Prompt: Why does Mrs. Hudson put up with Holmes' antics? (trustingHim17)
Holmes and I remained in the parlour with Inspector Lestrade for but a brief while, before at last bidding him good night and retiring to our rooms at the inn. The night was not yet old, but I could see from the stiffness in Holmes's step as we retreated down the hall that his injury still pained him and made him weary.
Our rooms were simple, but comfortably adorned, with a fire in the hearth and a pair of beds which would more than suit our needs. The young maid had departed with a curtsy and I turned the key in the lock behind her to grant us a measure of privacy. Only then did I regard Holmes, who stood in the middle of the room, stretching his limber back with a tired groan.
"How does it feel?" I asked, though I had already drawn some conclusions of my own.
"You might as well see for yourself, Doctor," Holmes said with a wry smile.
He slid his suit jacket off his shoulders to pool on the ground at his feet and then moved on to his waistcoat, his keen eyes affixed on mine all the while. I took off my own jacket and rolled up my shirtsleeves, and then crossed the room to him as he shrugged off his undershirt, to reveal the lean figure underneath.
As a doctor, I catalogued the bright bruises amidst the faded impressions of countless past injuries, long since healed. There was one purple mark on his wrist, and long dark swathes along his side, creeping up from beneath his trousers. I gently pressed the smooth, soft skin, searching for any evidence of broken bones—his bones were always too prominent—but it was as I had already concluded; only superficial aches and tender skin.
My inspection was interrupted by Holmes's long, nimble fingers cupping my chin, lifting it so that my eyes met his. My hand lingered at his back, and I shifted it away from his bruised side to wrap around his waist as we drew together in a passionate kiss, his lips soft and eager against my own.
We parted with wide eyes and pounding hearts.
"Sherlock, you know we should not," I cautioned.
"No," he acknowledged, stretching out his back again from bending over to meet my lips, "I fear there would be open rebellion from my bruised and battered side, but there is little harm in flirtation until we are back in the safety of our humble flat."
He caressed my cheek and pressed his lips to mine once more, and I responded warmly in kind. Even as we separated, I held him near, my fingers tangled in the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, and he rested his forehead against mine; our breaths mingled together.
"It is truly a wonder that Mrs. Hudson puts up with us," I remarked.
Holmes caught my gaze and held it, so that I would not have dreamed of looking away. "John, I expect that is not what has been troubling you?"
"No, but perhaps we have both become complacent," I said with a smile to belay his concerns.
"We are discretion itself," Holmes insisted, "or so we ought to be with so many years of practice."
"If this is discretion, I should like to know what is not," I said, before kissing him again.