn't due when his magnifying glass sat next to his tweezers, which rested right under his notebook with the pencil tucked right in.
Besides, it wasn't a long trek to Holmes' apartment and sometimes, it gave him the reason he needed to leave the house. Not that he needed a reason, it was just nice knowing that he belonged somewhere else. That he would be greeted with a genuine smile or possibly an explosion but damnit, sometimes everything made it feel a little bit too much like home.
The worst part of it all was that Holmes knew. Of course he knew. Bastard could figure anything out and Watson was no where near being a puzzle.
"Your stuff is in my house," Holmes says. He bites on his pipe and looks at Watson with half lided eyes. Watson can tell Holmes is happy and it almost makes his skin crawl.
"It's for the job."
"It's still my house." He grabs Watson's walking stick and points. "That's my corner. Those are my shelves. Those book, however, are a different story entirely." He plays the confused card so well.
Watson is two steps from giving up. He has lost track of who has won what argument but he likes to think that he's ahead by a few points. Maybe he can give this point to Holmes. The detective is right, of course. The books, the tools, and the clothes (including the vest Holmes is currently wearing) all belong to Watson.
Watson started sleeping there a few weeks after he organized his books on the shelves and a medical room had started being prepared. He wouldn't say that being awoken at a quarter to four by gun shots and explosions, or waking up to the smell of something rotten was completely becoming. It was just that his house was too quiet, and the smells or the roses Mary brought home made him feel - on edge. A doctor who is on edge makes mistakes. A doctor who makes mistakes is an unemployed doctor.
"Again?" Mary would say as he prepared himself for a case.
"Another murder."
Mary sighed. "You know what I mean, Watson." Another murder, robbery, abduction, it all meant the same thing to her. Her husband spending days out of the house, coming home with bandages, a more pronounced limp, and somehow, a smile tugging at his lips.
"I have to work." And he did. If he happened to spend the night (or two or three) at his old house, it was just part of the job. It's not like Holmes worked regular hours and it took many hours of badgering to get the recluse to work in the first place.
No, Watson still doesn't know he follows Holmes around.
Watson sits back in his chair. Holmes is waiting for his response and this debate is making him sleepy. He taps the side of his seat, listening to the popping of the fire before them and the crackling of Holmes of his pipe. Yes, he is very sleepy indeed. He's seconds away from admitting defeat and going to bed before it hits him -
"I thought you said this was our house," Watson says. And with that sentence, Watson wins.
I tried to keep this in the bromance territory, at least open enough for some to keep it in the bromance area. I'm so tempted to push it a *little* to the slashy end but hopefully, I can keep that in check.
Just a quick little something. Hopefully, some more to come soon.