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Beard grooming
He's been betrayed. Despite all he's done, how much he loves the other man – it's not enough. He tried to deduce anything in the odiously cheerful Miss Morstan that would turn John away from her. Tried to arrange a full on clash with her, so that Watson would be forced to pick a side – and, hopefully, remember which one he's supposed to be on. Frankly, his failure has been astounding. He supposes he'll have to watch his lover move out any day. After…he's not entirely sure how he'll go on.
When the good doctor comes back, he's still fuming. "What the fuck was that before, Holmes? You'll need to grow up someday, you know. We need to settle down. It's not like we're getting any younger!"
Holmes. They stick to last names outside, afraid that a simple 'Sherlock' or 'John' will inadvertently be steeped in so much tenderness that someone around them will cotton on their crime. The detective would have added 'victimless' crime not so long ago, but now, he seriously wonders if he could die of a broken heart. Do these things even happen? And would that make him a victim, murder victim, or what?
He's been silent too long already, though, so he spits, "You're welcome to settle down anytime you feel like it. An ordinary life is not for me. But I won't blame you for getting tired of what we had." He's not going to beg. He's not going to beg. He's not going to beg. Feigning contempt is his only chance.
John – John here, for him – looks positively aghast. "I…what…NO!" It's a shout, and his lover is shaking his head vehemently. "Honestly, for someone who's supposed to be a genius, you can be the dumbest man on earth," he adds, softly.
"Then enlighten me, please," the detective asks, eyes narrowing. He's unable to trust his lover still, the hurt too recent.
John sighs. Deeply. "Love of my life, you don't really need me to remind you that two confirmed bachelors, living together and going strong after close to a decade and – hopefully – even much longer than that, will attract the kind of rumours you really don't want to be associated with, do I? Even if many inspectors owe you so much, they won't be able to turn a blind eye if the public starts wondering too loudly. And I'd rather not end my life in jail, if it's all the same for you, if only because I'm rather certain they wouldn't let us share a cell." He talks slowly, hoping that his words will penetrate his beloved's brain. This is serious matter. It can't be shrugged off, like Sherlock tends to, sure of others' selective blindness because of his role – and his brother's, at that.
"You made me flirt with Irene already!" the sleuth whines. "If not to keep people from talking, what was the point of that whole charade? The only Woman? She helping me out by creating as much scandal about our liaison as possible, and me going along with that, to people's shock ? Neither of us is interested in the other, if you've forgotten. In fact, no one of the opposite gender could tempt the other into more than intellectual sparring."
"This is for her, too. Sure, being known as your lover might offer her a certain protection, but you know – and I know – that it's only a question of time before some admirer or another will start being too pushy, promising to make an honest woman out of her and saying that you don't count because you won't make a move to claim her. She needs a husband. Preferably one who won't mind following her around on tour with the opera, true, but I am sure we'll be able to find a compromise that won't make anyone miserable," his Boswell insists. If he wasn't physically crowding Sherlock against a wall, it would be easier to have enough brainpower to understand what he's saying.
"You never told me I had to marry her!" Holmes snaps, glaring but not trying to rebuff his lover. Not at all.
"Honestly, I wasn't sure about it myself. I mean, I'd always assumed I would have to marry some day or another, and choose someone blind enough not to see I could only love you, but then Mary came along, and well, she had some interesting ideas," the doctor explains, shrugging. True, it would have been easier on everyone if he had planned for this from the start, had the time to cajole his love into this slowly. But Mary had been so enthused with their project.
"So, she put you up to this," the detective grouses bitterly, glaring down at him.
"Before you start sulking, hear me out. Yes, two confirmed bachelors living happily together for decades will raise suspicions sooner or later. But two dear, married friends, living next door, or even in different flats in a single home? That would make a lot of people who have trouble with neighbours envious. Who's supposed to check if the marital beds are occupied by their legitimate owners at night, or if grooms and brides each pick one bed? I admit it, Mary was enchanted by my writing – that's why she came to you in the first place – and she's very eager to meet Irene. Not that your so-called paramour would have to give her the time of the day, but let's give her a chance, shall we? I'll admit I rather fancy a proper double bed for us to make love and wake up in, without anyone being accidentally kicked out during the night, or waking up with a dozen different cricks." John offers him, with a winning smile.
He should be firm. He's created his own career, and foregone rules and laws anytime he well pleased. Such a marriage would be a mockery, a falsehood…and his 'relationship' with Irene has been embarrassing enough as it is. But… but it wouldn't need to be as public – and awkward – anymore, once they're officially married. And the scene that his beloved is painting is, admittedly, too tempting not to make Sherlock ache for it. Still, he has his pride. Caving in to Mary Morstan's plan without another word would get him teased for being blind to the obvious implications for ages. So, instead, he says, "On two conditions."
"Two, ten, or a hundred – I want you to be as satisfied with your marriage as humanly possible, love," John agrees easily.
"I won't be asking Irene. I mean, of course I'll ask her, somewhere public and as blatantly as possible – I suppose your writer's soul will want something flashy to work into a story that has absolutely no bearing on my sentimental situation otherwise – but I won't actually ask her to participate in this…arrangement. I still maintain that it is not, strictly speaking, absolutely necessary, after all. And I don't want to pressure her in any way, or make her suspect even for one second that I lied to her when I asked her to fake a reciprocal interest for our convenience," Holmes points out, relaxing where he stands.
His Boswell nods. "Yeah, sure… As I said, I think Mary will be quite eager to explain the situation to her. In detail."
The detective ignore the quip. Instead, he adds, "We'll have a shared ceremony. Even if you proposed a bit earlier…no need to go through two celebrations and redouble the headache of planning, hosting and the rest." This, obviously, is the reason they'll offer everyone. The actual one, which John sees through immediately – his love wants to be able to pretend, if only in his mind, that the correct couples are getting married – is so silly and taboo at the same time that he can't voice it aloud, even here and now.
"Very rational, if not common…and people have come to expect a measure of quirkiness from you. That's definitely something we'll enjoy doing. Our wedding. Yup. Sounds right," John remarks, shrugging.
How can the doctor say it so simply? Even if they're in their safe haven… Sherlock will never understand. Sure, he's brave – even cavalier – in his actions, but deplorably lacking in the talking department, specifically when the heart and not the brain is supposed to speak up. So, instead of replying, he dives down to steal a kiss. The door is locked, anyway. His lover melts into it, as always.
Once the need to breathe forces them to separate, his Boswell quips, "Any other requirements? Strong opinions on the colour scheme? A particular recipe for our wedding reception? I don't want to stifle the art in your blood, you know."
The detective chuckles. "I can offer advice if requested, but I don't mind if your Mary takes the lead about any details. And of course, if Irene rejects her, I'm afraid you'll have to write about me forgetting her and falling for whatever lady will turn out to be more receptive to your intended's wiles."
"So now you're keen on settling down, are you?" John says, grinning.
"With what you promised me? I wish we could get married tomorrow," Sherlock admits, shrugging slightly.
"Me too, love…and without any decoys standing in, at that. But nevermind the wishful thinking. I think we're entitled to an early start on our honeymoon, don't you?" the doctor replies, winking.
The world's only consulting detective has been called a madman more times than he can count. But he's not mad enough to object to that. (As long as an extra lock shields them, anyway. Just in case.)