Sweetest Downfall
Disclaimer- I own nothing, it's very sad,
Rating- M... for later chapters
Summary- Watson knew that he could never escape Holmes, what he didn't realise was that he didn't really want to, so when he invites the Detective to stay with himself and Mary how long will he be able to avoid his feelings... slash
A/N – I just want to say a HUGE thank you to all reviewers, you all left me such lovely comments and it really made my day to read them and see that people were enjoying my fic n.n much love to you all and feel free to take a cookie out of the cookie jar and forLady Lupindawn who asked the flavour of the cookies well... you can have the flavour of your choice because you reviewers were amazing and really made my day!
Also thanks to all who faved and put on their alerts I hope you're all enjoying this too,
Anyway that's enough babbling from me... here's the second chapter and I hope you enjoy it n.n
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Chapter two
He arrives back at Cavendish Place later than he thought he would, the rain has drenched his clothes, falling now from his thick woollen coat to stain the floor. It's quiet at the grave and he's reminded of Baker Street, his mind convincing him that he can smell Holmes' unique scent, the mixture of chemicals and tobacco. The Detective was right in his deductions, his new abode is decorated to perfection, the tree's towering and covered with ribbons, the candles long since blown out where they would have lit it spectacularly.
Something about it isn't quite right, he can see Holmes crouched before a much smaller version, it's browning and the needles are dropping, Watson thinks it's far closer to a twig than a tree. His friend however looks ecstatic, decorating it with the most peculiar of things, empty bottles filled with his experiments that shimmer with the strangest colours; they dine at the Royale and drink like fish. It all fades into black, into the emptiness that surrounds him and for a moment he stands and closes his eyes tight desperately trying to remember the feel of Holmes' hair beneath his fingertips. He sighs heavily and stares down at his leather coated hands, there are footsteps on the staircase to his side, soft and uncertain, gentle as only a woman can be.
She coughs to bring his attention to her, thinking he had not heard her descend; he turns with a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes because he keeps thinking back to Holmes. They stand in silence for a while, Mary obviously waiting for him to say something, to explain himself; he never said that he was going out because he hadn't really known. He hadn't known he would end up in Baker Street, in Holmes' room, he just had. He knew she wouldn't like it, wasn't sure how he was going to tell her that Holmes was coming to stay with them.
"I was worried about you," she all but whispers, her hands folded neatly in front of her, the blonde hair pulled back so neatly, she is the complete opposite of Holmes in every way. He slips his hat from his head, placing it on the nearby table and begins to remove his coat,
"I know, I should not have left as I did my apologies dear, I found myself unable to sleep." He hangs his coat on the stand feels her gaze burning into the back of his head, it's not accusatory, it's accepting, pitying.
"How is he?" the gloves are slowly removed from his hands, placed beside the hat and he's wondering how to answer the question because he's not really sure. He seems alright, a little annoyed maybe, but he's still just Holmes, exactly how he's always been.
He doesn't ask her how she knows, he's not sure he wants the explanation, "Holmes is Holmes,"
"He never responded to any of your letters," it's not cruel, she just worries,
"He's been busy," he sighs and runs a hand through his hair and he knows that she's reading into his body language, she's almost as good at reading him as Holmes is but Holmes is a little better, able to know exactly how he's feeling from a mere glance. Mary loves him, that's how she can understand his slight mood changes; he wonders if it is merely Holmes' genius that makes him so good at it. "I invited him to stay with us for Christmas," he turns to see her eyes widen slightly and she wrings her hands together.
"You know my family are coming..."
"He shall be on his best behaviour," she doesn't seem impressed and he can hardly blame her considering their first meeting, "he has no one else, please Mary, you have your family let me have mine,"
"Though he is not really your family is he dear?" she's frustrated now, he can see it in the way she's stood and he walks over to her and takes her hands in his own, meets her eyes.
"It's been just the two of us for so long, I cannot abandon him now, do you understand, I would suffer far more than he at his absence." Holmes would no doubt spend the day with a syringe in his arm and a drink in his hand, that vacant expression steeling across ink black eyes, it pains Watson to even think about the things his friend does to himself. She sighs a melodic sound and he knows he's managed to convince her, a smile tugs at her lips and her eyelashes flutter slightly.
"Fine, whatever you wish my darling, just please make sure he behaves," he promises and places a tender kiss to her lips and for a moment they're chapped and taste of tobacco, he frowns and pulls back somewhat startled. Her hands grip at his in worry, eyebrows knotting, "is everything alright? Oh I hope you have not caught a chill in this terrible weather," he assures her he has not and sends her up to bed with the promise that he'll be along in a moment, seconds later he finds the decanter filled with whiskey and pours himself a drink.
What is wrong with me Holmes...?
He nurses his drink for a while, savouring the taste, he finds his mind wandering again, wondering what Holmes is doing now, sat in Baker Street, he can see him curled up beside the fire, bottle pressed to his lips, eyes wide. A hand will be across his bruised stomach, holding gently, eventually he'll sober, grab for his violin and pluck at the strings, morphing a well known tune into something new and vibrant. He'll fall asleep on that hideous tiger rug, his head propped up against its own, a blanket tugged up to his chin.
The last dregs of his drink tumble past his lips and he gently places the glass on the table top before he decides to make his way up to his bed.
By the time he enters his bed chamber Mary is already fast asleep, she's all grace and poise as she lies beneath the pristine white sheets, her hair falling around her in loose curls. Her skin ivory white, lips rose petal pink, she's so very different from Holmes, he can't understand why when he looks at her all he can think of is the Detective. He sighs and undresses slowly, shakes any thoughts from his head and clears his mind by the time his head hits the pillow.
Watson... dream of me...
Ink black eyes consume him just as they always have.
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He tries so very hard not to think about him and as he burns a letter in the fireplace he tries to pretend that it's not out of spite. He glugs back any spirits he can lend his hand to, lights his pipe and looses himself in the smoke. His mind drifts to Watson, how he didn't want to let him leave, how he had wanted more than anything to grip hold of him and keep him there, though that would have been selfish, Watson had made his choice.
He watched half heartedly as another letter burnt before his eyes, the paper disintegrating, the ink fading, they were just printed words, whatever was said, none of it held any actual value, Watson meant none of it. He couldn't really be sure of that of course but Holmes was selfish he wanted to ease his suffering if just a little. He felt the Doctor's hands against his skin and drank a little bit more. He growled slightly, he needed a case; he needed problems, stimulation, something to ponder over other than John Watson.
The thought of spending Christmas with Watson and Mary and their perfect little family gathering repulses him somewhat. The Doctor should have left him in his misery; it was far less complicated in there because now, for all his concern over Christmas involving Mary his heart skips a beat at the thought of being close to Watson for even the shortest moment of time. He hates the very contradictions that the doctor inflicts within his mind and heart and tries his very best to pretend his absence has not affected him quite as drastically as it has.
He rolls his eyes to the window; the rain has turned to flakes of snow, shimmering against the darkness and his thoughts are once again drawn to Watson, lying in his bed at home beside his beautiful wife. He hates the thought, it sends an ache thundering straight to his chest and the grimace dances across his face, Watson was never meant to leave him for Mary, it almost feels like a betrayal. There was no one in the world that understood him quite as well as his friend and yet the elder seemed so distant from him now, only hours before they stood and talked as if strangers.
Part of him wished his old roommate had never walked the path to their rooms, part of him hoped that he'd never come back because then it would mean that he truly didn't care, that he had moved on. Though he could never believe that now and the hope that Watson still wanted him stung more than the thought that he despised him, he gripped for his bottle of whiskey with shaking fingers, glugging the liquid in an attempt to drown out his mind. The brilliant mind that amazed so many, that solved so many cases when all hope seemed lost, that could solve any riddle, any problem no matter how improbable, sometimes, the tool of his trade was such a curse to him.
The weight of the violin seems balanced in his grip, it's so unlike everything else in his life and he strums the strings and hums to a song he swore he'd forgotten long ago. Watson had once sat beside him in his armchair, the paper held loosely in his hands as he professed that the way Holmes played it had made it one of his favourite songs. There had been a secret locked behind those steel blue eyes in that moment and Holmes had squinted in an attempt to read it but the doctor had lifted his paper and smirked and the detective had simply returned to playing. It was as if the moment had never actually happened.
He drank until he couldn't remember his name, plucked at strings until his fingers bled, he fell asleep as the fire was burning itself out in the hearth, steel blue eyes never once leaving his mind.
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He wakes later than usual, thin streams of sunlight filter in through the slight part in the curtains, he can't remember his dreams but he's unsettled by whatever it was they entailed. He pulls himself from the tangle of too white sheets, parts the curtains with a gentle flick of his hand and there's a thin sheen of snow on the ground, like icing sugar sprinkled too thinly over a cake. It had snowed last year as well; the flakes had caught in Holmes' hair as they had strolled through the streets together. Tobacco stained fingertips had caught the small perfectly formed gem and studied it until it had melted, succumbing to the heat of his hand. There had been a small smile on the corner of his lips as if there were a secret behind it all that Watson wouldn't understand. As if he'd worked out the very mechanism that kept the world moving and breathing.
Holmes was as captivating as the snow, as mysterious, as cruel and wonderful, no matter how much Watson tried, he couldn't pull back from him. He adored the detective; he worried for him, wanted nothing but the best for him and couldn't stand the thought of any harm befalling him. Though he knew that he had hurt the younger, as much as he wished not to admit it, deep down he knew he had betrayed him, abandoned him. There was an image burnt into his mind from the day he had left, sparkling ebony eyes that had tried so hard to shimmer with happiness a smile that seemed more of a grimace and an expression that begged him to reconsider, to stay. He couldn't answer than look, he had breezed away under the cover of Clarkey and the Detective had brushed past him seconds later without a word, his glasses covering his eyes and his gaze fixed to Clarkey's back.
Gladstone had come with them then, Mary had insisted and he had left Holmes with nothing, Nanny had watched from the window and he thought even her eyes were accusatory.
He wondered if that was the reason he had avoided Holmes, his guilt, he had worried for days about the Detective, believing him to be on a destructive downwards spiral. Desperate to ruin himself and purge his mind of anything that reminded him of his old friend, but he didn't really know what it was that had made him unable to face Holmes.
"John?" her smile was warm and she looked beautiful framed in the doorway, the long blue dress perfect against her skin tone and golden hair, never a strand out of place. "Is everything ok?" she worried for him too much and he felt terribly guilty over it, he was being silly, thinking too much about Holmes, the detective was fine, he had seen him not hours ago.
"Yes, yes fine, sorry my dear have you had breakfast already?" he began to dress, and she closed the door and perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to finish before she asked for his company.
"Not yet, I was hoping we might go out this morning, spend some time together before my parents arrive," he smiled and kissed her cheek whilst slipping his waistcoat on.
"Wonderful idea," he extended his arm and she clasped onto it with a bright smile. He's determined to focus on her and only her this morning, desperate to keep his thoughts from slipping to Holmes with his tobacco lips and macabre interests, Holmes with his ink black eyes and pale white flesh, his brilliant mind and haunting smile. He's fighting a losing battle before it's even begun and the worse thing is that he knows it...
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...well... sorta grew a world of its own this chapter, I thought it would head in a completely different direction, oh well this is where it is (silly muses) but yes Holmes and Watson shall be together again in the next chapter so I apologise for this one and the lack of conflict between our two favourite men,
So extra cookies for those who review this chapter and a Holmes plushie ;)
A great big thank you to everyone who reviewed favourited and put this fic on alerts, you guys are amazing and I hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much n.n
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