A/N: I don't own Watson, Holmes, or Mary. Also, reviews are greatly appreciated. Good or bad, long or short, just let me know what you think.
The next day came the men who were there to move Watson's belongings to his new digs at Cavendish Place, and with them came a sense of finality to the doctor's plans. Holmes was present when the movers came to collect Watson's things, though he kept that fact to himself.
Listening through the wall, Holmes could hear the bustle of several workmen tramping through the common room he and Watson had shared for some months now. Above it all, above the murmurs of the workers, the scrap and scuffle of the boxes, the occasional expletive passing their befouled lips, over it all boomed the voice of John Watson.
Watson, who barked commands with a military precision. Watson, who bowed to the doctor in his nature and chided the men who lifted their loads improperly. Watson, who at every spare moment limped hesitantly up to Holmes's door, wavered, and trudged away without having summoned the courage to knock.
Were Sherlock any other man, he might have swallowed his pride and opened the door himself. But were he any other man, he may not have found himself in such circumstances. Luckily, his erstwhile companion was less stubborn.
After the last box had been packed and hauled away, after the movers had left in their trap to transport the goods to the new premises where Mary surely waited, after the last man had gone and silence had descended once more upon the flat, did Watson limp resolutely up to the door once more, and finally knock.
"Yes, Watson, come along, now," Sherlock called, welcoming his guest for what he knew might be the last time. At least he'd had his warning. "Ah, doctor, whatever can I do for you? I believe you've found all your things in proper order? I was careful to return anything I might have bartered away." This last he said with a measure of distaste.
Watson limped into the room, leaning heavily upon his cane. He said nothing for a long time, simply gazing about at the interior of Holmes's private quarters. It wasn't often he'd had the luxury to simply look about without the threat of one of Holmes's less than savory experiments looming in the air. He realized for the first time that he had no idea where Holmes slept. Likely in a chair in a corner someplace, Watson surmised.
When the doctor finally spoke, it was hesitant, as though he dreaded what he had to say. "I wanted to talk to you about our last meeting."
"Ah?" Holmes pretended to focus his attention on the globe he kept beside his desk, while surreptitiously studying the young doctor's every move.
Watson, sure he was being watched, tried to keep his outward discomfort to a minimum. "About some of the things that were said. Things which deserve apology."
"You should know better by now, old boy." Holmes grinned, looking up at his former compatriot. "And besides, haven't you a pretty young girl to whom you are affianced? She must be waiting for you at Cavendish Place."
"Perhaps you were right, Holmes," Watson allowed begrudgingly.
Holmes wasted not a moment. "On which count, dear boy? I believe I made many astute observations as to the nature of your relationship with young Mary."
Watson swallowed the anger Holmes's arrogance brought to the back of his throat. "On the count that I am afraid, at the very least, I should say."
"Afraid?" Holmes asked, his attention piqued. "Afraid of what?"
There was a lengthy silence between the two men. "Of making a mistake," John admitted eventually. "Of disappearing into the life of another man. But I'm even more afraid of disappearing into you."
Sherlock, for once, had the good grace to at least look confused. "I do beg your pardon, Watson, but I'm not certain I take your meaning."
John approached by a single step, as though asking permission. Holmes debated backing away, not yet certain he'd care very much for what the doctor was about to say, but in the end his curiosity won out. Holmes nodded and, permission received, Watson advanced.
"I have been afraid, nearly since the day we met, that your world would entangle me beyond hope of freedom. That I would be snared by your awful net of the macabre and the deranged. My choices are my own, and I take responsibility for my part in what has been between us, the work and the adventure and whatever else we might have had." John looked wistful for a moment, before brushing the emotion visibly from his face. "I don't want to become you, Sherlock."
"Are you certain?" Holmes asked jovially, masking his hurt, "I'm told I'm the envy of many a man down at the Yard."
Watson shook his head. "This is serious, Holmes. I don't want to be like you, angry and fretful and alone."
Holmes seemed to come alive at the words, his eyes making contact with John's for the first time since the doctor had entered the room. "I wasn't alone. Not until your little bird-not until Mary," he amended in response to John's glare. "I had an invaluable companion before Mary."
John sighed, exasperated. "Can't you see it's not Mary you've lost me to?"
"I beg very much to differ." Sherlock crossed his arms in a huff, turning to face away from the doctor.
John grabbed him by the shoulder, using a gentle pull to turn the detective back to face him. John hadn't realized until that moment how close they had been standing as they exchanged their words. Not until he reached out to touch the other man did John notice how intensely close they had become, barely inches from one another. "You lost me to the fear of losing me," John whispered, looking deeply into Sherlock's eyes.
The doctor wouldn't say later, couldn't say with any believable accuracy, who had made the first move, but suddenly they had fallen together once more, their lips meeting passionately. John had known that this could happen when he chose to approach Sherlock. The closeness, the smell of him, chemicals and sweat, the glint in his eye, it was over-powering.
Holmes, with his accuracy of observation and swiftness of mind, would say that it had been Watson, raising his hand to cup gently the other man's cheek and draw him in. But perhaps it had been Holmes himself, licking gently at his lips as he gazed into John's eyes. The two came together in an intense embrace.
Where before their kiss, their shared touch, had been full of the fire of feelings and the charge of conflict, now there was only the deep hunger of a hundred unanswered gazes, a thousand charged moments. A hunger that had been denied long enough.
Objects crashed to the floor as John moved Sherlock back against his desk. The doctor kept his position of power, bending the detective back over the furniture, taking him by the back of his head and exploring his mouth. The tension, that new and wonderful feeling had returned to his trousers, and it was only a moment before his belt was flung across the room and his pants pooled around his ankles.
Baring his throbbing erection, John yanked at Sherlock's waist coat, stripping him to his shirtsleeves, then ripping the buttons from the shirt beneath. Sherlock's skin was hot under John's lips as he kissed, licked and bit his way across the detective's chest. It was only a moment more before Sherlock's trousers had joined John's on the floor, his knickers cast indelicately over John's shoulder.
And the rest was a memory of white-hot passion and connection, until John woke, sticky and spent, in a bed Sherlock had been hiding behind a curtain that John had mistaken for a wall. He woke with his head nestled under Sherlock's arm, Holmes's heartbeat filling his ear. And for the first time since he had come home from the war, Watson was truly, blissfully, perfectly happy.
Let me know what you think of the story! If it gets a few new reviews, I might write another chapter.