Watson woke to the smell of pipe smoke and a pounding headache. There was a steady stream of traffic on the street below, from the sound of it -every rattling carriage that passed seemed to be running over his very nerves- but there was no sign of Holmes. He sat up and was startled when something slid to the floor. It was a key, he recognized as he picked it up, but to what he couldn't imagine. He needed to do something about his headache first.
Once he'd taken something and had a cup of tea, he considered the key. It wasn't for their outer door, nor for the bathroom (that lock was still broken, anyway), nor for his bedroom. Which left Holmes' bedroom, the key being too large to be intended for anything but a door. Holmes' bedroom door was slightly ajar and Holmes was sleeping, sprawled on his bed atop the bedclothes, still fully dressed.
Watson shook his head with fond exasperation and slipped into Holmes' room, pulling off Holmes' boots and covering him with a blanket. In ordinary circumstances he would've tried to divest Holmes of some of his clothing for comfort's sake, but given their conversation he didn't want to appear presumptuous. The last thing he wanted was to startle Holmes with the intensity of his feelings -it was obvious Holmes was still struggling to fathom his own.
On the other hand, if he behaved differently than his norm, Holmes might interpret it in a negative light and make assumptions that simply were not the case (Holmes may argue that he makes 'inferences' not 'assumptions', but Watson knew the result could be equally wrong no matter what he called it). Watson dithered for a moment, idly playing with the key he'd slipped into his pocket, and decided that continuing in his usual behavior was safest and least likely to lead to misunderstanding. So Watson carefully removed Holmes' coat and waistcoat and settled the blanket over him once again.
Satisfied, Watson left Holmes to sleep. He left the door slightly ajar the way he'd found it, and went upstairs to change his clothes.
Watson let Holmes sleep until Mrs. Hudson brought up a late lunch (at Watson's request). It was difficult to resist the temptation to kiss Holmes awake, but he resisted and shook his shoulder instead. Holmes woke fairly quickly, though it took him a moment to gather his wits.
"I let you sleep through breakfast, so now I'm waking you for lunch," Watson supplied helpfully while Holmes groggily regarded him and the room around them.
"How is your head?" Holmes asked, watching Watson's face keenly.
"Aching, but I shall be fine."
"No lingering effects?" Holmes prodded.
"No, no lingering effects," Watson assured him. Holmes didn't appear convinced. "I spent the morning working on my notes, writing a few letters, reading the paper, and spending some time with a novel. Now are you satisfied?"
"And you went upstairs to change."
"Yes, I also went upstairs to change," Watson confirmed, slightly exasperated with Holmes' persistence on the subject. Holmes' worry was understandable, but his refusal to believe that Watson was all right was frustrating. "Now sit up and I'll bring the lunch tray in."
The tray was set over Holmes' lap and Watson sat on the edge of the bed next to Holmes. Though it was a light lunch, Watson was expecting to have to force Holmes to eat his share, but the exasperating man put up no complaint whatsoever. Watson decided not to voice his surprise as it wouldn't help the awkwardness between them, and brought up a more neutral subject. "Will we be attempting to finish the case from yesterday?"
"No," Holmes answered shortly, stabbing his roast beef as if it had personally offended him. "I wrote to Mycroft while you were sleeping and told him to use his own staff for such pursuits, particularly if he doesn't want the official forces involved. I expect I shall receive a response by the end of the day that attempts to convince me otherwise."
"I see. Would you like to see the morning's correspondence and papers, then?"
Holmes paused, glancing quickly at Watson and looking away immediately when he saw Watson was watching him. "No, not yet," he said softly, but offered no explanation. He put down his silverware shortly afterward and gazed vacantly toward his window.
"Are you finished?" Watson asked. Holmes nodded once. Watson moved to pick up the tray, but hesitated. "Would you mind telling me why I have your bedroom key?"
Holmes' cheeks flushed. "It was . . . a gesture of sorts," he confessed, meeting Watson's gaze briefly before looking away again. "I . . . it is difficult to explain."
Watson set a hand on Holmes' knee briefly as he said, "I think I understand." He stood and lifted the tray. "Holmes, I-" he started, then floundered, and stared down at the jumble of dirty dishes for a moment to get his bearings. "I just want you to know I have no expectations. We can remain as we have been, if that's what you prefer. Whatever you're comfortable with, I am prepared to follow your lead." As always, he supplied in his head.
He tried to hurry out of the room, blushing furiously, but was stopped by Holmes' gentle call, "Watson." Watson half-turned; Holmes was smiling slightly. "Thank you."
Watson nodded awkwardly, and made his escape. Once Mrs. Hudson had departed with the tray (leaving a pot of tea, the dear woman), Watson settled in his armchair and tried to focus on the novel he'd been reading earlier.
He must've dozed off, for he woke with a crick in his neck and his closed book sitting on his knee. Holmes was sitting in his own armchair, smoking and reading an evening paper, his hair wet and slightly curling -he must have taken a bath. Watson hadn't expected Holmes to emerge from his bedroom until tomorrow at least, so to see him clean and calmly sitting in his chair was a bit of a shock.
"We can ring for dinner whenever you're ready," Holmes said from behind his paper as he turned a page.
Watson didn't even bother asking how Holmes knew he was awake. The change in his breathing, no doubt, or the rustle of his clothing as he shifted and tried to work the crick out of his neck. "I'll just be a minute, if you'd like to go ahead and let Mrs. Hudson know we're ready."
Holmes folded the paper and rose, then opened the door and yelled down to Mrs. Hudson. Watson tried to shake his head, but had to stop mid-motion when a stab of pain convinced him the movement was unwise. He rubbed ineffectually at the cramped muscles until he felt Holmes' hands on his shoulders. "Holmes? What-"
"Let me help," Holmes said, leaning over the back of Watson's chair to speak near his ear. As soon as Watson moved his hand, Holmes began gently digging into the tense muscles, slowly working inward toward the neck. Watson relaxed and sighed deeply as those clever fingers found knots he didn't know he'd had. He let his head droop forward and spared only a brief thought to wonder why Holmes was doing this.
Then Holmes' questing fingers reached his neck and grew more tentative, probing until Watson gasped sharply as Holmes found the sore area. Holmes studiously avoided that area, carefully working around it to soothe and relax and succeeding to the point that the pain was reduced to a twinge by the time he next ventured over the spot. Now he massaged the length of Watson's neck, sweeping up into the hair at his nape and down under the edge of Watson's loosened collar until Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and he moved to answer it.
"Thank you," Watson said quietly before Holmes reached the door. Holmes tipped his head in acknowledgement and let Mrs. Hudson in with their dinner.
The meal was a comfortable affair, lacking the awkwardness of lunch. Holmes couldn't remember afterward precisely what it was they had -something pork, perhaps- but he could clearly call to mind how Watson looked during their easy conversation and he wondered if Watson had any idea how . . . alluring he could be. His clothing was rumpled from sleeping in his chair, his hair was slightly mussed, his manner was more relaxed than it had been in days, and he smiled often. He was truly irresistible.
Holmes had an overwhelming urge to touch him. He slid one foot toward Watson until he found one of Watson's feet and left it pressed up against Watson's foot. But that wasn't enough. Carefully he drew his foot from his slipper and stroked Watson's anklebone with his instep, going so far as to insinuate his toes under the pantcuff.
Watson's expression betrayed no surprise. Instead, he raised one eyebrow and quirked a small smile. Holmes had a bit of difficulty hiding his own reaction when Watson began retaliating in kind; he'd never suspected the full erotic potential of a foot caressing a leg through clothing. He rubbed his foot up Watson's shin one more time, then returned his foot to its slipper and continued in the pretense that nothing had occurred.
They remained at the table long after having finished eating, lingering over the last of the wine. Once finished with his glass, Holmes sat and tried not to stare at Watson as he talked animatedly about something; Holmes had stopped paying attention to his words long ago, content to watch Watson's face, his eyes often lingering on Watson's mouth. At length Watson's mouth stopped moving abruptly, and Watson's hand strayed across the table to touch his. "You look tired. Why don't you turn in?" Watson said.
Holmes considered this a moment -it did not escape his notice that Watson's hand was still on his- and recognized weariness beneath his contentment with the evening. "You're quite right," he said, "I believe I shall retire." He left his hand beneath Watson's for as long as he could when he stood; Watson stood also. Holmes took a step toward Watson then hesitated for a moment. "Good night, Watson," he murmured, then leaned in and kissed him.
Well, he tried to kiss him. His aim was slightly off and his upper lip ended up mostly caressing mustache -a rather tickling endeavor- but Watson didn't seem to mind and shifted his mouth beneath Holmes' to line them up better. Holmes tried to observe what Watson was doing that made this simple pressing of mouths feel so thrilling, but his mind was too caught up in sensation to catalog the individual small motions. It was a wonder that he was so overwhelmed when only their mouths were touching.
Holmes pulled away, his breathing somewhat labored. "Good night, Watson," he repeated.
"Good night, Holmes," Watson said with a fond smile.
Holmes had a hard time falling asleep, but when he did, he dreamt of Watson. Of kissing him, of touching him, of lying with him pressed skin to skin . . . He was rather chagrined when he woke up to find that, not only did he have a mid-night release that soiled his nightshirt and his sheets, he was mostly hard again. Such a thing had not happened to him since he was in the throes of puberty. So he did the only thing he could do: took off the nightshirt, thought of Watson, and stroked himself to completion, using the nightshirt to capture his release.
