Title: Conformity
Author: Chackers
Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.
Author's Note: As usual, it all started by a prompt in the kink meme. It asked for homophobia and period appropriate angst. It started off as a tiny, baby fic of about 20 lines… I should never have fed it.
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Chapter One
Sherlock Holmes flipped through Police News: Law Courts and Weekly Record with impatience and growing irritation. It was apparent to Watson that his friend was utterly bored with the mundane everyday life. There had been a lack of cases for the great detective.
His eyes were bloodshot and dull and he seemed thinner than usual, Watson could see the needle on the wooden mantle, which Holmes probably just used to inject himself full of cocaine. Watson felt a pang of anxiety for his friend.
"I need intellectual stimulation, Watson. Not this sensationalized drivel our esteemed press has been churning out day after day." He threw the paper down.
Watson glanced at the cover illustration and there it was, in some fancy font – Closing Scene at the Old Bailey: Trial of Oscar Wilde. This subject had been driving London wild for a week now, everyone seems caught up by the drama of it. There was something decidedly ugly about the speculative crowds' willingness and sinister desire to see a figure of literary greatness fall to ruins, their delight in exposing his secrets for all to see.
Holmes took notice of Watson's gaze. "England does not tolerate human nature," he remarked lightly, sounding detached and unemotional.
"Don't be preposterous," Watson proclaimed, voice too loud in his own ears. "Such behavior would ruin the very fabric of our society," he found himself avoiding his friend's penetrative and analytical gaze, which unnerved him somewhat.
Holmes' lips pursed slightly. "Why?"
He looked at his friend, what a ridiculous question to ask. "Because… Because people, generally, believe in the sacred text of the Bible… and well, the Holy Trinity."
"You are absolutely right, my good doctor." Holmes remarked tightly.
Watson looked relieved at the statement; he did not want to explain further. The discussion thankfully ended there.
It was on these rare occasions that he differed with Holmes. Because Watson was a God-fearing gentleman, who always went to church on Sundays and kissed Mary chastely on the cheek every time they meet. He was quitting his vices and stopped cheering his friend in the boxing ring, because it might be improper. He absolutely did not fantasize that Holmes might, in the euphoria of winning a match, grab his hair and kiss him roughly. He did not think of feeling the scratch of stubble on his cheeks, the rock-hard muscles against his chest, smelling the sweaty and musky smell all over him -- he absolutely did not.
"Watson…" his friend was looking at him with a gaze he could not quite decipher.
"We are getting married tomorrow," Watson said, slightly flustered. He puts the announcement hastily between Holmes and him like a wall. Even when it was being said, he still felt a vague sense of terror. It drove home the fact that he was entering domesticity, that there would probably be no more wild adventures with Holmes, because Mary might actually want to settle down and raise children, like normal people do.
"That's great. I do hope you are giving her that ring, she deserves nothing less." Holmes smiled.
Watson knows that it was the best he could hope for, with his friend's approval. Although he had, somehow, harbored a strange and deeply irrational hope that Holmes might still be jealous over the proceedings, but apparently it is alright now because he had Irene –
He clenched his jaw and halted the train of thought abruptly. "Mary would be expecting me soon," he stood up mechanically, regardless that it was a blatantly obvious lie. The atmosphere was making him uncomfortable; he attributes it to the smoke from the pipe, or maybe the London smog.
"But you just arrived!" Holmes protested, completely bewildered by his friend's irrational behavior.
"Oh would you look at the time," he fumbled for his pocket watch and exclaimed, it sounded false and contrived, "I really must be going." Watson rushed out, almost tripping over Toby.
He could not wait to get back to Mary, there was something calming about her embrace, which promised a safe refuge in conformity. I love her, Watson thought to himself, and I am going to marry her.
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Author's Note: I'm addicted to the Sherlock Holmes fandom XD. This started out as a one-shot response, but I think I'll develop it further. I 3 VICTORIAN ANGST. Please review!