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~10~

It was quite a quick matter, although it felt as if time itself had slowed down by a considerable amount. The sex thing as a whole was a rather different sensation for Sherlock Holmes. It was rather hard for him to focus on one thing when so many had been placed before him and in the process he gained a slight headache. He'd need a way to switch off. But that nagging in his head was numbed by Watson's warm arm around him and a soft hand stroking through his hair. One thing nagged more now.
"I could really do with a smoke."

Eyes half closed, Watson reached for his own cigarette case; intending to smoke one for himself too. Usually, he would have laughed at such an ill-timed remark this one, but not now. He was too tired, and too much in love. There were so many thoughts racing through his head; too many questions left unanswered. Suddenly he felt a hand, gently gliding over his wounds. First the shoulder, then down to the chest, where the two more recent injuries were set. He closed his eyes fully.

With his other hand, Holmes reached out for the cigarette case, taking it from Watson. "Your scars are beautiful." He muttered, retrieving two cigarettes for them both, placing one between the doctor's lips.

Watson opened an eye and cocked his head. "You think so? You would be the first person to say that…" He said, having taken the cigarette from his mouth.

"I doubt many people have seen them. That is unless you have been running shirtless down the street without me knowing." Holmes smiled and placed his own cigarette in his mouth. "Matches."

While he sent out his hand to hunt for the required object, Watson answered, "Yes. But there were people; mostly women, and other doctors who have seen them. None of the first mentioned persons ever said something like this to me." he paused and lit both their cigarettes. "I-I suppose, this in one of the many reasons, why I love you so much, Holmes."

"When you say mostly women…" Holmes paused to take a drag of his cigarette. "You gained your scar just before we met… By a couple of months at least. How many women did you have sex with while we have been living together?"

Watson froze. Over the growing love to his flat mate, and all the other recent events, he had forgotten completely. There were Sarah, Zylphia and…Mary. Yes. Mary had been the only one with real chances; there even were times when he thought about marrying her, but as if by accident, Holmes had always crossed his marrying-plans somehow.

"Three. I think… Yes, I'm sure now, that it was three. I hope you do not mind?"

Holmes shook his head. "Hardly. I just wondered. And why should it matter at all? It was in the past, you were lonely, looking for love; A life long companion. I can hardly blame you."

Suddenly it dawned on him. It was publicly known, that Sherlock Holmes, did not concern himself with such things as feelings, but now, Watson was not so sure anymore, if that was actually true. He turned, and faced the detective. "And what about you, dear? There must have been someonebefore me. There is no one who does not care about love."

Holmes sighed and turned to tap the ash from his cigarette on the bedside table. "There was the one time, in university…"

Watson nodded. "It did not work out then… Between you and her? Well, I am sorry." he exhaled, elegantly blowing the blue smoke towards the high ceiling. "But then again, I'm grateful for it." he smiled sweetly, stroking Holmes' chest

Holmes looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think it was a women?" He asked, filling his lungs again.

Watson was stunned. Indeed. Why hadn't he thought about this earlier? Holmes' aversion against women; the way he spoke of the other sex. The fact that he never had any kind of relationships with women. It should have told him all. He should have known it; because Holmes always watched him. Kept him safe. Cared about him. And only him. He should have deduced.

But then again, what did it matter now? They were together, and this was all he wanted for now. Yes, it seemed to him, that, if one could ever gain the love of Sherlock Holmes; one had the best and fairest love that could be given.

Holmes waved a hand in front of Watson's face. "Hello? Is John in? Still with me my man? You seem to have slipped into some reviere…"

Watson shook his head and smiled timidly. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I just thought about…well, about us. And-" he stretched himself and yawned. "And, I am terribly tired now. Let us go to sleep. You will stay here for the night, I take it?"

Holmes shrugged. "I am warm and my bed will be cold. I suppose I can stay here tonight…" He said curling closer to Watson. "I do not think you will have a nightmare. You flail and kick about awfully when you do and I do not fancy waking up on the floor."

Unfortunately, he had not heard so much as a word of what Holmes had said, for John Watson was already asleep.

Holmes sighed and smiled at the man lay beside. He stroked his hair, then his neck. How nice it was to have such contact with a another human. Holmes closed his eyes, pulling the sheets tighter around him, not long would he too fall sleep.

Watson was awoken by sunlight, birdsong, and the faint snoring of the other man is his bed. He rubbed his eyes. Sleeping in one bed with Holmes was something he would have to get used to. It was nice, cosy, warm and beautiful to wake up next to him.

"Speaking of beautiful…" Watson thought, and gently stroked the hair out of his-yes, it was accurate now- his sleeping lover's face.

Holmes shuffled a little to Watson's movements, not waking. Both his arms were tucked into Watson's side and to his own chest and his breath was warm on John's shoulder.

"But-but Holmes! What if Mrs Hudson-"

Holmes groaned and shot out an arm to grab Watson as he attempted to leave. "Don't move. You're warm and I'm tired." He muttered, his voice full of sleep and his eyes still closed.

"We'll be in serious trouble, if she finds out, man!" Watson still whispered. He didn't know himself why.

"I do not care right at this moment." Holmes opened his eyes and frowned. "What time is it? If it is six, I am going back to sleep."

"It is half past seven." Watson paused. "I think half an hour wouldn't hurt." he then said, curling up next to Holmes again.

"Good. Mrs Hudson does not usually bring breakfast until eight thirty." Holmes muttered as he brushed his face free of hair. "Did you sleep alright?"

Watson yawned noisily. "Yes. Yes I did indeed. Did you also sleep as well as I? Did you have enough space to your own?"

Holmes nodded. "Yes, yes… Plenty." He smiled before closing his eyes again.

"You are so beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?" Watson mused, looking intensely at his friend, tracing the back of Holmes' eagle beak-like nose with his finger.

Holmes frowned. "Until now, no. However, I have read how you have described me in the past and I have seen how I've been illustrated by Mr Paget. I don't know which is worse…"

"You of all people should know that my view of you has changed completely. And as to the illustrations…I am sorry, Holmes." Watson smiled, and then shrugged, busying himself with stroking Holmes' naked chest.
"We, that mean, Conan Doyle and I, are already looking for another one, but there seems to be nobody else who wants to do it for a reasonable price."

"Watson, I know you love Paget's drawings. The one he did of us by the fire is in your drawer. You have no photograph of either of us and how else are e immortalized?"

Watson laughed. "We? No, no, no, Holmes. You alone will be the one who will be remembered. People will forget about me, as soon as I lose the ability to write, my dear chap. But you…your unique manners, and your sharp mind, will never be forgotten. Believe me.", he kissed Holmes on the lips.

"I shan't let you be forgotten. If it were not for you, I would not even be known."

"Yes, you would." Watson dug his face into Holmes' neck. "Certainly, you would."
There was a long silence after that. They both silently enjoyed the time they had together; and the golden sunlight, which filled the room through the blinds. "Let us go for a picnic, when all is over. Let us just spend some time in the countryside…only us. Nobody else who could spoil our time together."

"That sounds rather… Romantic." Holmes said. "Do you think it suits us? Romantic…" He repeated the word several times. "It sounds strange."

Watson wriggled a bit and then looked at his watch. "Perhaps you are right. Breakfast would be a splendid thing to have right now!"

Holmes tutted and rubbed his hands over his face. "I suppose we should get up…" He moaned.

Watson did as he was told, but before Holmes could take it, John had an idea. "Shall I help you with those annoying buttons, Holmes?" he asked in a quite sly tone.

"If it is on the table. Pass me my shirt."

One by one, Watson closed the white buttons of his companion's shirt. Teasingly slowly, he pushed them into their holes.

"Now it's your turn." he declared.

Holmes frowned at him, opening his mouth to object before he realised the romance behind the gesture. "Please. I do struggle with the buttons."

Feeling a mixture of shame and alarm, he touched his neck. But then he burst into laughter.
"I think we probably should not have been that passionate. But now you mention it, you too should hide…the stains."

Holmes tutted and held out his hand. "Alright, you can get the shirt. And I suggest you have a high collar. Your neck is awfully purple." He grinned.

The procedure went on like this, until they both were fully clothed; probably neater than they had never been before.
The only thing that was still missing on either one, were their watches. They still lay on the bedside table; their chains entwined, like the fingers of their owners as they now sat on the bed, listening to the frail ticking of the mechanisms inside the little metal houses.

Holmes shot him a glare and crossed his arms. "Trousers. Now."

"Not until eleven, dear." Watson flinched. "Happens always happens to me when I say that, it does not feel right. How strange a feeling…" Watson stood up, without letting go of Holmes' hand. "I think it's best if you joined me in four or five minutes in the sitting room."

Holmes looked down at the hands, his head tilting to one side. "We… We ought to go down to breakfast. Haven't you got a round today?"

The four minutes turned into five, and the five turned into ten. Finally, after twelve minutes exactly, Watson heard the door open and watched his friend enter the room. Now he was freshly combed and shaved, the looked even more dashing. Watson regarded his friend with dreamy eyes.

Holmes nodded. "I need to shave anyway." He ran a hand across his chin and frowned before standing up.

Watson shook his head, trying to rid himself of his daydreams.
"Well, I will, after breakfast. I have waited for you, you see. Even if you do not intend to eat today, I still enjoy your company while taking in my own meal. Besides, is there any news of the McLeod killings? Any trace of the murderer?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at him as he slouched down in his chair. "What?" He asked, picking up one of the three papers Mrs Hudson had left him. "I have only have and tidied my hair up. Something I suggest you do too."

The next day, proved him right, like so often. After another night together, both men went separately down to the breakfast table. Holmes had gone first, so Watson was not surprised when he found him in the living room. What did arouse his curiosity though, was the fact that he was pacing up and down the room, like an animal whose cage was too small; the newspaper, crumpled in his clenched fist and fury in his eyes. "Good heavens, Holmes! What is the matter?" Watson exclaimed.

Holmes shook his head and hissed. He himself had no answers. "I thought our killer would go after Mr McLeod and that would be the end of it but she has not. It must be something to do with McLeod…"

Watson looked up from the note, with disbelief when he had finished reading.
"Another murder…this time the victim was a woman from…Limehouse?
Why Limehouse, Holmes?"
he was too confused to ask any proper question.

"She what, Watson?" Holmes snapped, getting up again. "Was she and McLeod once in talk of marriage? Did he take something from her? Is that why she turned to the Lord?" He muttered to himself, leaping to his desk, sitting himself down and pulling a couple of sheets of paper and a pen to his attention

"What makes you so sure of it? She…"
suddenly the entire room was silent, except for the ticking of various clocks and watches, and the unruly tapping of what must be Holmes' shoe. "No…no…" muttered Watson like in a trance. "Could it be, Holmes, that she was once…the wife's love-affair? It is easier to do such things when you are young…and it's almost what could be called normal between girls…"

Holmes suddenly stopped his scribbling and looked up, his lips formed a slight 'oh' and one eyebrow raised. "I love it when you are clever." He muttered, returning to his jotting of notes.

Watson couldn't help but blush.
"Ohhh…ugh-thank you, Holmes", he said, pretending to remain calm, while internally he felt like a child, whose teacher had just presented one of its works in class.
"So…what are we to do now, my friend?"

"Well, I am going to send a telegram to Lestrade and ask him for the details and we are going to figure out where (Place the name of the murderer here, I forgot what I called her) is heading next. Once I have the name of the victim, I can get McLeod to talk and explain what the connections are and settle this thing once and for all. The only good thing this case has brought us is unity."

It was not even an hour, when the answer to the telegram came: in shape of Inspector Lestrade himself. The doorbell rang shortly, and Mrs. Hudson guided the ferret-faced man upstairs.
"Good morning gentlemen! Here we are again, Mr. Holmes, here we are again."
"Oh, good morning! Please do sit down Inspector. Will you have a cup of tea with us?" asked the doctor, according to the etiquette.

Holmes stood up and presented the Inspector with the paper he had been writing on. "Here. I have made a few links to the murders. Please, feel free to add your own and to tuck into breakfast. I am in no mood to eat… Plus you must be famished!" Holmes said, disappearing off to his room.

There was nothing left for the two, what Holmes would doubtless call "ordinary" men, but to stare at each other in amazement.
"Whatever that was good for. After all he was the one who ordered me to tell him all I know. But God knows, it's better than being snarled at by this man. Don't you get me wrong, doctor, I admire him as much as any man, but I sometimes can't understand what is going on in this singular head of his…" to mark the end of his little speech, the Yarder tutted.
"Well…" answered Watson. "I think I begin to see through him, but you are right, Inspector…it is very difficult to handle him. But then again, that is what makes him who he is, I suppose."
Both men chuckled, before turning serious again.
"Would you be so kind as to let me know what you have found out about this recent murder in Limehouse so far? I guess Holmes is listening to every word that is spoken in this room right now. And if he is not, I can tell him what you will tell me now, afterwards. He trusts me enough to do so." Watson helped Lestrade to a large cup of delicious tea with milk, and a fresh scone.

There was a 'ha!' from the direction of Holmes' room and he poked his head round the door. "Yes, do explain Lestrade or you may have another murder on your head. It is your fault the women is back on the streets, not mine…" He scorned before disappearing. "I want every detail." He called back.

The Inspector took a deep breath. "As you say Holmes!" he cried louder than truly necessary. "Well…the Constable who is responsible for this area found her on his round. He was first alarmed by blood on the door-handle of an OPEN door. You perhaps know the area better than me, Holmes…from one of your…" he cleared his throat "INVESTIGATIONS… so you might be aware of the fact that open doors in Limehouse…never happen, except for in opium-dens or brothels. This place was neither. It is a house, where workers and poor families live. As it happens, the victim was not even a prostitute! Constable Finnegan told me her name just before I left for Baker Street; some people around the area were able to identify her as a Kristina McMillian; a common flower girl."