It has been approximately five hundred and sixty four days since the death of Mary Watson, and three hundred and seventy two days since Doctor John Watson moved back in with Sherlock Holmes in his apartment on Baker Street. Eight weeks ago, Watson began dating again, having to this point attended some twenty seven meetings with some fifteen women, only three of which Watson liked enough to invite home for tea.
Not that Sherlock Holmes is counting.
The detective hears voices coming up the staircase and immediately seats himself in his favorite armchair, careful to open the paper to somewhere in the middle, as if he has been reading for a long time. The door opens, and his roommate enters with an unidentifiable woman at his shoulder. She looks like most of them, or at least the ones Holmes has seen; dark hair that curls slightly, a soft face, pale, deep-set eyes. And a frustratingly tight grip on Watson's arm.
Holmes halfheartedly looks up from his paper, just for show. He smiles at Watson, nods at the lady, then returns to the news. He attempts to concentrate on an article about a sale to take place Tuesday, a sewage drain with backup problems, a strike in a canning factory. He tries not to hear Watson offering her a drink and her soft-spoken reply.
"Holmes," Watson says, and then again, louder, "Holmes!"
"Hnn?" is his response, so characteristically uninterested, not even bothering to put the paper down.
"This is Miss Victoria Rassant," says the doctor in a vaguely French accent. Before Holmes has a chance to look up, Watson is next to him, speaking through his teeth. "Please do behave yourself."
Is it not a suggestion, it is an order, and Holmes has half a mind to ignore it completely before he sets down his newspaper and sees Watson walking towards Miss Rassant with that look in his eyes, that sparkle of hope and blind faith that every troubling thing will pass. Holmes doesn't understand how his partner can be so naive, can place such strong faith in humanity, but at that moment, Watson is beautiful, and so he saves his commentary for another time.
Five minutes more, and the light conversation with which the meeting commenced has dwindled to nothingness. Watson and his lady are not speaking, not even making eye contact. Miss Rassant has her watch out, staring at it avidly as if counting the hairline fractures on its face. When the room grows quiet enough to hear the miniscule ticks of the second hand, Holmes looks over at the doctor. To his surprise, Watson glances right back at him, the spark in his eyes dangerously close to being extinguished. He pleads wordlessly with the detective, and the detective assists in a way that only he could do, and would do, for Watson.
"Have you spent much time in America, Miss Rassant?"
She appears taken aback by his question, or perhaps just shocked at the sudden breach of silence, and so he elaborates.
"Your watch," he states plainly. "A very high caliber timepiece, if I may say so. Am I incorrect in declaring its origin in Springfield, Illinois? Surely you know of the Illinois Watch Company?"
"Ah, oui, Mr. Holmes!" she says, pronouncing it 'Olmes'. "I am aware of it, though I have not been to America in a very long time. I used to visit my grandfather."
"He was the one who gave you the watch, then?" questions Holmes. She nods. "How long did he work in the train station?" The lady gasps, as many women do when confronted with Holmes' incredible powers of assumption. "My apologies, allow me to explain my reasoning. Clearly your watch is of masculine style. From looking at it I can estimate its age, around forty years old, no? It is worn, and therefore must have been used frequently. Looking at its make, (bold numerals, open-face, 17 jewel, size sixteen) one could identify it as a standard Railroad watch, prized for their accuracy and therefore ability to keep trains moving efficiently."
Miss Rassant blinks, somehow managing to look both confused and highly amused. Before she even responds, Holmes is running his mouth again.
"Watson spent some time on the railway himself, you know."
It is a lie, of course, but a welcome one, and Watson thanks him with the ghost of a smile before elaborating on his own fabricated past to the captivated sighs of Miss Rassant. Holmes reaches for his paper again but stops, imagining Watson's scornful glare, and so instead he joins in the discussion, taking the role of a mediator, a timepiece keeping conversation in check and transitions smooth.
Once on a particularly stimulating topic, Holmes seizes the opportunity to take a proper look at the lady. It takes all of three seconds for him to recognize her as someone he doesn't like, and another ten to notice the just-visible outline of an engagement ring barely concealed beneath her silk glove.
Watson always had terrible taste in women, he thinks as justification for what he is about to do.
A fortunate amount of time later, there is a mutual understanding that the woman must return home, or as she says it, 'ome. Holmes rises from his seat as Watson bows to kiss her gloved hand.
"Goodnight, Doctor," she smiles keenly, "and to you, Mister Holmes."
"Goodnight, Madame," he replies curtly in English and then rapidly follows in French, "and fair warning; though I admit to having little knowledge of recent trends in your native country, here in mother England it is not considered honorable to be unfaithful to one's fiancé. Have a pleasant evening."
He closes the door before she has time to respond. The detective can only turn around and Watson is on him, both hands pulling his cravat to hold him in place. The doctor's expression is wild, eyes shaking, and he is close, Holmes thinks, much too close.
"What-" Watson starts, but his anger strips his lungs of air, so he must pause before continuing. "What did you say to her?"
"I told her that she is not a good match for you," Holmes says without blinking. His companion gives him one final incredulous stare before releasing him and placing a hand impatiently upon his temple. He closes his eyes for a moment, then snaps them open.
"Brilliant," he finally speaks in a much calmer voice than Holmes could have expected. "You're lying to me, I am certain, but that doesn't change anything I'm sure. I shall likely not be seeing any more of Miss Rassant, shall I?"
"Not likely, no."
Watson sighs, opening and closing his eyes a few more times, as if deciding whether or not to be angry with his roommate. "Tell me," he says after a moment's pause. "I am not the bachelor I used to be. I am older, more tired, and once married at that. I have enough trouble finding a suitable woman. Why must you take it as your duty to drive away any woman who finds me suitable as well?"
"You are much too discriminating," Holmes replies, opening a small thatch pouch of Virginia tobacco and stuffing it absentmindedly into his pipe. "You try so hard to find women who fit into your specifications that you overlook those who are more suited to you."
"I'm too discriminating!" Watson yells in disbelief. "I'm too discriminating, and yet you may pick and choose the people I spend my time with. How, then, do you expect me to enter into a proper marriage?"
"If you want my advice-"
"That's just it, Holmes," the doctor cuts him off. "I have not, under any circumstances in the past few months, wanted, nor even required your advice. If I desire your opinion, I will ask you for it, for goodness' sakes!"
Watson storms off to his chambers, and Holmes spends the rest of the evening attempting to feel regret for what he has just done.
.
.
Holmes dines in the Strand the next evening, a nice cozy bistro with patio seating, a small fence alone separating the restaurant from the busy streets of London. Watson is with him but chooses not to eat, ordering instead a glass of top quality brandy. The alcohol takes the place of conversation, and he quickly polishes off several glasses, his cheeks flushing the color of giddiness. The detective wordlessly gets up to pay, and only then does Watson realize that barely two words have been spoken between the two of them that day. Figuring he should at least supply the tip, he digs inside his coat pocket for his wallet and pulls it out onto the tabletop.
"Doctor?" chimes a voice from beyond the fence. Watson looks over to see a familiar young lady, one he had seen last week, or was it the week before? He cannot even seem to remember her name. Miss...miss...
"Miss Electa," he remembers in just enough time to sound casual. "How have you been?"
"Oh, most excellent, Doctor," she says, smiling and entering the enclosed area. She sits at his table. Instantly her eyes drop, as if too close to maintain eye contact, and as she stares at the table Watson tries to remember if she was this shy when they first met. "And yourself?"
"Fine," he says plainly. "Certainly nice to see you again."
"Indeed," she says, smiling up at him suddenly. "Quite convenient, actually, as I had plans to wire you later this evening. I've so wanted to see that new opera down at the corner theatre, you see, and I did wonder if you would be so kind as to accompany me?"
"Yes!" he blurts out, a great deal more surprised than he intended it to sound. "I would be delighted."
"Wonderful, we shall meet at the theatre tomorrow evening at eight," Miss Electa responds, clapping her hands together.
"I look forward to it," says Watson. She gives a final fleeting glance at the table before striding away, the ruffles of her dress swaying lightly from her bouncing gait. As she vanishes around the corner, Sherlock Holmes chooses to reappear from nothingness.
"Clear something up for me, would you, Watson?" asks the detective, and Watson turns to look at him. "Did she spend quite as much time staring at your wallet the first time you met?"
The doctor's mind is filled with brandy and takes a second to process that his date has just been insulted.
"How dare you!" he says after a few moments. "I'll have you know I didn't so much as take out my wallet on our first meeting. A plain walk in the park, it was, and yet she still desires to see me again! Can you simply not be happy for me?"
"Not when your happiness revolves around a woman who cares more for your money than your well being."
"Just what are you talking about, Holmes?" Watson spits furiously, and Holmes takes a deep breath.
"It does not seem rather like a chance meeting to you? She had copious time in which to contact you, yet she only bothers to do so when you are clutching the wallet I bought you for Christmas last year," he says matter-of-factly. "You are aware of its brand, correct?"
"What does the brand matter?" Watson responds. "You told me you obtained this wallet at an estate sale!"
"Ah," the detective looks away. "I may have been untruthful about that aspect of its worth."
For a moment, Watson appears sincerely touched before remembering his anger with Holmes. "Once again, what does it matter? I am certain it had nothing to do with the wallet!"
"Hmm, you have a point, Watson. It could also be your cufflinks. Those diamonds are genuine, yes?"
This is the final straw, the doctor thinks, face flushing red with rage and alcohol. "Not another word, Holmes," he seethes. "I will not take such direct and unprecedented criticism! Why is it that you never accept the few women who value me?"
"You know nothing," Holmes fumes, suddenly flaring up, "about those who value you."
He stomps away before Watson can. The two stubborn men take separate hansoms home.
.
.
Watson returns from his date looking a great deal more disheveled than when he left. Holmes has his nose buried in the paper again and doesn't even look up when the door opens.
"Was it the wallet or the cufflinks?" he asks.
"Cufflinks," says Watson, considerably less maliciously than Holmes would have guessed. "Sometime during intermission she left to use the bathroom. I suppose she must have taken them around then, for she never returned."
The detective nods and turns the page. Watson blinks and stares at the back of the paper, as if it will somehow yield for him.
"You will not taunt me?" the doctor questions. Holmes puts down the news and gives Watson a pitying gaze.
"Of course not, dear boy. You have been through enough, tonight, I think. Go and rest. Remind me tomorrow over breakfast, will you, and I will torment you as necessary."
Watson's expression warms, and he gives Holmes a smile that crinkles at the corners of his lips. "Thank you, old friend," he says before exiting the sitting room.
As he watches his companion's frame disappear, Holmes removes a piece of paper from his dressing gown and prays Mrs. Hudson can keep a secret.
.
.
It appears Mrs. Hudson can keep a secret for no longer than two days, seventeen hours. After this time passes, Watson storms up to Holmes' room, where the detective is browsing over case files, and demands entry.
"Come in," Holmes says, but Watson is already looming over the bedside, face lined with ire.
"Where is it?" the doctor snarls, spitting each word like fire.
Holmes considers making a half-baked comment before deciding it isn't worth it. Slowly he removes a twice folded letter from his pocket. He has only just offered it when Watson snatches it, unfolding it so viciously that Holmes fears he might tear it in two. He reads over the paper, eyes growing narrower and sharper with each line.
By the time he finishes, Holmes is up, arms tensed at his sides as if preparing for battle.
"Unbelievable," says Watson finally. "Absolutely unbelievable. What a fortune it is that Mrs. Hudson slipped, or else I would have never known of my letter from a secret admirer. Were you intending on hiding the invitation from me? Or were you planning to attend the dinner yourself?"
"Of course not," Holmes replies curtly. "Women have always been out of my area of specialty."
"So then why," the doctor retches through clenched teeth, "must I suffer the same consequences? When one receives an invitation from an interested woman, one is expected to send a follow-up letter and arrive early with flowers. Because of your interference, I now have-" here he pauses to glance at the letter, "good god! I must be on my way at once!"
He digs around the room for a nice jacket, an unworn bowler cap, his polished shoes. All the while Holmes stares incredulously at his back.
"You cannot seriously still attend the meeting," he says, failing to hide the shock behind his eyes. "You have had no time to prepare-"
Watson laces his shoes.
"-not to mention the quality of this letter-"
Watson ties his cravat.
"-at least eleven typographical errors, Watson, it's inexcusable!"
"Holmes," says a fully dressed and sharp-looking Watson. Holmes swallows. "Is there any particular reason why I should follow your advice, or shall I be on my way to meet my mystery woman?"
"Other than the fact that there is no woman, none at all."
Watson stops mid-turn to stare, scrutinizing, at his flat mate. Holmes' gray eyes meet Watson's blue. Neither speak. Holmes doesn't blink, Watson thinks before breaking the silence.
"Are you going to explain your reasoning for that conclusion?" he says.
"Would you listen if I were to?" Holmes replies.
"No, probably not."
"Well then, here we are."
"Here we are."
Another suffocating silence. Holmes could look at Watson for hours, years (as he has been) but then the doctor turns towards the door.
"Why is it," he says, "that you try so hard to keep me at home?"
Holmes chuckles, and Watson's blue orbs flare. "You've just said it. Home. This is your home."
Watson's eyes soften, as if he briefly decides to be sympathetic before remembering his annoyance with the man in front of him. "Yes, this is my home. But you're not. When will you realize that I'm not your possession?"
"The same moment you realize what an idiot you are."
When did Holmes get so close? Watson doesn't have time to think, because the detective's arms are around his shoulders, mouth meeting his own, and there are stars behind his eyes, bursting like lightening strikes as Holmes' hand settles on the small of his back.
The kiss lasts for only a second, a moment, a hundred years. At some point, Watson remembers to push Holmes off of him, that he shouldn't enjoy this. Palms to Holmes' chest, he gives a weak shove that sends the detective a few steps backwards. Gray eyes stare back, looking only analytical, empty slates masking a whirring mind and Watson needs to get out of there now, now.
Now.
"Watson-" Holmes starts.
"I'll return after nightfall," says the doctor. He promptly exits. He has the good grace, Holmes notices, to start running only after he is out the front door. The detective frowns, putting forth a strenuous amount of effort into not counting Watson's footsteps.
Damn, he thinks, and then again, for a different reason, damn!
As he heads down the steps to give Mrs. Hudson the night off, he wonders how Watson will react upon returning (if he returns at all) to barred windows.
.
.
Holmes is right, of course. He's always right.
There is no woman, and Watson knows this, knows even as he flags down a hansom cab, no mystery date, no charming evening plans. Watson doesn't care. He climbs into the cab and the address falls out of his mouth like sickness.
Click.
Ka-thunk.
Click.
Ka-thunk.
He focuses on the sound of wheel on cobblestone, the bitter chill in the just-evening air, so he doesn't have to think about Holmes. Somewhere there is a fire crackling warmly, no, someone smoking, the thick scent of tobacco pervading the air. He doesn't smoke, Watson doesn't, but the aroma is oddly appealing, calming.
Click.
Ka-thunk.
Click.
Ka-thunk.
A cold burst of air slaps him across the cheek, and then Holmes' gray eyes are approaching and there are warm lips on his and an arm curled around his back and suddenly Watson is aware of just why the smell of tobacco is so pleasant.
His eyes snap open. (When did he close them?)
"We've arrived, sir" says the hansom driver. Watson mumbles something incoherent and hands the boy a fistful of coins before emerging onto the street, hearing the satisfying tap of his foot on cobblestone.
The house he was directed to is not in use; it is shabby, disheveled, with a damask, chipping paint job and ivy climbing up the sides. The front steps, however, are perfectly intact, and this is where Watson chooses to seat himself and put his head in his hands.
What was that kiss? He doesn't think, he can't think. The wind numbs his hands quickly and whips open his sleeves. No cufflinks. He smiles, despite himself.
This is how Inspector Lestrade finds him an hour later, half-grin gracing his lips, so deep in thought about everything that not pertaining to kissing Sherlock Holmes that Lestrade has to shake him to rouse him from his stupor.
"He said I'd find you here," says the inspector. He doesn't have to mention who he's talking about. To Watson, there is only one 'he'.
"Good evening, Inspector," Watson tries to say, but the words are a tasteless attempt at normalcy, and living with the detective has spoiled his appetite for all things mundane. He motions to the steps, offering Lestrade a seat. The inspector remains standing.
"There's, ah, there's been an incident at 221B," Lestrade tells him, choosing his words carefully. Electricity shoots through Watson's blue eyes and suddenly he's fully awake.
"What's happened?"
"I'm not too sure, actually," Lestrade replies, laughing humorlessly to a disdained look from the doctor. "A criminal was apprehended at your flat, not ten minutes ago."
"Just like Holmes," says Watson, and he actually has to try not to smile this time. "To go out and catch crooks in his spare time."
"That's just it," the inspector responds. "I'm not sure he actually ever left the house. Not an hour ago he wires the Yard, tells me to bring at least six of my best men over to wait outside your front door. Of course, I do as he says, and sure enough, maybe twenty minutes after we arrive this enormous man busts through the door. Knocked the two men closest to him over each other, he did, but the rest of the team managed to hold him down long enough to get him in chains. Lot of cuts and bruises, too, on his arms and legs, fresh, by the look of them."
"Is Hol-"
"I don't know," Lestrade cuts in, knowing what Watson is going to say. "Your housekeeper's gone, so I went to his room, but he's got his door locked. Wouldn't say if he was alright or not, after he detailed the criminal he just stopped talking, but..."
"Go on?" Watson presses.
"But, Watson, I could...I could smell blood. Lots of it. I told him I'd bring medical help, to which he affirmed he would keep his door locked. Then I asked about you."
Lestrade pauses and meets Watson's eyes, blazing like sapphires in the twilight.
"He didn't say anything, of course, but he slipped an envelope under the door. It was addressed to you at Baker Street, so naturally I followed the return address and..."
Watson is already on his feet, glaring at Lestrade as if accusing him of taking too long with his story. "We need to get back there. Now."
Lestrade smiles, though hollowly, and they climb into the police cab. This time, Watson thinks of nothing but Holmes, as if hoping the plethora of memories spilling out of his mind can extend the detective's life, if even the slightest bit.
.
.
John Watson arrives at 221B Baker Street ten minutes later with a medic bag. For unexplained reasons, the detective has opened the door to his chambers. He finds Holmes on the settee, blood pooling at his feet, cradling his Stradivarius. The bow on his lap, he instead plucks the strings in small, concise movements with his fingertips.
C.
G.
F.
The notes are sharp and increasingly loud. The tawny-haired man uses the brief pauses in between pitches to inch forward.
D.
E.
B.
Watson.
"Show me the wound," says Watson, suddenly standing over him. Holmes doesn't look up.
"What makes you so sure I have sustained an injury? Deduce for me, Watson."
The doctor's countenance flares. "Holmes, your sleeves are positively crimson, there is a large puddle of blood growing steadily below you, and if that isn't enough, there's a bloody knife (he cringes at the ironic word choice)on the floor in the corner! Now show me the damn wound!"
He is, it seems, too exhausted to retort in his usual clever manner. Instead he unbuttons his shirt, peeling off the top half as well as the left sleeve, and reveals an inches-deep gash in his upper bicep.
Watson informs Holmes that he has no morphine nor any other anesthetic. Holmes nods and grits his teeth as Watson rubs the cut with an antiseptic wash. It stings. He tenses under the prick of the needle as his companion sews the wound. He can feel it pierce his skin, pain searing through his arm with every throb of his heart. His knuckles curl into fists, fingernails leaving half-moon imprints on his skin, but as Watson completes the stitching he places a free hand over Holmes', relaxing it, and suddenly the pain is much more bearable.
"You're very lucky," says Watson, washing the newly-stitched lesion with a warm, damp towel. "A centimeter more and it would have cut to the bone."
"Cherrick is not known for his knife skills," the detective replies curtly.
"Holmes," Watson says, suddenly serious. He places a hand on Holmes' shoulder and turns his head so their eyes meet. "What happened?"
"An old enemy of mine came for a visit," he begins, almost comically. "A few years before you and I met, I tracked down and ensured the arrest of a murderer, Alain Cherrick, his name was. I was personally responsible for his placement in a high security cell near the base of the Swiss Alps. Appears he chose tonight to repay the favor." Holmes motions grimly towards the stab wound. "I should really have a chat with those lazy Swiss policemen, don't you think?"
"You're telling me that this Cherrick fellow decides to strike the one night I'm out of the house?" Watson stammers, exasperatedly. Holmes' amused look quickly drops from his face. He looks away, gray eyes softening.
"No," says Holmes. "I didn't say that."
"Well then what-" starts Watson, and then realization hits him and he leaps up as if struck by lightening.
There were no coincidences. How could he have been so stupid?
"Oh, god."
He falls to his knees.
"Why didn't you stop me?" he asks softly, but it isn't really a question.
"In all fairness, I tried," the detective responds. "But Watson, you must understand, it was out of my own selfishness that I should have asked you to remain with me this evening."
"Selfishness? Holmes, you were going to be killed! I wouldn't have thought about leaving had you told me what was about to happen!"
"Ah," sighs Holmes. "You seem to have overestimated my abilities. A rare feat, Watson, I congratulate you, but you must know that, until you left, I hadn't the slightest idea that I was to be attacked this evening. Yes, Cherrick left distinct clues in the letter he sent to you; the scent of a cologne sold exclusively in the alps, a Swiss postage mark. Even the address he gave you mimicked his inmate number." Holmes grins darkly. "Not much creativity in him, you see."
"But didn't you tell me there wouldn't be anyone to meet me?" Watson asks.
"I did not," Holmes frowns. "I did, however, say there would be no woman. Of that I was certain, as the handwriting and word choice distinctly indicated that the author of the letter was male."
"I see," says Watson, pretending that he has already absorbed the information. "So then...why did you try to stop me from going?"
"For the same reason I have sabotaged all of your other liaisons these past few weeks."
"And that reason is..." Watson stares expectantly.
"Do you really want me to answer that?" says Holmes, taking Watson aback. The doctor purses his lips, remembering Holmes' earlier display of affection. He can hear his heart beating in his ears.
"No," he says. "No, I don't."
"Then I think it's time to sleep, yes?"
Watson nods and stands up. He attempts to walk away, but the injured man grabs the hem of his jacket, giving it the slightest of tugs.
"Stay," says the detective.
Watson stays.
"You cannot expect me to tend to you all night, can you?" retorts Watson with a frown.
"Yes," he responds in a childish quip.
"Oh," says Watson, Holmes' monosyllabic answer and beaming gray eyes having caught him off guard. He sits next to his companion, their arms touching.
He grumbles. Almost casually, he lays his head on Holmes' shoulder. "You insufferable idiot," he says, though what he means is I'm sorry. I'll never leave you again.
"Duly noted," says Holmes. I know.
.
.
Watson awakes with a crick in his neck and a throbbing pain in his bullet wound. He sits up, gently massaging himself with his palms, and only then does he notice Holmes standing in front of him, somehow fully dressed and holding a pot of tea and a cup and saucer. Watson opens his mouth to lecture his partner on the dangers of heavy lifting after surgery, but Holmes speaks first.
"My arm is fine, Watson, now have some tea."
He closes his mouth and accepts the cup, hot liquid scalding his throat, though he doesn't really care. He reaches to get more just as Holmes extends his hand to the teapot, causing their fingers to brush for mere moments before pulling away. The doctor is reminded of how he fell asleep the night before, among other things that occurred that evening.
"Do stop dwelling on it," says Holmes, and Watson chokes on his second cup of tea. "In all the time we've spent together, surely there is another venture you could choose to linger upon. I am a poor excuse for a detective if a single kiss is all you can recall when you look at me."
"Ah," he replies, and doesn't continue right away because his words catch in his throat. "I'm sorry Holmes, I just...don't know what to think about. You. This. Us."
For a moment, Holmes looks very serious. "An experiment," he says, plainly.
"Are you-"
"Telling you what to think, yes. An experiment conducted to better understand the interactions of friends. You may think it if you would like to."
Watson stares skeptically back at him from behind his saucer. "And if I should choose not to?"
"Then I might have to tell you the truth."
Watson gulps. "Alright, Holmes, just please be honest with me." He glances painfully at the detective. The look he receives back is baited, waiting. "Holmes...why did you kiss me?"
The answer comes at once. "Because I wanted to."
Watson blinks. "That's it?"
"That's it."
The doctor considers both laughing and pressing on, selecting the latter. "So you just spontaneously decided to kiss me to satisfy your own strange desires?"
"Not at all, dear Watson. Once pre-meditated, no action can be considered spontaneous."
"Ah," is all he can say until he recollects himself. "So how long have you, ah, contemplated kissing me?"
Holmes nearly smiles. Watson's heart skips a beat. "Since approximately three months into our partnership. How long have you been contemplating kissing me?"
"Since last evening," replies Watson without thinking. Instantly he claps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in shock. This time, Holmes does smile. "That was...unfair," he tells the detective.
"Sometimes the first reaction is truly the best," Holmes says matter-of-factly. "Although it is a special case for you. Your instincts are usually correct, but you have no taste in women."
Somewhere inside him, Watson gets a vague feeling that he was just insulted. Unable to react, he remains silent, trying desperately to gather his thoughts, Sherlock Holmes all the time coming closer, closer...
"I admit," the detective says, and he is directly in front of Watson now. "I have little knowledge of these things. Perhaps you can help; you are a doctor after all. Are you particularly learned in the area of lovesickness?"
"Love-lovesickness," Watson stutters, breathy and uneven, and Holmes' hand is on his shoulder now and Watson can't think. "In c-cases of the unrequited, the feeling generally, ah, dissipates. I-if the love is recip-" he swallows, "reciprocated, generally some sort of relationship follows..."
"And which is it?" says Holmes, running a thumb along Watson's lips, and Watson curses him for being so articulate when he himself cannot breathe.
"Holmes, I didn't, I don't-"
"But you did. And you do."
And Holmes closes the gap between them, which, at that point, wasn't much of a gap anyway. This time, Watson doesn't resist, instead sliding his arms around Holmes' waist. The detective digs his fingers into his friend's flaxen hair, establishing his mouth as the dominant one, claiming the kiss as his own. Watson is dizzy, hungry, and finally he realizes what Holmes was trying to tell him with every woman he turned away.
Watson laughs into Holmes' mouth, and before he knows it, Holmes has broken away and is laughing too. It lasts until both of them are quite out of breath, and the blonde looks up to see his partner grinning back at him.
"You needed that," Holmes says before Watson's brain has started working again.
"I thought I was the doctor," he replies, beaming.
"Nothing wrong with the occasional role exchange."
As a response, Watson steps forward into Holmes' chest, wrapping his arms around the detective. Holmes follows suit, holding Watson to him covetously, and for a moment, everything is warm and good.
"I'm sorry for making you wait," says Watson into Holmes' neck.
"No trouble, dear fellow," the raven-haired man replies, placing a kiss in Watson's hair. "As long as you've finally got it through your head."
"And what's that now?" Watson smiles.
Holmes' gray eyes warm, a small grin gracing his lips.
"That you're mine. And I tend to be quite possessive of my things," says Holmes, and Watson wants to kiss him again.
So he does.