A/N: I hope you enjoyed my smut xD Here's a serious chapter. Oh noes! But never fear. We'll soon return to our favourite platonic, completely heterosexual, not gay for each other (ಠ_ಠ) crime fighting couple and see what mischief they have planned.
And a big fat thank you to those who reviewed. Makes me oh so happy xD
Disclaimer: No. I am not Conan Doyle.
Chapter Two-
The following evening Watson had dinner with Mary. She looked extremely pretty. Watson was sure that there was more than one man in the room visualizing the splendour of having such a woman in his bed and Watson was painfully aware that he was not one of them.
He and Mary had been married for a pitiful three days when one night, inexplicably, he had found himself in Baker Street, astride Holmes, thrusting and moaning into the darkness. It had been an explosion of violent proportions. They had argued that evening and then, without warning or explanation, Holmes had forced his lips onto Watson's. Watson had wanted to resist but the feeling of Holmes's soft, clumsy mouth on his had been intoxicating. It felt so right. Even though he knew it should feel all wrong.
The tension that been building steadily between them since Watson's engagement had burst in a maelstrom of furious passion and lust. They had spent that night making love. Or rather, Watson had spent the night pounding into Holmes while he whimpered and begged below him. Watson was now sure that Holmes had been a virgin, he had found substantial amounts of blood on the sheets the morning following and it was a testimony to the unfaltering pride of his friend that Holmes had preferred to suffer in silence than admit he was unbroken. It had been at least three days of watching his friend waddle about in obvious discomfort before he'd finally allowed Watson to examine him to ensure no lasting damage had been done.
Since that night, he had returned again and again to Baker Street. Throughout the two months of marriage to Mary. He never dared to stay the night. He had learnt to feed Mary different excuses each time he slipped away to Baker Street and thus far, she had remained unsuspicious.
He knew that it was a terrible betrayal of Mary's trust and that it would not be possible to keep it from her forever, but nonetheless he kept going back to Holmes and they kept sleeping together and Watson kept enjoying it- fiercely. It was far easier and far less disconcerting to simply gloss over the unpleasant little details, such as its being very illegal and held in highest contempt by all self-respecting, God fearing Englishmen.
"Sweetheart, you look awfully pale." Mary commented, peering at her husband across the table. "Have you been sleeping? Have you been working too hard? Is he tiring you out?"
Watson didn't reply. No, he hadn't been sleeping. He had been stricken down by the most terrible, persistent insomnia and on the rare occasions he did manage to sleep, he dreamt of Holmes and awoke feeling even more weary and harassed than when he had fallen asleep. Yes, he certainly had been working too hard. He was a doctor. It seemed inevitable that he would. And with Holmes expecting him at his beck and call it really left little time for respite. And finally, yes Holmes had certainly been tiring Watson out. In far more ways than one. He tired Watson out more than any person he'd ever known. He was like a toddler that required constant attention and constant supervision. He feared that if he dropped his guard for one millisecond the toddler would go tumbling down the stairs or drink a bottle of rat poison.
But he said none of this to his wife. Instead he smiled dismissively. "I'm fine, Mary. Don't fuss."
Mary watched him for a moment, looking as though she wanted to say something. She seemed to think better of it and went back to her food with a shrug.
Watson cleared his throat; he had barely touched his own meal. "You know I do everything for you, Mary. My occasional absence is unavoidable."
Mary glanced at him. "I know." She said.
"Assisting Holmes will always be one of my priorities." He went on meaningfully. "You knew my dedication to his work when we married."
Mary looked unmoved. "I know." She said flatly.
Watson felt unexplainably irritated by her silence. "Mary, if you have something to say, say it." He snapped.
She looked up at him; she didn't seem surprised by his sudden loss of patience. She laid down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. "You're a doctor, John, not a detective. I think you forget sometimes that you are not as agile as you once were. Holmes should know better than to risk your health with his absurd and frankly, dangerous exploits."
Watson relaxed. He had thought for a moment... Well, he didn't know what he had thought. "Holmes's cases keep my mind quick. Besides, he needs my help."
"But why does he?" Mary asked earnestly, laying a hand on her husband's. "Why can't you be content with your practise? Why can't you be content..." She faltered slightly, lowering her eyes. "Creating a family."
Watson froze. He felt his hand go rigid under Mary's. He tried to think of something to say but his mind had gone blank. He had been caught off guard. "O-of course." He stammered at length, flinching away from her.
He stared at his food, taking his fork and impaling a carrot. He could hardly chew it, he could hardly taste it. He felt Mary's hand slip away.
"You do want to have children?" He heard her say.
Watson swallowed his carrot. He had been naive, he now realised, to not look beyond marriage itself. The worldwide chronology was marriage and then children. He had married and now he needed to produce the children. Naturally.
Except it didn't seem particularly natural to Watson.
He looked at his wife and swallowed again. His mouth felt dry. "Of course." He said calmly. He felt slightly sick. "Should we call for some more wine? Do you want another glass?"
"I'm fine." Mary said patiently. "Darling-
"This mutton is a little dry." Watson said heartily, prodding at the meat with his fork.
"Darling." Mary said a little louder.
"You know, they really are bally Spartan with the gravy, aren't they? There's barely a puddle here."
"Darling-
"But, I suppose it is economical-
"Darling."
Watson closed his mouth. Mary sighed at him. "I know that founding a family is a daunting task but surely you want an heir?"
Watson nodded numbly.
"And you would be such a good father." Mary said warmly, stroking his hand.
Watson stared at her. "I already feel as though I've been one for years."
Realising he was talking about Holmes, Mary tutted crossly and withdrew her hand. "Oh, really, John. Must you always bring that man into our private conversations?"
"I'm sorry." Watson said.
Mary half shrugged at him, keeping her eyes down on her plate. "It's alright." She said, though Watson knew it wasn't alright.
There were a thousand things he wanted to say to her but nothing seemed an adequate excuse. She was his wife and she wanted to have a family with him and Watson couldn't think of anything but when he could see Holmes again. No, there was nothing alright about that at all.
...
He slept with Mary on Monday evening. While he was on top of her, her perfume stinging his nostrils, her soft, fragile, female form beneath him, he thought of Holmes. It was the only thought which sustained him. If he imagined that her soft, round, feminine dells were his hard, sharp, masculine lines then he could almost bear it.
He thought of Holmes even when her cries made it hard to obscure reality, he thought of Holmes even when his body betrayed him by reacting to the encounter, he thought of Holmes even when she climaxed and he half-heartedly followed. In the dark she couldn't see that his eyes were closed and that he was visualizing his best friend where his wife lay.
They didn't sleep together often. Or as often as a newlywed couple of two months might. But now there was the threat that with every encounter she might fall pregnant, as if that possibility hadn't been there before. Suddenly, the mention of the word 'children' made it all so much more dangerous.
He shook his head in the darkness at his own stupid naivety as he lay beside his wife, now asleep and facing away from him as always. That was one blessing: she was not affectionate in bed. When it came to sleeping, she went to her side of the bed and he to his. The space was relieving. It made him feel less suffocated. And he could fantasize about Holmes. Until he finally fell asleep. If he fell asleep.
He lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes had adjusted to the dark. Never a good sign. He supposed all hope for sleep was very well dashed at this point. He could hear his wife breathing gently beside him. He exhaled slowly.
She really wanted to have a child with him. Watson had never felt so doubtful about anything in his life. He felt that having a child meant that his life would not be his own anymore, it would be his son or daughter's. And then Mary would spend all her time organizing the governess, the nurse, the nanny. She'd be organizing classes and fussing over whether to feed it oatmeal or bread crumbs and water. There'd be a nursery. He'd have a new title. Father. Progenitor. Parent. He'd have a new role. He'd be a protector and a provider. There was so much weight in the titles that he could hardly lay where he was without squirming in discomfort. He couldn't even care for Mary properly, how could he be expected to care for a tiny, vulnerable life?
He closed his eyes, deciding he would recount the moments of his and Holmes's last encounter, telling himself that it may help him to drop off to sleep but knowing that it was likely instead to just make him even more awake. Every thrust, moan and touch had been so heated that even now in the cold, dark bed of his wife he could feel the heat rising in his blood. Holmes drove him close to madness. He was ignorant, careless, obsessive, childish and thoughtless but no one caused Watson's temperature to rise faster or his... nether regions to respond more keenly than him.
He moved his hand carefully under the bed sheets to the area between his legs now throbbing dully in unsatisfied arousal. He stroked himself, imagining the taut, hard feel of Holmes's body against his. His stomach clenched itself and his hips gently rocked in time with his movements.
He had said he would go and see him on Friday. It was now Tuesday morning, the two chimes of the grandfather clock in the hallway told him. Holmes would be cross and hurt. But Watson knew he had to start being more careful and discreet. Mary was becoming disgruntled at his dashing off to Baker Street every day. He had had to smooth the waters before he returned.
Well, he thought, turning onto his side, he would go and see Holmes tomorrow. He wouldn't tell him of Mary's sudden desire to have children. He would let that settle. Who knew, perhaps God would be kind and delay his seed for a little while. Perhaps Mary would turn out to be barren. Perhaps he would turn out to be deficient. Perhaps.
To be continued...
