Sweetest Downfall
Disclaimer- I own nothing, it's very sad,
Rating- M... for later chapters
Summary- Watson knew that he could never escape Holmes, what he didn't realise was that he didn't really want to, so when he invites the Detective to stay with himself and Mary how long will he be able to avoid his feelings... slash
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He let himself in with the key that he had neglected to return, almost tripped over a pile of books stacked in the doorway; he fumbled for the oil lamps to give him some clue as to the whereabouts of misplaced chemicals, bear traps and loaded guns. The sudden light bore him witness to the state of his old home, worse now than ever before, the floor held scorch marks and chemical stains. There was clutter everywhere, piles of books and papers littering every surface as far as the eye could see, shattered glass and empty bottles in every corner. He sighed heavily not quite sure where to start, there's a pile of unopened letters next to the fire and he knows they're the ones he himself sent. He briefly wonders who it is that's avoiding whom,
It's silent in Baker Street, silent as the grave, no gunshots, no small explosions, no bulldog snorting in the corner, no violin. He thinks the silence might drive Holmes mad and tries not to look at the small worn leather case that's no more than arms length away from his friend's chair. He knows that he should have come earlier, that there's been cases, been days and days where he hasn't eaten or slept and pulled at his hair until it falls out in his hands. He knows there's been days of nothingness, days of unlabelled bottles and an ever faithful glass vial and syringe. He knows that he's hurt him, that he tried to explain as best he could, put it all down in writing and he just assumed that it would be fine, but now he thinks it's far from it.
It has never been fine,
He bites at his bottom lip, runs a hand across his face and paces the well worn floor, he's had no case for a week, nothing to keep his mind focused and entertained, nothing to puzzle and no one to amaze. He wonders what he's been doing, the fire's been lit, the embers not quite dead, the ash cooling even now, he sees the detective sprawled before it, staring into the flames as if trying to win a staring contest or discover what exactly it is about the flames that captivates him so. He stares at the bottles and see's them joined to his friend, an ink stained hand clasped around the slim neck and tobacco lips pursed hungrily to the top.
He notes the chemicals that are tossed on the floor, the broken glass beside it and he can imagine Holmes tossing it aside when it frustrates him and does not create the right reaction. His gun lies on the table by the door and there's not a single bullet in the device, Watson knows that the shells are probably lodged in one of the walls surrounding him. There's untouched tea by the window, just one cup and he can see the pain as the Detective stares at it from the floor, as if the very china had betrayed him. As if the nectar within were poison,
What have you done to yourself Holmes...?
It's been raining for days and he's been using that as an excuse for his reluctance to come, he hates himself for being so pathetic and the leather of his gloves creaks softly as he clenches his hands into fists. He knows where Sherlock Holmes is now, he knows so well he thinks he could walk there with his eyes closed.
He's not sure how long he's stood there for, staring out of the window as the rain tumbles from the heaven's and dances upon the glass. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, the door opens downstairs, the faint sound of the bell jarring because the man slipping in knows exactly how to calm its sharp ring. The footsteps on the stairs are slow and heavy despite the obvious attempts of silence.
The hinges creak when the door is pushed open and blue eyes turn to face the man half slumped against the frame. He's holding his stomach, smiling his trademark smile; his eyes are haunted, weighted down by the need for sleep. His frame is slimmer than before, his hair flat against his head with a mixture of sweat and rain, his hands are stained with blood and tobacco and there are chemical burns leading up into the sleeves of his jacket. Though he doesn't look terrible for any of it, he looks like Holmes, and Watson tries not to think about how much he's missed the sight of Holmes because it means more than he'd ever care to admit.
"Watson, I knew it was you, how are you fairing old boy?" The Doctor smiles and turns from the windowsill stalking towards his younger friend.
"Better than you it would appear, what have you been doing Holmes?" Though it's not really a question because he knows and he would bet his life than Holmes knows that he knows. The Detective smirks a wicked smirk and hisses slightly when his companion grabs his arm, all but dragging him into the apartment and closing the door with his foot.
"Be gentle with me Watson," he half whispers as the elder male shoves him into his chair,
"You should have asked that of the man you were fighting Holmes," He's pressing on his friend's stomach checking for bruises and internal bleeding, Holmes barks at him and slaps at his hands, groans when he presses on skin that's far too tender and Watson smirks to himself slightly. "You will live," he announces seconds later standing back from his friend and leaning against the desk to his left.
"Yes, well, that is such a relief Doctor, I believed myself to be staring death in the face," blue eyes rolled,
"These boxing matches will be the death of you; you are terribly reckless old boy," Holmes seems far more interested in the substance beneath his fingernails than Watson's words and the elder male crosses his arms over his chest in frustration. Silence consumes them, "do you not even care to know why I am here,"
"You know I always care to see you Watson especially since your visits have become so infrequent," there's a carefully concealed edge to his words, so sharp they cut with the barest of touches, Holmes is good with words and Watson enjoys the way his companions lips form the syllables even with the bite to them, even with the pain it strikes deep down inside his chest.
"Holmes..." it's a prelude to a much grander speech but the Detective silences him with a wave of his hand as he pulls himself from his chair, all laboured movements and heavy bones.
"No excuses Watson we are both gentleman and know that you have other commitments to attend to now, your practice and Mary, it would be selfish of me to allow you to give up your time to care for me," Watson thinks Holmes is brilliant in his self pitying deception, he almost has him tearing up, then he notes the slight overacting, then the true emotion buried in those jet black eyes and he's close to falling apart.
"I have neglected our friendship and I am sorry for it but please do not hold this against Mary," ink black eyes speak volumes and Sherlock grips his pipe lighting it and inhaling deeply, Watson's eyes never stray from him,
"Well if it were not for Miss Morstan then nothing would have changed would it, not that it matters now, still, you never said, what has brought you here so late in the evening?" He puffs on his pipe, his eyes roaming Watson all the while, looking for any flinches at his words of any tell tale reaction that will give the man's reasoning away. There isn't any, just that impeccably dressed gentleman leaning on his cane,
"You did not read any of my letters,"
"Did they hold terribly pressing matters? I have been ever so busy as of late," he's stood by the window now, wrapped in tendrils of smoke as he stares out at the rain and the black of the night, he doesn't like it when Holmes lies to him. The detective has always withheld information, that's just the way he is, but it's terribly rare, almost unheard of for the dark haired male to stare at his friend and lie to his face.
"I suppose not," he's in front of him then, inches away, ink black eyes ravaging him, pipe forgotten, he's looking for something in the frown on Watson's face, the shimmering in his eyes. The elder leans away slightly; Holmes raises an eyebrow and leans closer in response.
"Does it upset you Watson? That I haven't read your letters, you seem almost disheartened by it," there's a sparkle to those jet eyes, a challenge,
Tell me of your pain Watson, I'll double it, can't you see it...
"No, do you even realise the date Holmes?" he's changing the subject, Holmes wonders if it's intentional or if he's unaware of doing it himself. "It's December," the Detective seems un-phased by the information, simply replacing his pipe to his lips and Watson tries not to watch the curve of the others lips as the move ever so slightly to accommodate the object. "The 20th of December, surely this has some relevance to you old boy,"
"Of course," there are splinters of heartache playing across his features and Watson thinks perhaps he pressed too much, the Detective clears his throat and taps his dirtied fingernails against the arms of his chair. He's avoiding the elder's gaze yet the ink can't help the odd glances in the Doctors direction, "who doesn't, I don't see why that should bring you to my door Watson, should I get a tree? Perhaps we shall decorate it together though it will be a far cry from the grand thing Mary shall set up in Cavendish Place, and I shall have no guests to wonder at it, save for Clarkey of course and Nanny," and he's selfish because he's hurt and he blames Watson for it entirely. There's shattered fragment of heart in his lips,
You left me...
"Holmes, please,"
"Please what? Please forgive me, listen to me, pretend nothing has changed, perhaps nothing has for you old boy but it has for me," he's not angry, he's not shouting, his voice not raised at all, so Watson wonders why he feels so very defensive,
"I did not come here to argue Holmes," there's a flicker of emotion in the ink depths of the younger male it's gone too quickly for Watson to decipher it and the Detective says nothing, merely stares at Watson, waiting for the reason that he had come. "I wondered if you wished to spend Christmas with Mary and myself," Holmes is reading him now, eyes steeling into him, he's not sure he's comfortable with it, he shifts beneath the gaze leaning once again against the desk and tapping his cane against the floor. "Well?"
"Would it be appropriate? I believe it is your first Christmas with your wife then I assume her family will be joining you, hardly the place for myself, I do tend to make a scene,"
"You are not getting out of this one Holmes; there is no way that I will leave you to yourself for the whole of the holidays,"
"I wonder what Mary will say,"
"I have already discussed this with her,"
Don't make me do this...
The expression on the Detective's face says it all, he's almost pleading and Watson doesn't know what it is that he's so afraid of. He thinks he might be afraid that he'll embarrass his friend, anger Mary, offend the family, maybe it's something deeper maybe he's scared he'll drag Watson back down into the macabre, into his depravity. The Doctor has missed that depravity dearly, but he'll never say.
"You're coming Holmes," The younger runs a hand through his unruly black hair, tugs slightly in the way he always does when he's uncertain or thinking, Watson thinks he can see the cogs moving inside the other's mind, thinking of the perfect thing to say, the best excuse. "You have no case, your brother travels in the winter, we have spent every Christmas together for years and I will not see that change now just because we no longer live together. I couldn't bear the thought of you sat here alone,"
"Hm, well, I suppose I have no choice really, if you are so... sentimental about the matter," Watson rolls his eyes, watches the smirk that tugs at the younger's lips, it looks perfect on him and he's missed the expression more than he'd care to admit.
"Good," He smiles and stands brushing his coat free from any lint,
"Leaving so soon old boy?"
"Mary..."
"Say no more, I have things to attend to also," he turns then, his attention on the nameless chemicals scattered behind him, almost as though Watson has failed to exist. The Doctor sighs and leaves without another word, Holmes merely collapses back into his chair and stares at the closed door, listening to the footsteps walking away and the bell as he exits the door downstairs.
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Well there's the first chapter, I hope it was ok and that for the most part they're both in character, please review and let me know if I should carry on, you'll get a cookie if you do, thank you!