Holmes/Watson, because I cannot imagine anyone who saw the movie can leave this unresolved ...

I do not own anything of course.

Shards – and what to build from them

Chapter 1: Your feet will bring you ...

His feet seemed to have a mind of their own. Leading him back to Baker Street.

John Watson had left his clinic early today and was not expected home for dinner for at least another hour. He wasn't sure it was a good idea to visit Holmes, as they had not parted on the best terms the last times he had seen him. But for now, he let his feet take over.

Because there was a big gaping hole in his life where a cynical, scruffy, black-eyed detective should be and that was a really uncomfortable thing to live with. You had to be so careful to manoeuvre your way around it to not accidentally fall in. And once you had fallen into the hole it took a lot of energy to climb and crawl out to get back to the rest of your life again.

They had really been living together far too long and far too close, Watson reasoned, as he pondered this. And at an age when it was high time for a man to get married and start a family of his own. A fact, which had become blatantly obvious to Watson when his built up sexuality had started to release itself via the only channel available. At first he had dismissed this as a simple redirection phenomenon, a mere substitutional appetite, but it had grown more and more scary with time.

The day he woke after a mindless drinking night in the sitting room with Holmes' head resting in his lap, heart pounding, thoughts racing and dark desires starting to drowsily rear their heads in the depths of his consciousness, making him rush from the apartment in a frantic flight was the day that Mary's gaze fell on him, as he stood all dishevelled and panting in the park, and she smiled at him. Surprised at his own unusual boldness he had walked over and chatted her up that very instant.

And against all odds, she had found him charming. She had been his saving angel. It was marvelously comforting to come home to her every night, although he wished Holmes would stop acting so childishly jealous and be happy for him. Or at least, that he would just accept the fact of his marriage and make a more relaxed ongoing of their friendship possible.

Watson sighed as he mentally made his wager on how likely that was to happen.

He missed him so dearly. And maybe that was precisely the reason he should not pay him a visit, but give them both the chance to get beyond that unhealthyly close relationship with each other, but really he had come quite a long way already and surely no man could be expected to go against his longings all the time. He had decided against seeing the friend each day anew for the whole week now (and of course Holmes had not called on him either, the stubborn brick) and Watson swore to himself he would not meet him again for at least another week after today.

But for now, he would indulge.

Holmes had not answered the door, proving Watson's expectations right before he even entered the dark and stuffy room. Blinking as his eyes adapted to the gloominess, Watson didn't bother to find his friend and made for the tightly shut curtains directly. As he ripped them open with one harsh gesture, only the slightest whimpering told of other lifeforms in the vicinity. Still not turning round, the doctor went on to open the window, taking a deep reliefed breath before commenting dryly: "Are you trying to suffocate yourself? Or is it a new experiment to find a way of staying alive without oxygen?"

"Curious. When you were living here, you used to knock."

The bitterness in Holmes' voice stang and made Watson finally face him.

The picture was familiar, although there seemed to be a twist to the more sinister. Or was it just that he was not quite as used to it anymore? That his eyes had become accustomed to the soothing sight of clean tablecloth, snow-white linen and a balmy smile on calmingly regular features, the demure charms of his wife? The place was a mess, as usual, and so was its inhabitant, likewise as usual. But something seemed to be different, something Watson could not quite place his finger on. It all seemed so much more dreary, so much more deeply desperate, so … deprived of all joy.

Watson suppressed a shudder, was it that he had, in the short course of his marriage, already risen so far above this kind of life that he suddenly saw it with the eyes of a any ordinary member of society? Had he socially risen above the most brilliant mind in Britain to pity it? Pitying Holmes seemed like a sacrilege, crushing his dignity, like spitting right in his face and Watson felt his stomach starting to turn.

With a nervous grin he tried to hide his emotional turmoil and met Holmes' murky and bloodshot eyes that betrayed the toxics circeling his veins. "As a matter of fact, I did knock, but obviously you were to plastered to register it. Which seems quite a feat since even in this state it used to be near impossible to get anything past you."

The dark-haired man scowled and rose from his spot among the debris, carefully eyeing his former flat-mate.

"But of course I'm terribly sorry to disturb you in your cosy oxygen-free dwelling in the darkness. Stupid of me to assume anyone would want to spend their time in airy and bright environments." Watson went on, registering by the twitching lips of the detective that the latter grew annoyed and impatient with his ramblings. Well, he'd be dammed if he would be intimidated by Sherlock Holmes, especially in his present state. So he pulled a face and added: "Heavens, when did you wash last?"

The dark eyes spat fire at Watson and despite his resolution the doctor involuntarily took at step back. There was something eerie about Holmes, the drugs turning his face into some kind of cold mask. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and calculating.

Taken aback, Watson started to stammer: "Well, pay you a visit of course. Does it surprise you that I felt like visiting a friend?" Holmes held his gaze for a moment, then his face started to soften and the faintest resemblance of a smile began to form around the corners of his mouth.

Relief flooded the doctor's stomach warmly and he went on without thinking: "Not much to do at the clinic today and Mary doesn't expect me for dinner until 7, so I thought I could drop in for a moment." He had not noted how Holmes' lips had been pressed into a thin line again at the mention of his wife's name and was surprised to find the smaller man turning away from him. "Too kind of you, my dear Watson, to donate a moment of your precious married-life-time to me before rushing back to your wife. But we don't want to keep her waiting now, do we? You should not overstretch your charity."

Recognizing the tone, Watson felt frustration rushing up, as he lapsed into the ever same sermon: "For god's sake Holmes, when will you stop being so childish and accept Mary as part of my life. She is my wife now, you know."

The dark man's tense shoulders shivered a little as Watson stood watching him for any reaction to his words. As he turned, his eyes had taken on a feverish glaze, a sadistic streak distorting his lips. Looking directly at his friend he abruptly proclaimed: "Mary is a slut." The taller man's face turned pale with anger and he clenched his fists, bewilderment coloring his voice as he questioned: "What?!?" Holmes took a step closer to him, provocatively looking him in the eye. "Go ahead, hit me." "I don't want to hit you." Watson answered irritated but truthfully. The smaller man licked his lip for a second, never giving an inch and in that same calmly arrogant voice added: "She came by here, complaining that you were an unsatisfactory lover: And I fucked her." The doctor's knuckles collided with Holmes' face before he even registered the movement, forcefully hurling the smaller man to the ground.

Breathing heavily Watson looked down at his oddly satisfied-looking friend, spitting: "Do you expect me to believe this?" Holmes looked at him as if he thought him to be very simple and answered with a slight chuckle. "Of course not."

Caught by the gaze from these dark and intense eyes, Watson stared at the man sprawled out beneath him, lip split neatly and a little trail of blood oozing up from the delicate flesh. He felt his mind go blank and his throat go dry and then the familiar rush of blood to the hip-region. Damn, that must have become a habit. Embarrased he turned away hastily, pressing a defeated hand to his face, exhaustedly kneading the skin. "Why are you doing this?" he asked consternated.

As no reply came, Watson looked back to his friend, but the latter had turned his head away from him, a strangely empty expression on his face. "Well?" he pressed, desperation in his voice, but still there was no reaction.

Frustration gripping him tighter than ever, Watson felt that he could not bear this any longer, grabbed his walking stick firmly and made for the door without a word of good-bye. As he slammed the door ever so slightly (since he really wasn't the kind of man who slammed doors) Watson felt utterly childish and annoyed with himself.

Letting himself out onto the street, he wondered how this visit, that he had craved so much, had turned out to be such a confusing total mess. His mind fruitlessly obsessed with these thoughts, he felt like crying, maybe for the first time since he had been a little boy, and let his feet take over, leading him back to Mary's comforting arms.

TBC

The style of the story is going to change during chapters, I hope it throws no one off.