A/N: So I decided to write Holmes/Watson mini story in support of the couple. No literally, I'm doing it in support of them being an actual couple. There's a petition online to keep the tasty gay greatness going on between them into the "possible" third film. So you should go sign it. Since I can't post a link on FF, you should look it up on google. Just type in: Holmes/Watson For The Third Movie. Sign it. If it asks you to donate money, ignore it. No money is needed. :)

"Don't play naive with me, Holmes," John said.

The words came from clenched teeth and a mouth that moved as minimally as possible. Watson's well groomed moustache moved slightly though with the strained words and Holmes had the curious urge to reach out and touch it. However he remained still, calmly sipping at hard scotch. It tasted poorly and the burn crawling down his throat wasn't much more than a tickle. He much preferred the embalming fluid but Watson insisted otherwise.

"Naivety is not something I posses, Watson," Holmes said as a matter of fact, "play or otherwise."

He's going to make me tear out my hair. I'm literally going to reach up and tear out every strand from my scalp! Watson thought to himself, resisting the urge to bring his stressed fingers to his 'M' shaped hairline not, of course, to actually tear out his hair but rather in attempts to not run his hand through his hair. That gesture always signified a sense of defeat and if Watson backed down now he'd surely never get to the bottom of things.

Holmes had been in hiding for almost a year now though Watson couldn't say why. There was the obvious reason naturally. People thought he was dead and it would be quite discomforting to see that he wasn't but then Sherlock was never the the sort to concern himself with the feelings of others. He would try on occasion to care but something would always go wrong with the execution. It was a pity really.

The only person who was aware of Holmes surviving his encounter with Moriarty was Watson. He knew it first when he'd received the package with the little oxygen machine. He deduced rather quickly that Holmes was alive and at first he was excited. His closest and dearest friend was alive! He could have climbed to the rooftops and shouted to all of England but instead he kept his joy quiet assuming that Holmes intended his survival to remain a secret.

Soon though excitement turned into anticipation which then turned into impatience and finally metamorphisized into heartbreak. Nearly six months after the package there had still been no sign of Holmes. Watson hated to admit but he felt rather abandoned by Holmes. He was sure he had his reasons but reasons be damned. His dearest companion had dangled his survival in Watson's face only to never follow through with a return. Watson was beginning to wonder if he'd ever see Holmes again and the thought of not having that crazed man come back into his life hurt almost as much as him being dead.

"Why are doing this?" Watson asked, "It's not like you to be this way with me!"

Holmes eventually had come home and probably in the most anticlimactic way conceivable. Mary had gone out for a visit with her mother and she insisted that John stay home and not to concern himself with it. Mary's mother often faked illness in order to get her daughter's attention and Mary didn't want her husband to waste his time on nonsense. John had difficulty arguing with the notion especially considering that one of the factories had an accident which had caused an alarming number of injuries and well, John was a doctor.

So John had come home from a long day of inspecting sewn up appendages and delivering much needed drugs to find Holmes sitting at his desk, reading the paper and sipping embalming fluid from a glass. He didn't even look up from the paper until Watson had incredulously stated Holmes' name and dropped his briefcase. Holmes glanced up without even a smile on his face. He was in that mood of his; that calm, domestic demeanor that Watson seemed to bring out in him.

"I suppose you missed me?" the detective had said to the doctor.

Watson of course responded with something that conveyed irritation and attempted to mask his overwhelming sense of emotions. Holmes of course said something equally catty. It was if they were a couple arguing about a much more mundane time frame, as if Holmes had said he'd gone out to an appointment and came back an hour later as opposed to the realities of him faking his death and then being late by half a year.

Eventually they managed to get to a place in the conversation where Holmes awkwardly and somewhat begrudgingly made an apology and Watson accepted and gave a genuine though watered down expression of how happy he was that Holmes had returned. Arrangements were made and manly embrace was had and all was well for a time.

"I'm not being any sort of way with you," Holmes responded.

Holmes stared very intently at Watson. Watson, in his fit had gotten up and stood over Holmes. Watson had his hands on the arms of the chair and Holmes simply moved around him as if Watson weren't even there. Now though, the glass of sub par alcohol was on the table and Holmes leaned up toward Watson to meet Watson's intense and somewhat angry eyes.

Watson's eyes were an interesting shade of blue. Over the course of their relationship Sherlock had reached the conclusion that was no name that described the shade of light blue mixed with hues of gray and navy. Sherlock had decided in the end to name it Watson blue. Uncreative but what it lacked in imagination it made up for in accuracy. That blue did not exist outside of Watson's eyes which was a pity really...it was Sherlock's favorite shade of blue.

Sherlock still hadn't fully divulged his intentions for his secrecy to Watson but then he never fully divulged anything to Watson. So it wasn't as if this situation was really so out of the normal routine. What was irking Watson was that Sherlock repeatedly summoned Watson, claiming emergencies and urging Watson to come to him with the up most haste only to find Sherlock in the middle of some strange experiment. It was never anything important and Watson caught on to that quickly. It irritated him greatly but Sherlock expanded his please and requests making them more elaborate and dire each time to lure Watson in.

Mary was beginning to get suspicious. Not only suspicious but jealous as well. She was beginning to accuse John of having a mistress which put further strain on there marriage. As if it weren't already strained enough what with their spark burning out and their inability to have children.

That's what really had started to cause the forcedness and slow death of their marriage; infertility. Of course, John wasn't sure if it was him or Mary or perhaps the combination of him and Mary. They couldn't even conceive and it broke both their hearts really. Mary was beside herself and John was quietly heartbroken. He'd really been looking forward to the joy of normal domesticity, being married, being a father, but it was all just a disappointment.

Watson hated to admit it but he was often happy when he got to Sherlock's little apartment above the shop he worked in part time (under a name and disguise of course). Sherlock invented little, fairly useless this and thats to sell in the store which justified his experiments and messes to the owner. It worked out rather neatly in the end.

Still, Watson had missed the odd smells of chemicals, the cornucopia of pictures and strings and seemingly random items. Watson missed Sherlock's manic excitement and the way the other man's eyes sparkled as he explained some new discovery and proceeded to demonstrate it whatever the danger it may cause. Watson missed the mysteries and adventures. He missed how Sherlock seemed to absorb the world and expand it all at once.

On the other hand, Watson also missed their version of domesticity. It was far from normal or natural but it was a domesticity. Sherlock and John had this inexplicable comfort and routine to them that never got boring but rather continued to be comforting and pleasant. Sure, it seemed strange that the vibes of partnership and home were placed on a back drop of mystery, murder, and on most occasions explosions but that feeling and that nature to their relationship was what made all the adventure bearable. No matter where they went or what they did they need not worry about coming home. As long as they were together they were already home.

Watson's gaze softened. He shouldn't be this angry but is was unavoidable. Whether Sherlock could accept it or not Watson had a wife that he needed to be his home. He needed to mend things with her somehow and continue making his life with her as he had vowed. Sherlock needed to stop calling Watson to him and let Watson live the life he was supposed to live.

"Honestly, Holmes," Watson said with a sigh, "this needs to stop and you know it."

Sherlock dropped his own gaze for a moment. He brought a hand to his lips, extended it toward Watson, hesitated and brought it back to his lips. Sherlock's mind was in a flurry of possible actions and possible outcomes. Which was the wisest path to pursue? Was the wisest the most desirable? In the case of Watson, what was the more productive course of action? That which was wise or that which was desired?

"I'm in a predicament Watson," Sherlock admitted after a moment.

Watson listened to this with an open mind. The statement had been genuine and Watson could see that. Watson removed himself from hanging over Sherlock and took a seat across from him.

"Tell me," Watson said as he crossed his arms and let them rest at his chest, "what sort of predicament would puzzle the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Half sarcasm and half sincerity. Their domesticity at its best.

Sherlock brought his leg up and let his ankle rest on his other knee. He leaned back. Watson moving away was undesirable but the wisest of options or so he supposed.

Sherlock had so much trouble when it came to what was wanted and what was wise. It wasn't so much that Sherlock was a conflicted hedonist but rather he simply did not always see the validity in abiding by certain institutions and societal rules. Of course, there were valid rules that perpetuated certain favorable things. Banning stealing and killing from society effectively let individuals keep property and allowed the species to maintain preservation. Both to a degree of course but more so with society backing up the notions than if society didn't.

However, there were societal norms that Sherlock saw no real or vital benefit from for example, marriage. Marriage made it so that one man and one woman were bound to one another until death. It seemed like a prison sentence in that regard; until death do they part. It couldn't be said that the one man and one woman aspect was done in hopes of encouraging procreation. Procreation stood considerably better on the shoulders of promiscuity than it did with marriage. As far as ensuring that women and children were taken care of the world would benefit considerably from female independence. Not that the male half of the equation should be without responsibility but integrity and responsibility should be promoted not the spectacle that is marriage. Not too mention if female independence was encouraged and executed properly women would be greatly improved. They might even grow to have real personalities.

Sherlock shook his head. He'd gone and spiraled his theories out again. He may possess grand knowledge and observational skills but he often lacked precision. There was just so much to see and know that Sherlock's mind became lost in the details. He needed his center. He needed his focus.

He needed Watson.

"I will say this as bluntly as possible and I beg you take it with all seriousness," Sherlock said, "I need you, Watson."

The room was silent. Watson debated a chuckle. Surely Sherlock was joking. It wasn't in his nature to be so blunt. No, it was in his nature to be blunt from time to time but not with something such as this.

Then Watson became angry. So Holmes was suggesting that he would come to his call yet again. What exactly was it that Holme's needed Watson for anyway? To clean up his messes? To drag him out into the sunlight now and then? To let him kill his dog again?

There had been a demand in Sherlock's tone. It was a factual, flat tone but it hinted resignation. This wasn't a command. Sherlock was admitting something, not demanding let his anger disperse and he felt concern rise to take its place as he noticed the fragile aura around his friend.

"You," Watson said for clarification, "need me?"

Sherlock looked up from the floor. He made fierce eye contact with the doctor the likes of which Watson had only seen once or twice in his life time.

"Quite desperately, I'm afraid," Holmes confessed.

So it was indeed an honest, heart felt confession. Watson was too surprised to respond at first but it didn't matter. Holmes continued on, his eyes aimed and focused on Watson with a determination and ferocity that Watson had only seen Holmes direct into his cases and theories. There was a vulnerability too but a brave vulnerability and that was something Watson had never seen and he was captivated by it.

"Come away with me, Watson," Sherlock asked, "It's not too late to leave Mary and I give you my word that I would assist you in supporting her financially. She need not suffer from your leaving."

Watson was now at a complete loss for words. How could he respond to that sort of proposal? In a way he knew it was coming. They always tended to build conversation to the point but one way or another they would shy away from it. Watson hadn't expected Holmes to successfully bring it up but then Watson never expected himself to allow it.

"This is not a suggestion. This is not a proposal or a question, Watson," Holmes said, still refusing to break eye contact.

Holmes stood up from his seat. He took the few steps necessary to cross the distance between himself and Watson. He then dropped to his knees and took his friend's hand in his own.

"This is me begging you," he said, at long last breaking his gaze.

For the first time, Holmes chose what he wanted over what he thought was wise. He only hoped that Watson would make the same decision.

"I-I can't," Watson said.

Disappointment. Despair. Heartbreak. Absolute anguish. Holmes immediately stood to his feet and turned his back to Watson. Holme's stared out the window and crossed his arms. He held his face in as straight an expression as possible. He couldn't be sad. He'd predicted this. Why mourn over something he saw coming?

"Then I'll ask you kindly to leave," Sherlock said, his voice unable to bar against the tone of anger.

"Holmes," Watson said, "I'm sorry, believe me-"

"Sorry?"

Holmes spun around unable to stop himself. He was becoming manic again. He walked toward Watson and invaded the other man's space. He stood too close to him, his face confronting Watson's.

"Don't apologize," Holmes said, "You've merely sped up the death of my usefulness and as a consequence the death of myself."

Watson felt anger spark in himself. At first he had felt guilty and pitied Holmes. Now he simply felt his frustration with the detective. How could he ask him this? Was he really so selfish? And did he honestly expect to put all the blame on Watson?

"Are you saying that my leaving will be the death of you?"

"If you need to simplify it; yes."

"Holmes! You cannot honestly put your livelihood under my responsibility! You are a grown man. You need to stop your games and settle down. It's time you led a normal life!"

"Oh and I suppose you expect me to be fulfilled by that? You're not even fulfilled by it. You simply tell yourself you should be and hope it will be so!"

"I am fulfilled!"

"Really? How are those children coming along, John?"

Sherlock stumbled backwards as a repercussion of Watson's hit. The room had once more gone silent as Holmes steadied himself. He brought a hand to his aching jaw and cradled it. Watson had been cross with Holmes on several occasions. He had yelled at him, even hit him in the arm a few times but Watson had never really hit Holmes.

The cold glare that Watson had solidified things further. They had finally reached their end. Their relationship, their partnership had at long last run its course. John Watson turned away from Sherlock wordlessly. The punch and his eyes had said everything that he'd needed to say. He left the apartment, slamming the door as if forcing Holmes to further understand that this, whatever it was, was over.

Sherlock let his hand fall from his jaw. Logically, he figured that drinking would numb the pain in his mouth. He skipped over the average man's alcohol and went straight for his embalming fluid. He had a whole bottle. Holmes knew exactly just how much embalming fluid it would take to kill a man but as he picked up the bottle and sat back down in his chair he pondered testing the theory.

After all, I can't quite claim it as a fact unless I absolutely know from experience. An experiment is in order.

A/N: I swear unto you while this is starting out sad, it will not end sad! I will write a happy ending so help me. Leave reviews and love! Remember to go sign the petition too but more importantly DO NOT DONATE MONEY. The cause is free and is simply meant to raise awareness that we as a fan base encourage and are okay with the gay.: )