Events conveniently omitted from "the Devil's foot" case. Stealing a plotline saves me the bother of inventing my own- not strictly necessary, I know, but I like plotlines. They provide ample opportunity for digression and procrastination. Like now. So, that's the plot idea. This scene commences just after Watson has shaken Holmes out his terrifying tripping. Using the basic idea of the ITV Granada series. Thus, I am aware it is not in the right category, but it's pretty damn close to the books and I couldn't find the ITV series category anyway.
"Thank God you're alright- that was a stupid and dangerous thing to do! You could've been killed!"
"It was an unjustified experiment even for myself; doubly so for a friend...I really am extremely sorry Watson."
I became aware of how greatly the hallucinations had affected me as my arm lurched up to grab at Watson, as though he was on the verge of bursting into flecks of dust and drifting away from me on air currents. Needless to say, he did not.
Spontaneous combustion fears aside, I am left to muse on my somewhat unruly emotional state. The images fall across my eyes again for a moment, a curtain of fear that blacks out the rest of the world. Every last manner in which my Boswell could have died...All the narrow escapes from our past transmuted into fatality before my eyes, interspersed with the moment when I truly believed my own life to be in peril, out of my control and beyond assistance. When death loomed before me, and I survived merely by chance, by impulse, by intervention of fate. These horrific images also serve to remind me of a certain conclusion (not that it has ever truly left my thoughts in the interim) that I reached after strenuous stretches of meditation. Perhaps not as extraordinary a revelation as the public might expect, due to their distorted and glorified view of my person, but certainly surprising for me. I am not accustomed to such things. I like to flatter myself that I am self-sufficient, alone for all eternity. But now that very thought is painful to contemplate. I care too much to live on without a certain companion. My Boswell. I value his life above my own, for without Watson, there can be no Holmes.
I freely admit- on this one occasion- that I am not particularly gifted at expressing this affection. In my own family, we tend to understate emotional attachment; anything else would seem unnatural, forced, out of character. How my mother ever read father's affection in the gift of a book on the origins of German bratwurst is one conundrum I shall never solve. I often fear that Watson has written me off as some manner of emotionless machine in his mind as well as on paper. After my response to the recent concern and scolding he had heaped on me, I doubt that shall remain so. If it ever was.
Watson's sigh alone removes the pictures that cover my eyes, although I still do not quite relinquish my iron grip on his lapel. I must repeat that I am not sure of the motives behind such an action. Interpret it as you will.
With an air of weariness, he hauls me to my feet with a sturdy arm around my shoulders. I am ordered to a chair, despite what pathetic protestations my drug-addled mind is able to devise, as he begins to air the room- apparently he has already expelled the foul source to the garden- and as my sanity returns to me, I make my move.
It takes little stealth to slip past him into the garden, scoop up the lamp and race to hurl it off the cliff and into the dull grey waters of oblivion. As I begin to run, I hear a shout and hasty footsteps of pursuit, slowing as I halt and release the lamp to complete its deadly arc, both lamp and poison falling below the rim of the cliff and onto the unyielding rocks beneath.
"A truly horrendous fate." I state without turning. I can sense him, two paces to my left and one behind. "It would indeed be little solace for those left behind, to know the death of one they cared for was so obviously agonising. A motive for revenge, without question." The hypothesis has now settled firmly in my mind, and my plans are laid. The conclusions shall soon follow, but not at this moment.
"Some might reply that it would be worse if the one they loved was to blame for their own death, if the victim was the murderer." His voice is suddenly irritable and seems saddened and weary with experience.
"You speak with authority Watson."
The irritation grows, weighing down the syllables and stresses in his voice. "I personally believe that watching one you care for slowly destroy themselves through stubborn folly is the most agonising of all possible purgatory."
"Perhaps it is Watson." I pause, now unable to look him in the eye. I know what he refers to. My cocaine. I do not wish to discuss it now. "Perhaps."
"It is not something you have had to endure, I am sure." Alarmingly, the words spark guilt and pain in my mind with astonishing precision.
I reply out of instinct, out of hurt. Not the wisest course of action. "I am not sure to what you refer."
A hand grips my shoulder, more vice-like than any amiable gesture, claiming my attention and turning me to face him. "Holmes, don't play the fool."
"Who else do you suggest that I 'play'?" My tone becomes regrettably sniping. "What is it you want from me, Watson?"
The hand on my shoulder becomes tighter, and then is removed altogether as my friend turns away from me. "I have never asked you to 'play' anyone, Holmes." The anger in his tone is obvious, the hurt less so, but over many years I have perfected the ability to discern it amongst the irritation.
My friend returns to the cottage and I am left, once more, on the cliff top. Alone. It is startling how soon the sharp jabs of the northern wind cool my temper, leaving no barrier between me and the tides of regret and mild anguish. I suppose that must be what it is. Anguish. It is rare when I feel compelled to apologise, and always a result of Watson's persuasion. Perhaps that is a weakness of mine. It is scarcely five minutes before my boots once again lead me to the house. Knowing my Boswell as I do, he shall surely be locked away in his room by now. I take the trouble to remove my boots, shutting the door carefully, with minimal noise.
In almost an instant, the steep and creaking stairs are climbed, and I am confronted with a hostile wooden door, behind which I know Watson lurks.
"Watson?"
The pause seems an eternity. Or several. The door opens, scarcely enough for me to see the familiar face of my friend. "Holmes." Every letter is hostile.
My disheartenment does not show on my face. "I'm not here to play the fool Watson. I..." The notes of apology seem to strike a chord across my face and his, as he wordlessly nods and opens the door fully.
"What is it that you want from me, Holmes?" The question surprises me, and I have no answer. None that I can voice, in any case. Several that I can never breathe into the real world do occur to me, but none would be appropriate. Not yet. Likely not ever. In my mild confusion, the words begin to fall from my mouth before my mind can prevent them.
"I deserve nothing from you, Watson."
As my brain moves to somehow attempt to negate this self-deprecating statement, Watson's only response is to pull me into a hug. Awkward as these rare expressions of affection usually are, I cannot help but relax slightly. It occurs to me that this will be the closest to my idle contemplations as my reality shall ever be, and I find my weakened and thus mildly less logical mind prompting me to rest my head atop his, something I have never dared to do before. Rather than stiffening and pulling away as I expected him to, Watson simply strengthens his hold on me, as though I am liable to disintegrate. Regrettably, such a stance shall soon communicate my more private intentions towards Watson and I take a half step backwards to increase the distance between us, my own pulse now sounding far louder in my eardrums.
The thought occurs to me that this has backfired as I notice that this new pose is far more that of lovers than of friends. I silently wait for Watson to back away as well. Instead, his gaze meets mine, and for once I cannot discern what he is trying to express through his startling blue eyes. It seems to be a moment when I can express, finally, those thoughts which I must hide.
Yet, even in such a scenario, the words do not flow from my mouth with ease. Baring my thoughts- or far worse, my emotions, makes me feel too vulnerable. "Watson, I-" My features contort into brief annoyance at myself for being so unable to express anything so simple. I notice the indecision in his eyes as he drops his gaze, and the gap between us grows slightly larger. The moment is fading back into oblivion, and I have missed it. An imaginary scenario involving Watson's death at Moriarty's hands, a flashback from the drug's torture, taunts me for a moment, and I find myself stepping neatly forward, seeking his lips with my own.
At the first electric moment of contact, the haunting pictures vanish from before my eyes, and all time seems to hang motionless as his response is far more positive than I could ever have dreamed. I cannot bring myself to pull away any further than a few inches to gather oxygen, and I meet his gaze, flushed and elated, to see the same emotions glowing on his face. "My Boswell." I mutter as he runs a fingertip along my jaw line, a path across my skin that shall surely leave a trace, a trail of red across my face. It certainly seems likely to. In response, I repeat the chaste kiss of previously, although his sudden yielding startles me as his lips part.
I would swear I was drowning. Drowning without wishing to live. Breathing really is a cumbersome and irksome habit; would that I were rid of it. Breathing becomes a race to gulp enough oxygen to enable my feeble body to continue with this far more pleasant business. I regret to say that I get rather carried away, swept along in this process which threatens to drown me, so much so that it takes several seconds to realise I am pressing Watson against the door- probably not wise considering the condition of the hinges. With great reluctance, I pull away further than before, leaving my hand at the side of Watson's neck while removing the other from the wall. My fears for my lack of care appeared unfounded as he seemed far more irked that I had broken the kiss than expressing any signs of pain. The blood pounding ferociously in my ears is not leaving much space for sensible, coherent thought- the singular thought at present being the sensible suggestion of locking the door to avoid unwanted trespassers. As I do so, I feel the brush of cautious fingers at the back of my neck, removing my collar stud deftly, and fight the ludicrous impulse to shudder that my mind seems to have acquired.
"Holmes?" Door now firmly locked, I turn to meet Watson's questioning gaze as he holds my collar in one hand. I am perfectly aware where this is leading- have I not lived it multiple times over in my mind? The collar is flicked across the room, and in my haste, I lose patience entirely with buttons; three fly off into oblivion along with half of a cufflink. Such facts I note purely out of habit, as I continue with the brief process of undressing oneself. As with many things, being in a rush hampers speed more than having time on one's hands. Impatience may not be a virtue, but it has always seemed purposeless to me to delay one's desires any longer than it takes for them to become possible.
Our shirts collide in mid-air, thrown in the general direction of a chair but never actually reaching it, other items of clothing simply disregarded on the spot. Watson's hand locks around the back of my neck, seizing control of the gentler kiss, leading me gently towards the bed- fortunate it is a double bed, my mind notes in a brief moment of uninhibited observation.
At first we merely sit side by side on the edge of the bed; no doubt Watson wishes to avoid spooking me- I have never questioned that he has more experience in these matters. As a pause in the kiss presents itself, my impatience prompts me to lie upon the bed, forcing him to follow me in order to resume such activities. A faint frown forms on his visage as I myself question my unconscious decision to assume a more submissive position, leaving Watson to tower above me for once. Any theories I have begun to formulate about this drift sharply away as his confusion transforms into a smile, so pure and astonishingly bright that I can simply stare. Calmly, he cups one side of my face in his palm and returns to a far more restrained kiss as I trace the outline of his face, for no apparent reason. It just seemed to be the thing to do. I briefly consider whether there is some demonic deviant within me, guiding me on what to do in this process, or whether it is simply placed in all men's heads from birth.
"Holmes-"
My eyes flicker open, although I do not recall shutting them. "Watson?" My voice sounds far more heated than I would like it to, especially as Watson seems to be modulating his very carefully.
"Are you sure about-"
Yet again, I cut him off in mid-stream. "Yes Watson, I do believe I am."
"You mustn't feel obligated to-"
Impatience gnaws at my mind and body in equal measure, and I steel my gaze as I meet his with determination and certainty. "My dear Watson, at this rate the only thing I shall feel obliged to do is demonstrate to you the point when concern becomes irksome." His smile returns, that great dazzling smile, and I feel compelled to draw him into a kiss once more. How I shall ever again be able to resist doing so in response to such a smile shall doubtless be a challenge.
As he pulls away to reach into a drawer to the side of the bed- one advantage of the medical profession must undoubtedly be the readily available supplies- I adjust the pillow beneath my head. Despite what any may think, I am not quite ignorant enough to be unaware of what this involves, or the repercussions that may occur as a result. Neither of us is a fool.
My gaze drifts downwards to the application of the oil, until once more my eyes are captivated by Watson's face, concentrated carefully upon my rear end. At this thought, blood would surely have rushed to my face, had it not been too preoccupied rushing to other areas of the human anatomy.
Surprise is the first thing I feel, then the strange feeling that fades as one becomes accustomed to a new feeling. Watson hesitantly glances up at me, meeting my gaze with concern as his finger works. Whilst I adjust, he gently brushes his lips across mine, but my left hand leaps up to prevent him from moving away as I breathe in his scent- similar to that of tea, tobacco, and a hitherto unknown scent, which I can only describe as Watson himself, personified in scent. Personified is most decidedly not the correct word, but a second digit distracted me enough to prevent incorrect literary terminology becoming troublesome.
It truly is a strange feeling, to be the subject of such meticulous scrutiny- I would deem it almost medical if I did not note Watson's own inadvertent reactions to the accidental brush of a finger. I say meticulous because it truly is. I can understand a caring consideration, but it feels as though an age has passed. Darkness presses against the windows- although I know darkness falls abruptly and swiftly at this time of year- and my impatience finally forces me to squirm, if only briefly.
A shot of electricity seems to shoot straight up my spine, my nerves burning briefly, an accidental groan passing my lips. Forcing my eyes open again, I sense him searching for that spot again. "For god's sake-" Insurmountable impatience causes my eyes to blaze. "Have you no concept of the point when concern for preparation becomes excessive?"
Watson chuckles, but I note his face is tinged with pink. "No." They are removed, but not replaced. Infuriating man!
"Watson—" He leans in for a kiss but I turn my head away, forcing him to listen, not wishing to beg. Despite this, my voice is a whimper. "John..."
His eyes glimmer like stars, lighting up his entire visage as he shifts position slightly, covering my mouth with his as, finally, it begins. Whether there was only one moan or two, or whose it was, I cannot say, and eventually I saw his self-control begin to waver.
Not a single drop of pain dilutes the experience- although this does restrict the length of said experience. Within ten minutes, we have both collapsed, side by side again, the echoes of mantra still hanging in the air. Sherlock. John. Interesting that we should suddenly fall into such familiarity, without any thought on the matter. I was assured of this by the fact I was still having difficulty forming coherent thoughts.
Somehow, I retained enough energy to pull the blanket over both myself and Watson- John. Within moments, his eyelids droop and his head rests on my shoulder, and for once I feel myself to be the protector, the friend, the lover. All I thought I could never be.
My own eyes are close to fading into the darkness of sleep, but I have no fear of nightmares tonight. I may even get a full night's sleep. The eyelids fall downwards, blinds to block out the real world and lock in the world of dreams. My head falls naturally to rest next to Watson's, and my lips kiss the crest of his head, as I once saw my father kiss my mother. I suppose that must be the only real proof of their affection for one another, besides the existence of Mycroft and I.
Darkness covers my mind, a blanket to smother all thought - and this internal monologue of events - into a shrouded, muted hum in the background. Perhaps it is just as well, my mind is doubtless in utter turmoil. Until morning, it shall remain silent. Peaceful. Resting, recuperating, and renovating the inner corridors of my mind.
Goodnight, my Boswell.
A/N: Addictions Intertwined is better, I fear. Feel free to peruse it.