It's Okay With Him pt.2

Author's Note(s): So my Watson and isflamma both requested I write more. So, instead of doing German work . .. uh. Here's chapter two!

Disclaimer: You know the spiel. I don't own Holmes or Watson (because if I did, those books would have some yummy smut XD)—they belong to each—I mean. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Gunna go ahead and say I didn't really plan on continuing this, originally, so I have no idea where I'm going with this! But. . . I really like writing as Holmes.

The detective could swear John's scent on the jacket had mysteriously become thicker, stronger. Doctor John Watson had always had a distinct scent—one of cleanliness, as though fresh out of the bath, and cologne. Not the cheap kind, either, but something nice and light. Holmes had secretly taken great comfort in his former companion's scent. It was soothing on many levels, and he found it easy to focus on that scent alone—one of the few times when he managed to block out the rest of the world.

That had always been a difficult feat for him. Well, maybe not difficult, but it was quite distracting. He could pinpoint random sounds, thoughts rushed through his head like a fierce storm. And it often led to being distracted when he was addressed, though he caught bits and pieces of what was said. But Watson's scent had the ability to catch his attention, and he could focus his thoughts on the good doctor.

Holmes couldn't deny that he had particularly enjoyed when Watson would come up to the study and call his name multiple times—Sure, the detective heard, but never answered, his mind somewhere else, working on something, deep in thought. And so Watson would come to him and again, demand the detective's attention, which he could not help but to give. And finally he'd look up---

The detective stirred from his slumber. His arms, he realized, were no longer just around Watson's good jacket but something far more solid—Dark eyes snapped open and he pulled back swiftly, as though startled. This motion woke the doctor who'd been dozing lightly. And then there was an awkward silence*as their eyes met and neither of them said a word, and what could be said? 'I missed you'? 'Are you back for good?' 'What do you want?' Silence reigned until Watson broke it with a chuckle.

"What were you dreaming about, old boy?" He asked softly and he could've sworn the detective blushed and fidgeted slightly before he looked away and shook his head.

"Nothing of consequence," Holmes replied quickly, rising and trying to discreetly stash away the doctor's jacket.

"Don't try it, Holmes." Watson's voice was stern and Holmes knew he'd been caught but he didn't mind playing still and the genius laughed.

"Try what, my dear Watson?" A challenge, it glinted in his eyes and Watson would've been lying had he said he'd not missed that. It felt like it had been far too long since he'd been here, a place he still considered home, if only because here was where he was and Watson. . . Well, Watson felt as though he belonged beside the detective.

"My coat, Holmes, I'd like it back." Rising, the doctor held out a hand. And dark eyes just watched him, something odd—oh. The cold demeanor had broken away and the detective was actually . . . happy? Yes, that was happiness in those eyes, John could tell, and the genius was happy to see him. The good doctor was delighted, deep in his heart, to see that his return—albeit momentary—had brought something to those dark eyes.

Holmes quickly tossed the doctor's coat into a pile, where it would remain lost to Watson. He smirked and Watson rolled his eyes, sitting in the chair. His leg was irritated from his little nap on the floor. Clear blue eyes watched the detective quietly—Holmes had made his way to the window and was peeking through a curtain at the outside world. . .And he was very sure the elder's attention was lost from him. Watson frowned deeply.

"Holmes."

. . .

No answer.

Well, Watson couldn't say he was particularly surprised. Holmes's attention was everywhere at once, it was no wonder the man seemed to be neurotic. He rose slowly, well aware of the dull throb that had begun in his leg, and carefully made his way to the other man's side, leaning on his cane a little more than usual.

"Holmes." He was beside the detective now and still there was no answer. A hand grasped onto the elder's shoulder and Holmes's attention finally snapped to Watson. "How long have you been cooped up in here?"

"I was just out of here the other day."

"Oh?"

"Yes, in the bath."

Watson refrained from rolling his eyes again. That wasn't what he meant. Holmes knew it. Holmes. . .was upset. Well, that wasn't a surprise, as Holmes never did seem to get over him leaving. This, of course, made Watson wonder—he was fairly certain Holmes valued his friendship, but with the way the detective was acting, the doctor wasn't sure that it was just a brotherly bond that Holmes felt. And when he thought like that, it made his heart start to race—

"I mean outside. In the real world, Holmes. You know it's not healthy for to keep to yourself in this place. . ." Watson sounded worried, Holmes noted. But the genius shook his head.

"There's nothing for me—"

"Out there. Yes, I know, you. . .always say that. But Holmes, please."

The elder wasn't sure whether or not he should be insulted. Watson knew him well enough to finish his sentence, saying he always said that—did he always? Hm, that sounded odd. But the detective shook his head and turned his face back towards the window.

You don't understand, dear John—hm, it's going to be raining all day—and I simply cannot tell you. This isn't as simple as a case, old boy—that child is quite the pick-pocket—it registers on a completely different level than anything else. . .

Watson frowned. He'd come out to talk to Holmes and now the detective was brushing him off. He shook his head and turned away, limping towards the door.

"John—"

Holmes's voice was so soft, Watson wasn't sure he'd heard it. But the detective never called him by name and it sent a shudder down his spine. He stopped in his tracks. If he went back to Holmes's side now, there was no telling what would happen. . .but if he left, there would be so much unsaid. . . But all at once, his body was making the decision for him, and he was turning around to find Holmes staring at him, and the detective seemed relieved to see him turn around. . .

And before anything was said, Watson was suddenly aware of how lonely Holmes had been, and how lonely he had been, himself, without his detective.

HNG. Done. XD Hope you enjoyed it! –dies-

*SHAMELESS PLUG: Awkward, like the band! Myspace (dot) com (backslash) theaquards

-R.M.