We hadn't stayed up this late in a long time. Holmes occasionally stayed awake all night, but only when he was on a case, never with me or with alcohol.
It was November, and the fire roared over the sound of the wind howling through the streets, whipping up leaves on the corners of London. Whiskey stung my dry lips, warming the back of my throat in a pleasant bitterness. I looked at the clock and waited for the haze to clear. Three thirty.
Holmes was talking about philosophy. The night-time thrill of the moment was keeping us going, clearing out some of our deepest opinions as it felt our confidence in one another was so great we could talk forever, in perpetual night never fearing the storm outside for the fire warmed and the conversation kindled our thoughts.
We were not, however, endless in our ability to remain conscious. Despite my interest Holmes' talk, every time I blinked it was more of a struggle to open my eyes again.
"Holmes?"
"Are you tired?"
"Yes. Do you wish to retire?"
"Not really."
"Well then."
"Holmes?"
"Yes, Watson?"
"Are you an atheist?" It seemed an appropriate time to ask a question I had always longed to ask. Holmes rarely spoke of God, other than to curse, and never went to Church, often smirking -if extremely subtly- at other people's faith. There was a long pause as Holmes mulled over it.
"Logically," he started, slurring slightly but looking at me piercingly, "In the same way I cannot truly accept the existence of God to a point of trusting Him completely without proof, I cannot entirely dismiss His existence either."
Then we talked for a long time about whether if science was capable of proving the existence of God, it would bring the end of faith.
In the middle of one remark, Holmes closed his eyes and was silent. Then he opened his eyes again and continued, after apologising profusely.
But half way though his third sentence he stopped again, his head propped up on steepled palms. His eyelids drooped down one last time, and a heavy breath escaped his lips, a cool breeze over my skin.
The flickering glow of the fire and his contented expression made Holmes look younger, like when I had first met him.
He had untied his cravat earlier, and it now dangled from his open collar-ends, exposing tender skin beneath. His crumpled pinstripe waistcoat and trousers [the jacket had been done away with hours ago looked oddly elegant despite their dishevelled state.
In short, I had never seen him so beautiful. I considered that night to be perfect.
How many times had Holmes touched my knee, grabbed my arm, or pulled my wrist in thought tonight? It had seemed almost as if he were flirting. But he was so subtle! How could I possibly confirm such wild instincts?
It was simple. Holmes didn't touch anybody else. He would shrink away from a needy client's embrace- that was deemed my department.
Oh God. Holmes thought I didn't return his feelings because my attraction to the fairer sex?
With that thought still swimming around my mind, I touched my companion's knee.
"Holmes?"
"Mmmm? My dear Watson, I do apologise… Are you all right?" My expression must have reflected my crisis of indecision.
"No, I…" Holmes' eyes bore into mine distractingly, and I forgot all excuses.
"Watson?" He touched my shoulder. That touch!
I hesitated but a moment longer.
Then I kissed him.