Thank you to all reviewers, I apologise for the late update, I've been snowed under with work recently and have struggled to even look at my laptop let alone use it, hopefully I'll get more chance to update from here on out, in the meantime, enjoy...
XxxxXxxxXxxxX
It's been three days since he saw Holmes, since he found himself stood in Baker Street with the Detective a mere breath away. That stack of letters by the fireplace and that damned Moroccan case a little bit more worn than the last time he had laid eyes upon it. He had spent more time thinking about that day than he cared to admit and he was beginning to realise that the light didn't sparkle quite as brightly in the ink black eyes any more. His initial plan had been to focus entirely on Mary for the three days that he had seen breeze by in a flurry of snow and ice. It had been a plan he had not been able to fill and his mind had kept slipping to Holmes, he couldn't explain it; since he had seen the Detective he had begun to worry about him more and more.
Mary's family had arrived a day ago and he felt exhausted with their presence already, he was beginning to realise the boredom of married life, he found it monotonous, he missed the thrill of the nights on the streets with Holmes. He missed the macabre, the grimy, deceitful streets of London. He missed the gambling and watching Holmes win a fight down at the Punchbowl when everyone else had bid on the guy twice his size. Most of all he figured he missed spending time with Holmes, watching as the cog's moved behind his eyes.
He had made the decision before he had even really thought of it, he would go to Baker Street and he would not leave without the Detective following behind him as if he were his shadow. He slips through the corridors of his house silently, desperately avoiding the prying eyes of his wife and her mother; he grips for his coat off of the rack, still damp from the snow he had been caught in the day before, though its warmth does not abandon him.
Outside the streets are beginning to cover over with white, there is a chill to the air, strong enough to seep into bone and he draws his woollen coat tighter in an attempt to stop his skin shivering, he notices that it fails to work and wonders if it's a result of something other than the cold. He flags down a hansom not far down the street and clambers in, his bad leg feels similar to lead and drags after him painfully, he detests the way the cold weakens it. The ride to Baker Street is slow and he rubs at his leg to prompt the circulation back and to nurse the scar tissue that seems to snarl in annoyance at the impromptu journey across the freezing London streets.
The snow is heavier when he steps out of the hansom, standing before the stairs that lead to 221B, to Holmes and his ink black eyes, his poison words and calculating mind. He is forever haunted by the realisation that he craves the younger male in a way he can't quite comprehend. Those seventeen steps echo in his head as he limps his way across them, he is suffering from the old injury so terribly today but he has not entertained the idea of turning back.
He's eager to lay his eyes on Holmes, eager enough he can feel it coursing through his fingertips as he grips the door handle, the silence within is tenuous and almost burdened to the senses. There is a texture to the air of Holmes' room; it's electric as it catches on his tongue. His steel blue eyes are searching now, they're observing like the Detective he so much admires, reading the layout of the room, the Moroccan case he so dreads the sight of has not moved an inch since the last time he allowed his eyes to ghost across it, the letters beside the fireplace are gone, yet there is ash bearing familiar handwriting slowly cooling in the hearth. Watson finds himself wondering what Holmes has been doing with himself these three days, how has the great Detective been passing his time, the experiments are haphazardly strewn across the table top, there is rage in the layout of those bottles and pain in the layout of the ones that are beside the tiger rug. There is the smell of Holmes here and he'll never admit that he took back several waistcoats that were far too small just to keep hold of a piece of his young companion.
There's movement behind him, it's quick and silent and blends to the shadows as if it were part of them, it's the scent that gives him away, that tobacco that he has never smelt anywhere else, unique solely to Holmes. He refuses to turn, feels the way a smirk tugs at his lips, as if his body is reacting entirely by itself and as the Detective nears he notes that there is a chill to his form, he's been out in the cold and Watson can't find a reason for him to have been out in such horrible weather.
"I know you are there Holmes, what I lack in understanding is where you have been," he turns now with a perfectly arched eyebrow and he leans against his cane because his leg is throbbing beneath his skin. Holmes' eyes are raking across his form and he gestures to a chair because he doesn't need to see a grimace to know that Watson is suffering. The Doctor sits in his friends chair and his leg seems thankful for the small comfort, he allows his eyes to breathe in Holmes now, stares at the tiny snowflakes that melt into his coat and hair, so white against the black.
"I believe myself to be remarkable Watson, there was a madman on our fair streets, hiding in the underground like a common rat and slaughtering women with the misfortune to pass him, I sought him out and apprehended him this very morning whilst the majority of London, including yourself, still slept." Watson frowns slightly,
"This was not a case?" Holmes seems to think on this for a moment and his ink black eyes roll from left to right as he searches the recesses of his mind for something other than his own brilliance.
"No I suppose it was not, but I was above the Punchbowl yesterday evening and I couldn't help overhearing the chatter from below, the most ridiculous of stories, they believed it to be the doing of a goblin you see. I do worry about the minds of our fellow countrymen but I suppose fiction to some is far more interesting than fact,"
"Holmes," Ink meets steel and for a moment he loses his place in his reciting of his story,
"Watson," he's in control again, his mind ticks beneath his eyes and he's thinking deadly things to counteract anything the Doctor may say to him.
"You just took up a case on a whim, no one persuaded you, no mother begging at your doorstep?" he eyes the elder wearily,
"I required stimulation; my mind begged for it, this place has been suffocating me," he runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the tangles but he pays them no mind. Watson thinks Holmes knows exactly how to affect him, how to make him feel guilty and as though he has done the Detective an injustice when really he has simply moved on. He did not marry Mary just to cause Holmes to suffer; he did it because he had to, because it was time to grow up.
"You were not injured?" He's checking with Doctors eyes, consulting from his chair and without Holmes' consent, the Detective stares back somewhat defiantly.
"Of course not, the culprit was nothing more than a coward, shivering in the gutters like a rat, despicable man, the Yard have him now." Three days, it took no more than three days for Sherlock Holmes to catch a madman that Scotland Yard hadn't even known existed, he was always amazed by the Detective, even when he ridiculed him and pretended that he wasn't because Sherlock Holmes could do extraordinary things and he could work out any riddle put before him, find the truth when all others were still looking for clues. "It's snowing again," he's beside the window now, leaning beside the frame, observing the world as it moved slowly before him.
"You're to return to Cavendish Place with myself this evening," an incredulous look was passed to him, the younger seemed somewhat affronted by the decision that had been made without his request, Watson smirked and stood, leaning against his cane for a moment before heading over to a drawer. "Shall I assist you with your packing?" The Detective's hand fall's on his own before he can open the drawer and Watson freezes at the touch.
"Packing, how long do you propose I stay for, Watson this is highly unorthodox, what will people say?" He's gripping now; his hand clamped around Watson's enough to cause discomfort, the elder does not reflect this in his face, secretly he doesn't want Holmes to let go.
"Well, the Christmas period of course, you may leave Boxing day if my company becomes completely unbearable for you, as for what people will say, when exactly have you ever cared about senseless gossip?" Holmes clears his throat and steps away; he glances at his hands, studies his nails, tinted with ink and bleached with chemicals, Watson stares after him all the while. "I know that you do not wish to come,"
He turns, they're face to face and Watson resists the urge to step back, "I see not the sense in inviting me or demanding my presence, you have sought it no other time, most happy with your wife, what do I matter to you old boy, you have wanted to leave me for years, you should be drinking to your freedom this holiday, not shackling yourself to me further."
"I want you there, we have discussed this, I miss your company and I would hope that you missed mine, it seems that you do not as you refuse to even meet my eyes." Just like he knew he would Holmes rises to the challenge, his eyes are dark, darker than they've ever been and there's danger lurking just below the surface.
"I have always been here Watson, you know I would never turn you away yet you have never so must as graced the hallway until this week and yet it is my fault that we do not speak, it is my fault that you feel guilty," those blue eyes narrow but he's right and Watson bites the inside of his cheek as he ponders over the correct thing to say.
"I am making an effort Holmes,"
"I shall fetch a medal then old boy," there's anger in the way his hands curl in on themselves, Watson knows that it's best to diffuse the situation quickly but he does love to see Holmes riled up, words ready to cut and teeth clenched. There's a hand on the Detective's shoulder a second later, warm and strong, it's an apology and Holmes never turns down an apology from Watson.
"Please, come home with me,"
XxxxXxxxX
Holmes never knows what to pack, he never knows what he's going to need and he can't find anything when it's ordered, he glances across his room at nameless bottles that litter the floor. Watson is stood by the fireplace, he stares at the ash, pokes at it, Holmes knows what he's doing but he uses the moment of distraction to swipe his Moroccan case from its home and slip it inside his bag, he covers it over with clean shirts and borrowed waistcoats, with bottles of brightly coloured fluid and books with broken spines. He lights his pipe, pondering if he has forgotten anything but he is Sherlock Holmes and deep down he knows that he has not, though there is a feeling of uncertainty bubbling in his stomach that he cannot translate.
Steal blue eyes are on him now, they burn intensely and he tries to busy himself with the design of his pipe, he hates how unsure Watson can make him feel, how hurt. He can't stand the thought of having to sit and watch Watson pander to Mary's every desire, watch her touch him, kiss him, its pure torture and he hates the elder for forcing him to do it, can't Watson see how cruel it is, doesn't he understand.
"I spent a long time writing those you know," ash crumbles beneath his fingertips as he sits in the chair beside Holmes, the detective smirks somewhat, slips his pipe from his lips and stares at Watson, he knows he could tell the elder all the lies in the world and he wouldn't believe a single one.
"You should have not bothered writing them, you know me well enough to know that I would not read them," Watson knew that of course so what perplexes Holmes is why he wrote them in the first place.
"Come on, we should be going before we end up snowed in"
"Worse things have happened," Watson smirks but rises from his seat, he leans on his cane as he waits for Holmes to follow him the detective merely stares at his companion, at the slight smile on his lips, the way his eyes hold a sparkle. Holmes knows that he can make Watson far happier than Mary ever could but Watson doesn't wish to believe it, it's distressing for the detective, these feelings are misplaced and he cannot fully decipher them even now, it's far worse when he is near to Watson and he has the urge to refuse to go, to cling to his chair for dear life and pretend he had never met the Doctor.
He hates Watson for what he has done to him...
I miss you...
Despite it all, despite how he doesn't want to leave with the Doctor, how he doesn't want to see Mary, he rises from his seat with an amount of grace and poise people would not think him able to posses, he walks past Watson, pipe clasped in his hand and opens the door for his old friend. It's as Watson leaves, with that bright smile in place and the knowledge that he has won, that Holmes thinks he's far crueller than he ever thought he could be, he hopes Watson will forgive him for the things he knows he will do wrong, the things he will say, the casual insults, it's a coping mechanism, it eases some of the pain that flares in his chest whenever Mary places a tender kiss to the good doctors cheek, or when his hand rests on hers, Sherlock Holmes needs to be callous or else he is far too easily hurt.
Sometimes he thinks Watson forgets that he is human, that he feels, aches, that he sees more than the crime's he solves, that he needs more than a Moroccan case and an unfortunate murder to keep him functioning, he needs Watson, he always has, no one else can fill the doctors place. He tries to convince himself that he doesn't really need Watson, that it's all chemical dependency and synapses in the brain misfiring, it's not a real need, it's not a desperate desire, it's logic and simple solutions. He needs space, needs to remove himself from Watson and yet he doesn't ask why that hasn't worked before because he can't think of anything else to do and he doesn't want to believe that he's allowed himself to slip this far because he's certain that there's no way back from this.
Steel blue eyes are on him, trying to decipher him; he lifts ink black eyes and doesn't attempt to hide the contempt that bubbles within then, "Holmes?"
"Shall we be taking our leave old chap; surely dear Mary will be worrying herself over your whereabouts," and he doesn't give a damn about Mary, but he doesn't want those eyes on him, mixed with pity and guilt, he doesn't want to know that Watson cares about him, he shouldn't, Sherlock Holmes is nothing but trouble and pain, he's danger and the macabre in the flesh. Watson would surely perish if he stayed at his side but all the detective is waiting for now is someone to outwit him, some criminal with a hand around his throat or a gun to his head, he wonders if Watson will stand at his funeral and say heartbreaking things about him, will he suffer at the loss, cruelly, he hopes so.
The snow is cool on his fevered flesh as he waits for the hansom, he marvels at the snowflakes, their purity and fragility captures him in a moment of serenity. Watson's hand finds the small of his back seconds later and his mind is utter chaos again by the moment the hansom door swings closed.
XxxxXxxxXxxxX
Ok so it's not my favourite chapter in fact it's far from it but I've been so busy with work that I haven't had a chance to update, apologies for that, so I must post this now with a promise that the next chapter will be far more explosive, interesting and exciting with a hint more of the slash and fluff we all know and love, so please bear with me and I'll try and update as soon as humanly possible, anyhoo, let me know what you think, cookie's for all,