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Fic: Solider's Heart Part 10 of 15
Title: Soldier's Heart Part 10
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear
Author's notes: Thanks always forenkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .
Breakfast became a shortened affair after that, both men still flushed with the embarrassment of Mrs. Everman’s pronouncement and the knowledge that before lunch the whole of the staff would know about their relationship. Escape seemed the better part of valor, and so they had hastily finished their plates, collected Gladstone, and set out to enjoy the fresh air and privacy.
They walked companionably arm in arm, as was their habit, Gladstone ambling along happily beside them. For nearly an hour they did not speak, each lost in their own thoughts and the quiet of the countryside.
Holmes, who knew the land about the estate as well as any London street, allowed instinct to guide him, his mind too preoccupied to pay proper attention to his surroundings.
So many times the two of them had walked thus, shoulders brushing, arms entwined, that the change in their relationship added a surreal sense to what should have been commonplace.
Now, when Watson’s fingers brushed his thigh, or a hand was gently laid upon his own, it was not mere friendship which precipitated the action. A touch which only days before had elicited nothing stronger than a warm sense of belonging in his chest suddenly had his heart beating furiously, his loins tightening with want, and his palms sweating.
He sighed, deeply, and tried once more to rein in the burning desire to simply drop the both of them to the ground and rut like an animal. The very idea at once excited and repulsed him, his flesh longing for Watson’s body, while his mind rebelled at the thought of them doing any such thing.
It was slowly driving him insane!
“Holmes?” Watson asked softly, finally breaking the silence between them, his eyes taking in his friend’s flushed face, his furrowed brow and his slightly trembling limbs. So much had happened between them in such a short period of time that they had not considered ramifications or consequences. Or regrets.
The last thought had Watson tightening his fingers about Holmes’ hand, and they came to a stop beneath a giant oak, the massive tree trunk rising from a bed of spongy moss and ivy.
“What’s wrong, old boy?” the doctor asked hesitantly, uncertain if he could bear the thought of Holmes voicing any regret for what now lay between them.
“I - I have never been in love before, Watson,” Holmes murmured, his gaze firmly fixed on the distant hills. He feared he would not be able to get the words out if he looked into the worried eyes of the man who had become everything to him. He did not wish to hurt, but he was certain that to let the words lie dormant would cause an even more grievous injury over time. “I find myself - uncertain - as to how I feel about it.”
Watson did not speak at this pronouncement, his endless patience once more prompting his friend to continue despite his misgivings.
“I - I have always regarded the human need for copulation as a messy, distracting affair. Even such times as when I - when I took myself in hand, it was more out of a want for distraction than any real bodily desire.” The words were spoken haltingly, as though forced out against his will, and he was flushed with embarrassment. “You have heard my thoughts against the softer emotions and how they serve me no use. And yet…”
Finally, Holmes turned his troubled gaze to Watson, taking in his concerned blue eyes, the mustache trimmed with military precision, the permanently sun-bleached hair and browned skin. He could not help the hand that rose and caressed the other man’s cheek, nor could he stop the treacherous waver which seemed to shake his entire frame.
“And yet, I want nothing more than to compose a sonnet to your astonishing character, to kiss every inch of your flesh and know your body as intimately as I know mine. I do not know what to do with these feelings, Watson!”
This last declaration was said with so much frustration and despair that Watson could do nothing else save gather his friend in his arms and hold him tightly, Holmes head resting on his scarred shoulder, dark hair tickling the skin of his neck above his collar.
“This is how love is,” Watson whispered into a finely sculpted ear, running his hand over Holmes’ back in an effort to soothe. “You have never known such feelings because you have never allowed yourself to. And now that the floodgate has been opened, it is only natural that it feels overwhelming. I assure you, Holmes,” he added fiercely, “the sentiment is more than shared.”
Watson felt the other take a deep, shuddering breath before moving back a step, gazing intently into his face, as though seeking assurance.
“You feel this way as well?” Holmes asked, his expression and next words conveying his disbelief. “You, who have loved on three continents and been married?”
“Yes!” Watson assured steadily, moving his hands to either side of Holmes’ neck, cupping his jaw with his thumbs as he stared deeply into his eyes. “Holmes, each love is different than any other. I cared deeply for those who shared my bed with me when I was younger, and I truly loved Mary as my wife. But the love I feel for you, have always felt for you, cannot be measured in such simple terms. You are my dearest friend, my brother, my partner, and now my lover. You are everything to me, Holmes. Everything!”
“And that terrifies me,” Holmes gasped out raggedly, reaching up to cover the hands which cupped his face with his own. “Because I assure you, Watson, that without you… Without you there is nothing for me. I tried, Watson.”
Holmes’ voice broke as, finally, he allowed himself to admit a truth he had never dared acknowledge before. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away angrily as he forced himself to continue, wishing to get the confession done and over with, so Watson could cast his judgment upon him and the torture of keeping the secret would finally end.
“I ran because I loved you, and Moriarty knew. Even before I did, he knew! He threatened your life, and Mary’s, at that final battle, and when he was bested and I thought I could return to the pitiful existence which had become my days, Moran reared his despicable head. It was a mercy, Watson!” Holmes spit out, the hands against his neck tightening, though the other’s gaze did not waver, and Watson gave no other outward sign of censure.
He shifted, slightly, widening his stance as though to brace himself against the words to come, accepting of everything Holmes was offering him. And Holmes could not have stopped the words even if he had desired. The steady warmth of Watson, his solid presence, gave him the courage to continue, though his heart beat so rapidly he feared it might burst with the strain. His words were gasped out on ragged breaths, and he was clutching so hard at Watson’s wrists he knew there would be bruises later.
“It meant I could not return to London to see you living your life away from me, that I could pretend, on those quiet nights when I had nothing else, that you had not chosen another above me, and one day I might have you all to myself! I ran because I - I did not -”
He could not bear it any longer and tried to wrench himself free, eyes closed against the condemnation his friend must surely feel for him, now he knew the truth.
But Watson would not release his hold, dragging Holmes close once more, wrapping his arms around him and clutching him even as he struggled to get away, to hide his shame. Only when the iron muscles beneath his hands began to relax, and Holmes sobbing breaths had slowed to shallow, hiccuping gasps, did he loosen his embrace.
They kissed then, in the shadow of the oak with beams of sun breaking through the canopy cover and illuminating their faces in mottled shades. They kissed until they were breathless and trembling with need and everything between them had faded. Nothing else remained but warm skin and too many clothes.
“I love you,” Holmes whispered against Watson’s lips, tracing their outline with his tongue, breathing in his scent and the air which puffed against his own flesh. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
It was a manta, spoken into Watson’s cheek, his neck, his ear. Hands tangled in hair, his eyes closed against the impossible beauty of the man he loved.
“Shhhhh,” Watson soothed, over and over as Holmes’ frantic caresses slowly began to still, his breath evening out and the trembling in his limbs finally began to subside. “Hush, Holmes, hush. I know,” he murmured, running his fingers over backbone, arms, shoulders still tense with confession and fear. “I love you, you impossible man. I love you. Hush now.”
A gentle breeze ruffled their clothes, the leaves above their head. Shade and light danced around them, and finally, finally, they sunk to the soft carpet of moss, Holmes’ head resting against Watson’s breast, the steady beat of his heart a more soothing lullaby than any song a mother could sing.
As the sun made its way across the hills, Holmes succumbed to sleep at last, safe in the arms of the only man he had ever trusted with everything he possessed.
***
Watson watched over the slumbering man for close to an hour before he began to stir, his movements sluggish and languid as drowsy gray eyes opened to look up at him.
“Hello,” Watson greeted, smiling.
“Hello,” Holmes answered, his voice hoarse and filled with confusion. “You are not -”
The words trailed off, as though he could not bear to utter them.
“What?” Watson asked, stroking Holmes’ back before moving his hand to weave through the thick, black locks.
“Angry with me?” Holmes asked softly, the first, and only time, Watson had ever heard such a timid tone from the other.
An immediate answer was not what the other man wanted. Watson knew this as surely as he knew there was nothing to forgive. Perhaps, before he had seen the toll such a secret had taken on his friend, he would have once been upset over the deception. But there had been no malice in Holmes’ flight. Only the survival instinct of an animal hurt beyond its endurance to struggle anymore.
“I am not mad,” Watson finally said, gently. He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Holmes’ brow. “You did what you had to, to survive.”
When Holmes opened his mouth to protest, to remind Watson that he was not referring merely to his three year absence, Watson placed a finger against his lips.
“You did what you had to, to survive,” he repeated, willing the other to see the understanding in his eyes. “A heart can only be broken for so long without shattering, Holmes. I only wish -” Watson swallowed back his own apologies. He would not beg pardon for loving Mary, no matter how much he longed to in that moment. He would not dishonor his love for her, or her memory, that way. “I only wish that circumstances had been different.”
He waited a moment to make certain Holmes understood he meant every word he had said, smiling as the tension slowly melted from the other’s frame, leaving him limp and pliant against him. Then he ran his hand down Holmes’ arm, entwining their fingers and moving them to his mouth to kiss them slowly, sensuously. He lavished the digits with his tongue, watching as the other’s mouth parted slightly, his eyes going dark as his breathing grew heavy.
“I love you so very much, Sherlock Holmes,” Watson breathed huskily, puffs of warm air ghosting over their combined hands.
Holmes shivered at both the tone and the sensation, licking his lips as he watched Watson continue to suck on their combined fingers, his tongue swirling around knuckles before moving to press open mouthed kisses to his palm.
“I want to ravish you,” Watson continued in that same deep tone, moving slowly to reposition them so that Holmes was laying flat on his back, his head cushioned by the moss as he arched into the sensation of Watson’s roaming hand. “I want to take you in my mouth until you’re incoherent with need, and drink of your essence. I want you to touch me, and feel how much I desire you.”
As he said this last Watson moved the hand still entwined with his and placed it over the front of his trousers, where Holmes could feel the stiff outline of his manhood. When Watson untangled their fingers to allow his hand to roam over Holmes’ body, Holmes squeezed gently, feeling the turgid member twitch even through the layers of cloth.
“Yes,” Watson groaned, closing his eyes as delicate fingers moved, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence at Watson’s continued encouragement.
The doctor’s trousers were undone, his belt removed, and when his manhood was finally released it bobbed thickly in Holmes’ grasp, red with need and weeping.
“Just like that,” Watson hissed as fingers continued to stroke, alternating between gentle, feather light touches and harder caresses. “Do you - oh, God, yes! Do you want me - yes, there! To touch you?” he asked, even as his hips moved in rhythm with Holmes’ touch.
“Yes,” Holmes moaned, his voice positively indecent with need, and it took a moment of scrambling between them to get his trousers open and his own member freed from the confines of his small-clothes.
“You’re gorgeous,” Watson gasped as he watched his hand envelop the length of his lover, sensing it would not take long for either to find release. “Just like that, Holmes! God, don’t stop! Yes, yes!” he cried, fighting his own impending orgasm as he struggled to concentrate on Holmes’.
“Watson-” Holmes warned moments before he died his little death, his eyes closing in the pleasure/pain of it, his back arched, his hand clenching almost painfully around Watson’s own manhood as he cried out wordlessly.
It was not long before Watson joined him, the two men as ever in sync, even in this most intimate of ways.
***
They lay entwined beneath the giant oak for some time as Gladstone snuffled happily nearby, chasing moths when not rolling contentedly in the dirt. They did not allow themselves to doze, however, and after nearly a half hour they set themselves to rights, attempting to return their appearances to something resembling respectable.
“Mrs. Everman should have tea prepared,” Holmes murmured as he adjusted Watson’s waistcoat, tugging it slightly to remove any wrinkles. “We should head back.”
“A man could get spoiled living like this,” Watson teased, gently brushing Holmes’ hair behind his ear, smiling as he removed a bit of moss from the black locks.
“My dear Watson, however do you think Mycroft reached such a - sturdy - appearance?” Holmes answered, his own lips turned up into one of his rare, genuine smiles. “If Mrs. Everman had her way, I would be twice my weight and still considered skin and bones.”
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a few more decent meals,” Watson persisted, leaning in for a chaste kiss, their lips lingering for just a moment before they resolutely separated. “Come on. A good cup of tea sounds wonderful right about now.”
Holmes hummed his agreement and gathered up Gladstone’s leash, taking Watson’s arm as they began the long walk back. It was not until the house was in sight, however, that he spoke.
“Watson,” he began, a slight hesitation to his voice. He paused for a moment, as though uncertain if he should continue, and the reluctance was so unlike him that Watson paused, halting them both.
“What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked gently, turning slightly so he could see the other’s expression.
Holmes pursed his lips, eyes downcast as a faint blush crept across his cheeks. It was such an endearing expression Watson could not help but smile at it.
“I would never force a confidence from you,” Holmes began, keeping his glance averted. “But I find I am - my experience in certain matters is lacking. And I have noticed that yours is… not.”
“Yes,” Watson agreed, drawing the word out. He kept his tone neutral despite his growing curiosity; Holmes so seldom admitted a lack of knowledge in any area that his insecurity must have been immense to prompt him to bring up such a delicate subject. “You know I freely admit that I have enjoyed a great many experiences, Holmes.”
“Some of which were men?” Holmes asked softly, and the flush which had colored his cheeks deepened.
“Yes,” Watson admitted, coughing slightly to ease his own discomfort. He was not ashamed of any of his encounters, but to be discussing them with his best friend and extremely inexperienced lover was something he had never contemplated before. “Mostly while I was in the Army, though there were a few after.”
Holmes nodded, his lips tightening as he shifted slightly, a move that on any other would have been innocuous, but in Holmes was tantamount to wringing his hands and whimpering in distress.
“Does that bother you, Holmes?” Watson asked cautiously, moving so that he could cup his friend’s chin in his hand and force his eyes up. “That I -”
“No!” Holmes protested immediately, shaking his head in denial and dislodging Watson’s hold.
The doctor stepped back a pace, taking his cues from his friend’s body language, though his eyes remained fixed on Holmes’. He waited, knowing it would not be long before an explanation or another question was offered.
“I do not wish to offend you, Watson, not for the wide world,” Holmes murmured, crossing his arms loosely as he contemplated his feet. “But I must know - that is, I would like to know - if there is something - If you would like, or if I am not -” He stopped, closing his eyes as his lips pressed into a firm line.
“Holmes,” Watson whispered in as gentle a voice as he could muster, moving forward to cup the other’s face once more, framing his cheeks with his hands. “Are you asking me if there is something more I want from you? If what we have done so far is not enough for me?”
His eyes still focused on his feet, Holmes nodded, once, reluctantly.
Watson closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath as he considered his words very carefully. Then he leaned in and placed a tender kiss to Holmes’ forehead.
“It does not matter to me what we do,” he said finally, his lips brushing Holmes’ skin as he spoke. “If we do nothing more than what we have, or if we decide to explore other possibilities, I am happy so long as I am with you.”
He bent his head, capturing Holmes’ lips with his own until he felt the other relax into the kiss, his body un-tensing slowly. They broke apart after a moment, resting their foreheads together.
“You will teach me?” Holmes asked, still hesitant.
“You have only to ask,” Watson assured him. He waited a moment before moving away, taking Holmes’ arm in his own as he urged them once more into a slow walk. “Now, let’s go enjoy our tea and then a nap for you. It’s been a busy day.”
Holmes smiled, focusing his gaze once more forward, and placed his hand over Watson’s.
***
Mrs. Everman did indeed have their tea waiting for their return, tutting over them as she brushed off stray bits of moss they had missed and warned them to eat at least a bit of everything.
They nibbled on the sweet cakes and drank their tea slowly, passing the time in companionable silence before they retired to the library. Watson settled himself in his habitual chair by the fire, resuming his novel of the past few days, while Holmes curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a warm monstrosity of a blanket the color of peach fuzz.
When Mrs. Everman ducked her head around the door to announce that supper would be set shortly, both she and the doctor flinched back in surprise as Holmes darted upright, his breath suddenly ragged and his hand clutching his chest tightly.
“Holmes?” Watson asked cautiously, closing his book and standing slowly.
“I’m fine,” Holmes rasped, coughing deeply to clear his throat and then taking a deep breath. “Fine,” he repeated, waving away his friend’s worry and Mrs. Everman’s hovering presence.
“We’ll be in shortly,” Watson assured her softly, and she bobbed a quick acknowledgment before departing, her lips pressed into a thin line as the wrinkles around her eyes deepened.
“Come on, old boy,” Watson urged, moving to take Holmes’ arm and pull him to his feet. “Let’s go change for dinner, and then maybe a brandy before bed. You look done in.”
“I feel done in,” Holmes sighed, patting the doctor’s shoulder fondly as they headed up the stairs. “Although, I must admit that last night was probably the best sleep I’ve had for a very, very long time,” he admitted as they entered their rooms. He glanced shyly at Watson as they separated. “Thank you.”
“No thanks are needed, Holmes,” Watson assured him softly, grinning mischievously as he added., “Trust me, my friend, it was my pleasure.”
At Holmes’ blush he laughed softly, leaning in for a chaste kiss before heading to his own room to change. They left the door open between them, and only when each had been properly attired did they head down to their supper.
***
Holmes picked at his dinner that night, unable to bring himself to stomach the succulent roast and greens placed before him. His stomach felt leaden with fatigue and the lingering remnants of the nightmare which had haunted his nap, and the food tasted off in his mouth.
“Holmes?” Watson finally asked, eying the mostly full plate before him. “What’s wrong?”
“Forgive me, Watson,” Holmes sighed, finally giving up any pretense of eating and setting his fork down. “I fear I don’t have very much of a stomach tonight. No, no,” he added as Watson’s brow creased with concern and he opened his mouth to question the statement. “I think it is merely the events of the day catching up to me. Don’t worry, mother hen. I’m certain a good night’s sleep will have me feeling better in the morning.”
He smiled reassuringly, and was rewarded with a resigned grin in turn.
“Just, promise me you’ll let me know if you start to feel worse,” Watson urged wearily, and Holmes could read the effort to keep his worry from his tone. “We both of us were in that water a long time yesterday, and if you are catching cold I would like to try and stop it before it becomes something worse.”
“Of course,” Holmes agreed, and dared to reach across the table to rest his hand over the other’s, squeezing once in assurance. “I promise, if I do not feel better tomorrow, I will not hide it from you.”
“Thank you.”
Holmes watched as the doctor went back to finishing his supper and sipped delicately at his wine.
“So, tell me,” Watson prompted between one mouthful and the next, his nonchalant tone fooling neither of them, though the effort was appreciated. “When your brother visits, does Mrs. Everman ply him with as much food as she has us?”
“Oh, Watson,” Holmes laughed, taken by surprise. “Who do you think got him hooked on berry tarts and puff pastries to begin with?”
***
He did not retire to the library with Watson after dinner that night, pleading exhaustion and a slight headache as he excused himself to his room. He could read the worry in his friend’s face, the tight lines around his eyes and the frown on his lips, but Watson had merely wished him a restful night and squeezed his hand gently.
The room was very quiet when he entered, only a single candle near the bed illuminating the familiar shapes and features of the furniture. He blessed Mrs. Everman’s foresight as he maneuvered his way to the bed and his nightshirt placed enticingly upon the turned down sheets. He could not help the blush when he realized that a second nightshirt rested beneath the first, and when curiosity got the better of him and he poked his head into Watson’s room, he could only shake his head in wonderment.
The doctor’s room had been tidied, but there was no sign that anyone was expected to sleep there. The bed was as neatly made as it had been that morning, and there was no sign of Watson’s valise which held his toiletries.
“Crafty old woman,” Holmes murmured fondly as he turned back, making his way through the shadows to the water pitcher and basin near the bed to take care of his own ablutions. When he spotted Watson’s bag nestled beside the dresser, he could only shake his head and smile.
When he curled up under the blankets a few minutes later, dressed in his nightshirt and teeth brushed, he allowed the candle to continue to burn, knowing Watson would be joining him before long and not wanting his lover to stumble about in the dark.
His lover.
The thought tripped and stumbled through his brain, leaving only a confusing mix of longing, self doubt, and wonder in its path. It was an extraordinary amalgamation of feelings, and as he pulled the blankets tighter about his chin, he could only try to work his way through the dizzying labyrinth they created.
Watson loved him; he had said so earlier that day, quite passionately, and had also expressed no desire to push Holmes further in their physical intimacies than he was prepared for. This only made sense, as Holmes knew the doctor to be a man above all others in matters of patience and empathy.
But what was Holmes prepared for? How far did he wish to go with this new-found desire? Never before had he longed for another’s touch, and even now, despite the lingering ache in his head from the emotions the day had brought about, he could feel his member stiffen at the thought of Watson’s fingers upon his body.
“Damnit,” he cursed, curling his legs closer to his chest as he tucked his elbows against his ribs, one hand resting just beneath his chin.
Truly, he thought to himself in annoyance. If this was the way most people felt around someone they cared for, it was no wonder they made stupid, careless decisions. After all, he was one of the most brilliant men in all of England, possibly all of Europe, and here he was, fighting the urge to take himself in hand at the mere thought of another’s fingers around him.
“No,” he breathed, eyes staring vacantly at the wall opposite the bed as he considered. He did not want just anyone to touch him. Only Watson.
It had always been thus, he realized slowly, pursing his lips as he followed the thought. Ever since their initial meeting so many years ago, he had always allowed Watson freedoms of his person that no one, save perhaps Mycroft, had ever been permitted.
Touches to his body as injuries were treated, friendly pats on the shoulder or the knee in comfort, long strolls arm in arm. The countless nights they had been forced to huddle together while hiding in pursuit of criminals, or the beds they shared when traveling away from London. It had never once crossed Holmes’ mind to put a distance between them, to push Watson away from his physical sense as he had with nearly everyone else.
The Turkish baths!
Just the thought of their once platonic outings had Holmes curling a hand about himself in wonder, his eyes closing as he savored images of Watson from years past as they lay wrapped in towels after enjoying the ministrations of the bath attendants.
It was no wonder Moriarty had realized his feelings for the other man. The only true wonder was that he had been so blind to them himself all this time! Or perhaps not blind, he admitted as his thoughts continued to unravel.
When Watson had informed Holmes of his upcoming marriage, the feeling had been all too similar to being punched in the gut by one of his boxing opponents. The subsequent days of watching his best friend, nay, his only friend, prepare to leave him had been agonizing. He had not been able to admit it to himself then, but he knew now, looking back, that he had been just as lovesick and heart wounded as any young man seeing his love choose another.
The thought was bitter, even after four years distance. That Watson had chosen a woman, no matter how lovely and gentle, over Holmes, still had the power to burn, his stomach twisting unpleasantly as he forced himself to analyze his feelings and his actions as they had played out.
He had been hurt, yes. He had felt betrayed and had taken it out on Watson in small, petty revenges. Not answering his correspondence, neglecting to turn to him if he was injured, using the cocaine whenever he felt the urge, regardless of whether or not his friend was supposed to visit that day.
All actions that had, in the end, been meaningless, for Watson had remained as unaware of Holmes’ feelings for him as Holmes himself. And when that final confrontation with Moriarty had forced him to acknowledge certain truths…
Holmes had run.
His stomach twisted again, his desire vanished as he forced himself to continue the thought. Self deception, as he had seen time after time, aided no one, and would only lead to misunderstandings and hurt in the future. For Watson’s sake, and the sake of their friendship, he needed to follow his chain of thoughts to the end.
He forced his tensed body to relax, the hand which now cradled his flaccid member moving to rest beside the other under his chin, and he closed his eyes as he remembered.
He had run, away from Moran and those who chased him, away from London and the life he had built for himself. Away from Watson, living happily with his wife in a life that held little place for Holmes save for what the doctor allowed him. Away from the thought that his friend would start a family, would forget him, would move on in a way Holmes never could.
Away from the pain of knowing he could never have the only person he had ever loved.
He had fled, and only when news of Mary’s death had reached him had he returned. Not with the hope of achieving what they had found the past few days, he had not dared to even think such a thing. But with the desire to be with his friend again, to have him by his side, in his home, to have the two of them together as they had been for so long and should have remained if not for Watson falling in love and moving away!
“Stop it,” Holmes growled, flipping himself onto his other side and squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to calm his suddenly racing heart.
Mary was dead. She had been Watson’s love, and his friend had been forced to watch her die, slowly and painfully. It was not something he would wish on his worst enemy, the remains of which had never been found. His Watson had suffered greatly, and the past was the past.
He sighed, deliberately blowing the air from his lungs forcefully before taking a deep, slow breath. The knot in his stomach eased slightly, and he was able to put his thoughts back on track once more.
He wanted Watson. Physically, he had never felt such a longing, his flesh yearning for the other’s touch to an almost painful degree. Now that he had experienced the exquisite torture his friend could wring from him, he found himself wanting more.
More touches, more kisses, more of things he did not even know how to name. He wanted everything Watson could give him, and, more astonishing to his mind, he wanted to give everything as well.
He loved Watson.
The thought burned away the doubts and confusion, the lingering bitterness and hurt. It was all consuming, until he felt positively flushed with it. He wanted to give Watson everything he was, everything he had. He wanted the other to know exactly how much he meant to him, and there was only one thing he could think of which would convey this.
The thought was more calming than any tonic Watson may have given him, his mind finally at peace now that he had reached his conclusion. Sleepily, he allowed his body to relax further into the bed, the pillow cradling his head gently as his thoughts began to blur.
He would give himself to Watson, everything he was. He may not know all the mechanics of it, but he trusted Watson would. And, as it had a thousand times before, the knowledge that he could place his body and his heart in Watson’s hands was enough to let him drift off to sleep.
When Watson joined him in the bed nearly an hour later he did not wake, but turned in his sleep to nuzzle close to the other’s warmth. Strong arms enfolded him, kept him safe, and there were no dreams that night.
***
They woke wrapped around each other the next morning, sunshine streaming in through the window at a nearly painful angle as it dispelled any lingering thoughts towards sleep.
“Morning,” Watson rasped huskily, kissing Holmes close mouthed on the lips as he stirred.
“Hrm,” Holmes replied, returning the kiss lazily before burying his head in the other’s shoulder. “Early,” he groaned.
“No it’s not,” Watson laughed, caressing dark curls with his hand as he rubbed his nose lightly against Holmes‘ temple. “In fact, it’s probably close to ten.”
“Umph,” Holmes grumbled, stirring enough to insinuate a leg between Watson’s thighs.
He smiled into Watson’s shoulder at the hardness he found there, moving his leg mischievously as Watson drew in a quick, sharp breath.
“Holmes,” he murmured, hips flexing unconsciously into the pressure.
“Yes?” Holmes asked, placing a kiss to Watson’s throat, allowing his tongue to linger over the stubbled flesh.
“You are a bad influence,” Watson rasped.
Holmes laughed into his neck as he proceeded to show his friend just what a horrible influence he was. Watson did not protest.
***
When they managed to climb out of the bed, loose limbed and relaxed in a way neither had been for some time, it took them longer than was their custom to attend to their washing up and dressing. They shared the basin, taking turns brushing teeth and shaving, their ablutions interrupted by gentle kisses and lingering touches.
“How do you feel this morning?” Watson asked as he refilled the porcelain bowl with fresh water, wetting a flannel before wiping his arms, chest and abdomen down.
“Better,” Holmes assured, following the other’s example and treating himself to a quick bath. He smiled when he caught sight of the small bruise on the side of his neck in the mirror, still a reddish-blue. “I only have a small headache,” he added reluctantly.
It was not something he would normally divulge, as the pain was marginal and he doubted it would have any bearing on his activities of the day. But he had promised Watson, and himself, to be honest about his condition, and tedious though it may be, he was determined to do so.
Watson’s expression, fond and a little awed at the admission, was quickly hidden under the guise of putting his valise back to rights.
“If you want something for it, let me know,” was all he said, and when he turned back his countenance was once more under his control. “Shall we go eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!”
“Well,” Holmes conceded as he held out his arm for the other to take. “We did work up a bit of an appetite!”
***
Breakfast was a lazy affair, with Mrs. Everman bustling around as usual and smiling fondly at them when she thought they weren’t looking. Watson could not help the blushes that appeared each time he caught her at it, but Holmes’ amused expression was worth the small embarrassment.
“Will you boys be needing anything else?” the elderly housekeeper asked once the plates had all been filled to her standards.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes replied, grinning up at her. “I must say, this spring air does agree with you. You look positively glowing!”
Watson raised his eyebrows at the unexpected compliment, but she just smiled and patted Holmes’ shoulder in a motherly fashion.
“Thank you, dear. The same could be said for yourself,” she replied cheekily. Watson felt his cheeks heat up, but Holmes merely smiled wider. “And no, you may not skip out on lunch. You’re skin and bones and your brother would have my hide if he thought I wasn’t taking care of you,” she added, her tone completely no-nonsense even as she added another kipper to Holmes’ plate. “Now eat up, the both of you. The lads have been a bit fidgety lately, and they may have a match later on, if you’d be interested.”
“Match?” Watson asked, ignoring Holmes’ snort of derision as he nevertheless began to eat.
“Oh, the boys do like a bit of rugby,” Mrs. Everman explained. She rested a hand absently on Holmes’ shoulder, who didn’t seem to notice, or mind, the familiar gesture. “The young masters don’t care too much for it, but I thought that maybe you might like to have a go, Doctor.”
“I haven’t played rugby in years!” Watson exclaimed happily, the prospect of a good match sending a thrill down his spine. “I would be delighted to play!”
“Watson -” Holmes began, and then stopped, clamping his lips closed on whatever he had been about to say. His eyes, however, could not hide their sudden concern, and Watson grinned at him reassuringly. It was not often Holmes censured himself to spare another’s feelings.
“I’ll be fine, old boy. A bit of rugby won’t bother my leg any more than running after some ne’er-do-well. Besides, it’s only a bit of fun, right, Mrs. Everman?”
“Just so, Doctor,” she agreed, smoothing Holmes’ pomaded hair over one ear as she did so. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Holmes. My William is a fair referee, and doesn’t let no harm come to the boys other than what is normal in the course of the game.”
Holmes’ eyes widened at this, not the least reassured as Mrs. Everman took her leave, tutting at one of the servant girls in the hall for “leaving the floor to mop itself.”
“Honestly, Holmes, I’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve never been to a rugby match. It will be a learning experience,” Watson teased, patting his friend’s hand before going back to his meal, grinning at the sudden turn of events.
Holmes watched him eat for a moment before resignedly returning his attention to his no longer appealing plate.
“Whatever you say, mother hen,” he sighed.
***
Part 11
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear Author's notes: Thanks always for
enkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .Breakfast became a shortened affair after that, both men still flushed with the embarrassment of Mrs. Everman’s pronouncement and the knowledge that before lunch the whole of the staff would know about their relationship. Escape seemed the better part of valor, and so they had hastily finished their plates, collected Gladstone, and set out to enjoy the fresh air and privacy.
They walked companionably arm in arm, as was their habit, Gladstone ambling along happily beside them. For nearly an hour they did not speak, each lost in their own thoughts and the quiet of the countryside.
Holmes, who knew the land about the estate as well as any London street, allowed instinct to guide him, his mind too preoccupied to pay proper attention to his surroundings.
So many times the two of them had walked thus, shoulders brushing, arms entwined, that the change in their relationship added a surreal sense to what should have been commonplace.
Now, when Watson’s fingers brushed his thigh, or a hand was gently laid upon his own, it was not mere friendship which precipitated the action. A touch which only days before had elicited nothing stronger than a warm sense of belonging in his chest suddenly had his heart beating furiously, his loins tightening with want, and his palms sweating.
He sighed, deeply, and tried once more to rein in the burning desire to simply drop the both of them to the ground and rut like an animal. The very idea at once excited and repulsed him, his flesh longing for Watson’s body, while his mind rebelled at the thought of them doing any such thing.
It was slowly driving him insane!
“Holmes?” Watson asked softly, finally breaking the silence between them, his eyes taking in his friend’s flushed face, his furrowed brow and his slightly trembling limbs. So much had happened between them in such a short period of time that they had not considered ramifications or consequences. Or regrets.
The last thought had Watson tightening his fingers about Holmes’ hand, and they came to a stop beneath a giant oak, the massive tree trunk rising from a bed of spongy moss and ivy.
“What’s wrong, old boy?” the doctor asked hesitantly, uncertain if he could bear the thought of Holmes voicing any regret for what now lay between them.
“I - I have never been in love before, Watson,” Holmes murmured, his gaze firmly fixed on the distant hills. He feared he would not be able to get the words out if he looked into the worried eyes of the man who had become everything to him. He did not wish to hurt, but he was certain that to let the words lie dormant would cause an even more grievous injury over time. “I find myself - uncertain - as to how I feel about it.”
Watson did not speak at this pronouncement, his endless patience once more prompting his friend to continue despite his misgivings.
“I - I have always regarded the human need for copulation as a messy, distracting affair. Even such times as when I - when I took myself in hand, it was more out of a want for distraction than any real bodily desire.” The words were spoken haltingly, as though forced out against his will, and he was flushed with embarrassment. “You have heard my thoughts against the softer emotions and how they serve me no use. And yet…”
Finally, Holmes turned his troubled gaze to Watson, taking in his concerned blue eyes, the mustache trimmed with military precision, the permanently sun-bleached hair and browned skin. He could not help the hand that rose and caressed the other man’s cheek, nor could he stop the treacherous waver which seemed to shake his entire frame.
“And yet, I want nothing more than to compose a sonnet to your astonishing character, to kiss every inch of your flesh and know your body as intimately as I know mine. I do not know what to do with these feelings, Watson!”
This last declaration was said with so much frustration and despair that Watson could do nothing else save gather his friend in his arms and hold him tightly, Holmes head resting on his scarred shoulder, dark hair tickling the skin of his neck above his collar.
“This is how love is,” Watson whispered into a finely sculpted ear, running his hand over Holmes’ back in an effort to soothe. “You have never known such feelings because you have never allowed yourself to. And now that the floodgate has been opened, it is only natural that it feels overwhelming. I assure you, Holmes,” he added fiercely, “the sentiment is more than shared.”
Watson felt the other take a deep, shuddering breath before moving back a step, gazing intently into his face, as though seeking assurance.
“You feel this way as well?” Holmes asked, his expression and next words conveying his disbelief. “You, who have loved on three continents and been married?”
“Yes!” Watson assured steadily, moving his hands to either side of Holmes’ neck, cupping his jaw with his thumbs as he stared deeply into his eyes. “Holmes, each love is different than any other. I cared deeply for those who shared my bed with me when I was younger, and I truly loved Mary as my wife. But the love I feel for you, have always felt for you, cannot be measured in such simple terms. You are my dearest friend, my brother, my partner, and now my lover. You are everything to me, Holmes. Everything!”
“And that terrifies me,” Holmes gasped out raggedly, reaching up to cover the hands which cupped his face with his own. “Because I assure you, Watson, that without you… Without you there is nothing for me. I tried, Watson.”
Holmes’ voice broke as, finally, he allowed himself to admit a truth he had never dared acknowledge before. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away angrily as he forced himself to continue, wishing to get the confession done and over with, so Watson could cast his judgment upon him and the torture of keeping the secret would finally end.
“I ran because I loved you, and Moriarty knew. Even before I did, he knew! He threatened your life, and Mary’s, at that final battle, and when he was bested and I thought I could return to the pitiful existence which had become my days, Moran reared his despicable head. It was a mercy, Watson!” Holmes spit out, the hands against his neck tightening, though the other’s gaze did not waver, and Watson gave no other outward sign of censure.
He shifted, slightly, widening his stance as though to brace himself against the words to come, accepting of everything Holmes was offering him. And Holmes could not have stopped the words even if he had desired. The steady warmth of Watson, his solid presence, gave him the courage to continue, though his heart beat so rapidly he feared it might burst with the strain. His words were gasped out on ragged breaths, and he was clutching so hard at Watson’s wrists he knew there would be bruises later.
“It meant I could not return to London to see you living your life away from me, that I could pretend, on those quiet nights when I had nothing else, that you had not chosen another above me, and one day I might have you all to myself! I ran because I - I did not -”
He could not bear it any longer and tried to wrench himself free, eyes closed against the condemnation his friend must surely feel for him, now he knew the truth.
But Watson would not release his hold, dragging Holmes close once more, wrapping his arms around him and clutching him even as he struggled to get away, to hide his shame. Only when the iron muscles beneath his hands began to relax, and Holmes sobbing breaths had slowed to shallow, hiccuping gasps, did he loosen his embrace.
They kissed then, in the shadow of the oak with beams of sun breaking through the canopy cover and illuminating their faces in mottled shades. They kissed until they were breathless and trembling with need and everything between them had faded. Nothing else remained but warm skin and too many clothes.
“I love you,” Holmes whispered against Watson’s lips, tracing their outline with his tongue, breathing in his scent and the air which puffed against his own flesh. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
It was a manta, spoken into Watson’s cheek, his neck, his ear. Hands tangled in hair, his eyes closed against the impossible beauty of the man he loved.
“Shhhhh,” Watson soothed, over and over as Holmes’ frantic caresses slowly began to still, his breath evening out and the trembling in his limbs finally began to subside. “Hush, Holmes, hush. I know,” he murmured, running his fingers over backbone, arms, shoulders still tense with confession and fear. “I love you, you impossible man. I love you. Hush now.”
A gentle breeze ruffled their clothes, the leaves above their head. Shade and light danced around them, and finally, finally, they sunk to the soft carpet of moss, Holmes’ head resting against Watson’s breast, the steady beat of his heart a more soothing lullaby than any song a mother could sing.
As the sun made its way across the hills, Holmes succumbed to sleep at last, safe in the arms of the only man he had ever trusted with everything he possessed.
***
Watson watched over the slumbering man for close to an hour before he began to stir, his movements sluggish and languid as drowsy gray eyes opened to look up at him.
“Hello,” Watson greeted, smiling.
“Hello,” Holmes answered, his voice hoarse and filled with confusion. “You are not -”
The words trailed off, as though he could not bear to utter them.
“What?” Watson asked, stroking Holmes’ back before moving his hand to weave through the thick, black locks.
“Angry with me?” Holmes asked softly, the first, and only time, Watson had ever heard such a timid tone from the other.
An immediate answer was not what the other man wanted. Watson knew this as surely as he knew there was nothing to forgive. Perhaps, before he had seen the toll such a secret had taken on his friend, he would have once been upset over the deception. But there had been no malice in Holmes’ flight. Only the survival instinct of an animal hurt beyond its endurance to struggle anymore.
“I am not mad,” Watson finally said, gently. He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Holmes’ brow. “You did what you had to, to survive.”
When Holmes opened his mouth to protest, to remind Watson that he was not referring merely to his three year absence, Watson placed a finger against his lips.
“You did what you had to, to survive,” he repeated, willing the other to see the understanding in his eyes. “A heart can only be broken for so long without shattering, Holmes. I only wish -” Watson swallowed back his own apologies. He would not beg pardon for loving Mary, no matter how much he longed to in that moment. He would not dishonor his love for her, or her memory, that way. “I only wish that circumstances had been different.”
He waited a moment to make certain Holmes understood he meant every word he had said, smiling as the tension slowly melted from the other’s frame, leaving him limp and pliant against him. Then he ran his hand down Holmes’ arm, entwining their fingers and moving them to his mouth to kiss them slowly, sensuously. He lavished the digits with his tongue, watching as the other’s mouth parted slightly, his eyes going dark as his breathing grew heavy.
“I love you so very much, Sherlock Holmes,” Watson breathed huskily, puffs of warm air ghosting over their combined hands.
Holmes shivered at both the tone and the sensation, licking his lips as he watched Watson continue to suck on their combined fingers, his tongue swirling around knuckles before moving to press open mouthed kisses to his palm.
“I want to ravish you,” Watson continued in that same deep tone, moving slowly to reposition them so that Holmes was laying flat on his back, his head cushioned by the moss as he arched into the sensation of Watson’s roaming hand. “I want to take you in my mouth until you’re incoherent with need, and drink of your essence. I want you to touch me, and feel how much I desire you.”
As he said this last Watson moved the hand still entwined with his and placed it over the front of his trousers, where Holmes could feel the stiff outline of his manhood. When Watson untangled their fingers to allow his hand to roam over Holmes’ body, Holmes squeezed gently, feeling the turgid member twitch even through the layers of cloth.
“Yes,” Watson groaned, closing his eyes as delicate fingers moved, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence at Watson’s continued encouragement.
The doctor’s trousers were undone, his belt removed, and when his manhood was finally released it bobbed thickly in Holmes’ grasp, red with need and weeping.
“Just like that,” Watson hissed as fingers continued to stroke, alternating between gentle, feather light touches and harder caresses. “Do you - oh, God, yes! Do you want me - yes, there! To touch you?” he asked, even as his hips moved in rhythm with Holmes’ touch.
“Yes,” Holmes moaned, his voice positively indecent with need, and it took a moment of scrambling between them to get his trousers open and his own member freed from the confines of his small-clothes.
“You’re gorgeous,” Watson gasped as he watched his hand envelop the length of his lover, sensing it would not take long for either to find release. “Just like that, Holmes! God, don’t stop! Yes, yes!” he cried, fighting his own impending orgasm as he struggled to concentrate on Holmes’.
“Watson-” Holmes warned moments before he died his little death, his eyes closing in the pleasure/pain of it, his back arched, his hand clenching almost painfully around Watson’s own manhood as he cried out wordlessly.
It was not long before Watson joined him, the two men as ever in sync, even in this most intimate of ways.
***
They lay entwined beneath the giant oak for some time as Gladstone snuffled happily nearby, chasing moths when not rolling contentedly in the dirt. They did not allow themselves to doze, however, and after nearly a half hour they set themselves to rights, attempting to return their appearances to something resembling respectable.
“Mrs. Everman should have tea prepared,” Holmes murmured as he adjusted Watson’s waistcoat, tugging it slightly to remove any wrinkles. “We should head back.”
“A man could get spoiled living like this,” Watson teased, gently brushing Holmes’ hair behind his ear, smiling as he removed a bit of moss from the black locks.
“My dear Watson, however do you think Mycroft reached such a - sturdy - appearance?” Holmes answered, his own lips turned up into one of his rare, genuine smiles. “If Mrs. Everman had her way, I would be twice my weight and still considered skin and bones.”
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a few more decent meals,” Watson persisted, leaning in for a chaste kiss, their lips lingering for just a moment before they resolutely separated. “Come on. A good cup of tea sounds wonderful right about now.”
Holmes hummed his agreement and gathered up Gladstone’s leash, taking Watson’s arm as they began the long walk back. It was not until the house was in sight, however, that he spoke.
“Watson,” he began, a slight hesitation to his voice. He paused for a moment, as though uncertain if he should continue, and the reluctance was so unlike him that Watson paused, halting them both.
“What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked gently, turning slightly so he could see the other’s expression.
Holmes pursed his lips, eyes downcast as a faint blush crept across his cheeks. It was such an endearing expression Watson could not help but smile at it.
“I would never force a confidence from you,” Holmes began, keeping his glance averted. “But I find I am - my experience in certain matters is lacking. And I have noticed that yours is… not.”
“Yes,” Watson agreed, drawing the word out. He kept his tone neutral despite his growing curiosity; Holmes so seldom admitted a lack of knowledge in any area that his insecurity must have been immense to prompt him to bring up such a delicate subject. “You know I freely admit that I have enjoyed a great many experiences, Holmes.”
“Some of which were men?” Holmes asked softly, and the flush which had colored his cheeks deepened.
“Yes,” Watson admitted, coughing slightly to ease his own discomfort. He was not ashamed of any of his encounters, but to be discussing them with his best friend and extremely inexperienced lover was something he had never contemplated before. “Mostly while I was in the Army, though there were a few after.”
Holmes nodded, his lips tightening as he shifted slightly, a move that on any other would have been innocuous, but in Holmes was tantamount to wringing his hands and whimpering in distress.
“Does that bother you, Holmes?” Watson asked cautiously, moving so that he could cup his friend’s chin in his hand and force his eyes up. “That I -”
“No!” Holmes protested immediately, shaking his head in denial and dislodging Watson’s hold.
The doctor stepped back a pace, taking his cues from his friend’s body language, though his eyes remained fixed on Holmes’. He waited, knowing it would not be long before an explanation or another question was offered.
“I do not wish to offend you, Watson, not for the wide world,” Holmes murmured, crossing his arms loosely as he contemplated his feet. “But I must know - that is, I would like to know - if there is something - If you would like, or if I am not -” He stopped, closing his eyes as his lips pressed into a firm line.
“Holmes,” Watson whispered in as gentle a voice as he could muster, moving forward to cup the other’s face once more, framing his cheeks with his hands. “Are you asking me if there is something more I want from you? If what we have done so far is not enough for me?”
His eyes still focused on his feet, Holmes nodded, once, reluctantly.
Watson closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath as he considered his words very carefully. Then he leaned in and placed a tender kiss to Holmes’ forehead.
“It does not matter to me what we do,” he said finally, his lips brushing Holmes’ skin as he spoke. “If we do nothing more than what we have, or if we decide to explore other possibilities, I am happy so long as I am with you.”
He bent his head, capturing Holmes’ lips with his own until he felt the other relax into the kiss, his body un-tensing slowly. They broke apart after a moment, resting their foreheads together.
“You will teach me?” Holmes asked, still hesitant.
“You have only to ask,” Watson assured him. He waited a moment before moving away, taking Holmes’ arm in his own as he urged them once more into a slow walk. “Now, let’s go enjoy our tea and then a nap for you. It’s been a busy day.”
Holmes smiled, focusing his gaze once more forward, and placed his hand over Watson’s.
***
Mrs. Everman did indeed have their tea waiting for their return, tutting over them as she brushed off stray bits of moss they had missed and warned them to eat at least a bit of everything.
They nibbled on the sweet cakes and drank their tea slowly, passing the time in companionable silence before they retired to the library. Watson settled himself in his habitual chair by the fire, resuming his novel of the past few days, while Holmes curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a warm monstrosity of a blanket the color of peach fuzz.
When Mrs. Everman ducked her head around the door to announce that supper would be set shortly, both she and the doctor flinched back in surprise as Holmes darted upright, his breath suddenly ragged and his hand clutching his chest tightly.
“Holmes?” Watson asked cautiously, closing his book and standing slowly.
“I’m fine,” Holmes rasped, coughing deeply to clear his throat and then taking a deep breath. “Fine,” he repeated, waving away his friend’s worry and Mrs. Everman’s hovering presence.
“We’ll be in shortly,” Watson assured her softly, and she bobbed a quick acknowledgment before departing, her lips pressed into a thin line as the wrinkles around her eyes deepened.
“Come on, old boy,” Watson urged, moving to take Holmes’ arm and pull him to his feet. “Let’s go change for dinner, and then maybe a brandy before bed. You look done in.”
“I feel done in,” Holmes sighed, patting the doctor’s shoulder fondly as they headed up the stairs. “Although, I must admit that last night was probably the best sleep I’ve had for a very, very long time,” he admitted as they entered their rooms. He glanced shyly at Watson as they separated. “Thank you.”
“No thanks are needed, Holmes,” Watson assured him softly, grinning mischievously as he added., “Trust me, my friend, it was my pleasure.”
At Holmes’ blush he laughed softly, leaning in for a chaste kiss before heading to his own room to change. They left the door open between them, and only when each had been properly attired did they head down to their supper.
***
Holmes picked at his dinner that night, unable to bring himself to stomach the succulent roast and greens placed before him. His stomach felt leaden with fatigue and the lingering remnants of the nightmare which had haunted his nap, and the food tasted off in his mouth.
“Holmes?” Watson finally asked, eying the mostly full plate before him. “What’s wrong?”
“Forgive me, Watson,” Holmes sighed, finally giving up any pretense of eating and setting his fork down. “I fear I don’t have very much of a stomach tonight. No, no,” he added as Watson’s brow creased with concern and he opened his mouth to question the statement. “I think it is merely the events of the day catching up to me. Don’t worry, mother hen. I’m certain a good night’s sleep will have me feeling better in the morning.”
He smiled reassuringly, and was rewarded with a resigned grin in turn.
“Just, promise me you’ll let me know if you start to feel worse,” Watson urged wearily, and Holmes could read the effort to keep his worry from his tone. “We both of us were in that water a long time yesterday, and if you are catching cold I would like to try and stop it before it becomes something worse.”
“Of course,” Holmes agreed, and dared to reach across the table to rest his hand over the other’s, squeezing once in assurance. “I promise, if I do not feel better tomorrow, I will not hide it from you.”
“Thank you.”
Holmes watched as the doctor went back to finishing his supper and sipped delicately at his wine.
“So, tell me,” Watson prompted between one mouthful and the next, his nonchalant tone fooling neither of them, though the effort was appreciated. “When your brother visits, does Mrs. Everman ply him with as much food as she has us?”
“Oh, Watson,” Holmes laughed, taken by surprise. “Who do you think got him hooked on berry tarts and puff pastries to begin with?”
***
He did not retire to the library with Watson after dinner that night, pleading exhaustion and a slight headache as he excused himself to his room. He could read the worry in his friend’s face, the tight lines around his eyes and the frown on his lips, but Watson had merely wished him a restful night and squeezed his hand gently.
The room was very quiet when he entered, only a single candle near the bed illuminating the familiar shapes and features of the furniture. He blessed Mrs. Everman’s foresight as he maneuvered his way to the bed and his nightshirt placed enticingly upon the turned down sheets. He could not help the blush when he realized that a second nightshirt rested beneath the first, and when curiosity got the better of him and he poked his head into Watson’s room, he could only shake his head in wonderment.
The doctor’s room had been tidied, but there was no sign that anyone was expected to sleep there. The bed was as neatly made as it had been that morning, and there was no sign of Watson’s valise which held his toiletries.
“Crafty old woman,” Holmes murmured fondly as he turned back, making his way through the shadows to the water pitcher and basin near the bed to take care of his own ablutions. When he spotted Watson’s bag nestled beside the dresser, he could only shake his head and smile.
When he curled up under the blankets a few minutes later, dressed in his nightshirt and teeth brushed, he allowed the candle to continue to burn, knowing Watson would be joining him before long and not wanting his lover to stumble about in the dark.
His lover.
The thought tripped and stumbled through his brain, leaving only a confusing mix of longing, self doubt, and wonder in its path. It was an extraordinary amalgamation of feelings, and as he pulled the blankets tighter about his chin, he could only try to work his way through the dizzying labyrinth they created.
Watson loved him; he had said so earlier that day, quite passionately, and had also expressed no desire to push Holmes further in their physical intimacies than he was prepared for. This only made sense, as Holmes knew the doctor to be a man above all others in matters of patience and empathy.
But what was Holmes prepared for? How far did he wish to go with this new-found desire? Never before had he longed for another’s touch, and even now, despite the lingering ache in his head from the emotions the day had brought about, he could feel his member stiffen at the thought of Watson’s fingers upon his body.
“Damnit,” he cursed, curling his legs closer to his chest as he tucked his elbows against his ribs, one hand resting just beneath his chin.
Truly, he thought to himself in annoyance. If this was the way most people felt around someone they cared for, it was no wonder they made stupid, careless decisions. After all, he was one of the most brilliant men in all of England, possibly all of Europe, and here he was, fighting the urge to take himself in hand at the mere thought of another’s fingers around him.
“No,” he breathed, eyes staring vacantly at the wall opposite the bed as he considered. He did not want just anyone to touch him. Only Watson.
It had always been thus, he realized slowly, pursing his lips as he followed the thought. Ever since their initial meeting so many years ago, he had always allowed Watson freedoms of his person that no one, save perhaps Mycroft, had ever been permitted.
Touches to his body as injuries were treated, friendly pats on the shoulder or the knee in comfort, long strolls arm in arm. The countless nights they had been forced to huddle together while hiding in pursuit of criminals, or the beds they shared when traveling away from London. It had never once crossed Holmes’ mind to put a distance between them, to push Watson away from his physical sense as he had with nearly everyone else.
The Turkish baths!
Just the thought of their once platonic outings had Holmes curling a hand about himself in wonder, his eyes closing as he savored images of Watson from years past as they lay wrapped in towels after enjoying the ministrations of the bath attendants.
It was no wonder Moriarty had realized his feelings for the other man. The only true wonder was that he had been so blind to them himself all this time! Or perhaps not blind, he admitted as his thoughts continued to unravel.
When Watson had informed Holmes of his upcoming marriage, the feeling had been all too similar to being punched in the gut by one of his boxing opponents. The subsequent days of watching his best friend, nay, his only friend, prepare to leave him had been agonizing. He had not been able to admit it to himself then, but he knew now, looking back, that he had been just as lovesick and heart wounded as any young man seeing his love choose another.
The thought was bitter, even after four years distance. That Watson had chosen a woman, no matter how lovely and gentle, over Holmes, still had the power to burn, his stomach twisting unpleasantly as he forced himself to analyze his feelings and his actions as they had played out.
He had been hurt, yes. He had felt betrayed and had taken it out on Watson in small, petty revenges. Not answering his correspondence, neglecting to turn to him if he was injured, using the cocaine whenever he felt the urge, regardless of whether or not his friend was supposed to visit that day.
All actions that had, in the end, been meaningless, for Watson had remained as unaware of Holmes’ feelings for him as Holmes himself. And when that final confrontation with Moriarty had forced him to acknowledge certain truths…
Holmes had run.
His stomach twisted again, his desire vanished as he forced himself to continue the thought. Self deception, as he had seen time after time, aided no one, and would only lead to misunderstandings and hurt in the future. For Watson’s sake, and the sake of their friendship, he needed to follow his chain of thoughts to the end.
He forced his tensed body to relax, the hand which now cradled his flaccid member moving to rest beside the other under his chin, and he closed his eyes as he remembered.
He had run, away from Moran and those who chased him, away from London and the life he had built for himself. Away from Watson, living happily with his wife in a life that held little place for Holmes save for what the doctor allowed him. Away from the thought that his friend would start a family, would forget him, would move on in a way Holmes never could.
Away from the pain of knowing he could never have the only person he had ever loved.
He had fled, and only when news of Mary’s death had reached him had he returned. Not with the hope of achieving what they had found the past few days, he had not dared to even think such a thing. But with the desire to be with his friend again, to have him by his side, in his home, to have the two of them together as they had been for so long and should have remained if not for Watson falling in love and moving away!
“Stop it,” Holmes growled, flipping himself onto his other side and squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to calm his suddenly racing heart.
Mary was dead. She had been Watson’s love, and his friend had been forced to watch her die, slowly and painfully. It was not something he would wish on his worst enemy, the remains of which had never been found. His Watson had suffered greatly, and the past was the past.
He sighed, deliberately blowing the air from his lungs forcefully before taking a deep, slow breath. The knot in his stomach eased slightly, and he was able to put his thoughts back on track once more.
He wanted Watson. Physically, he had never felt such a longing, his flesh yearning for the other’s touch to an almost painful degree. Now that he had experienced the exquisite torture his friend could wring from him, he found himself wanting more.
More touches, more kisses, more of things he did not even know how to name. He wanted everything Watson could give him, and, more astonishing to his mind, he wanted to give everything as well.
He loved Watson.
The thought burned away the doubts and confusion, the lingering bitterness and hurt. It was all consuming, until he felt positively flushed with it. He wanted to give Watson everything he was, everything he had. He wanted the other to know exactly how much he meant to him, and there was only one thing he could think of which would convey this.
The thought was more calming than any tonic Watson may have given him, his mind finally at peace now that he had reached his conclusion. Sleepily, he allowed his body to relax further into the bed, the pillow cradling his head gently as his thoughts began to blur.
He would give himself to Watson, everything he was. He may not know all the mechanics of it, but he trusted Watson would. And, as it had a thousand times before, the knowledge that he could place his body and his heart in Watson’s hands was enough to let him drift off to sleep.
When Watson joined him in the bed nearly an hour later he did not wake, but turned in his sleep to nuzzle close to the other’s warmth. Strong arms enfolded him, kept him safe, and there were no dreams that night.
***
They woke wrapped around each other the next morning, sunshine streaming in through the window at a nearly painful angle as it dispelled any lingering thoughts towards sleep.
“Morning,” Watson rasped huskily, kissing Holmes close mouthed on the lips as he stirred.
“Hrm,” Holmes replied, returning the kiss lazily before burying his head in the other’s shoulder. “Early,” he groaned.
“No it’s not,” Watson laughed, caressing dark curls with his hand as he rubbed his nose lightly against Holmes‘ temple. “In fact, it’s probably close to ten.”
“Umph,” Holmes grumbled, stirring enough to insinuate a leg between Watson’s thighs.
He smiled into Watson’s shoulder at the hardness he found there, moving his leg mischievously as Watson drew in a quick, sharp breath.
“Holmes,” he murmured, hips flexing unconsciously into the pressure.
“Yes?” Holmes asked, placing a kiss to Watson’s throat, allowing his tongue to linger over the stubbled flesh.
“You are a bad influence,” Watson rasped.
Holmes laughed into his neck as he proceeded to show his friend just what a horrible influence he was. Watson did not protest.
***
When they managed to climb out of the bed, loose limbed and relaxed in a way neither had been for some time, it took them longer than was their custom to attend to their washing up and dressing. They shared the basin, taking turns brushing teeth and shaving, their ablutions interrupted by gentle kisses and lingering touches.
“How do you feel this morning?” Watson asked as he refilled the porcelain bowl with fresh water, wetting a flannel before wiping his arms, chest and abdomen down.
“Better,” Holmes assured, following the other’s example and treating himself to a quick bath. He smiled when he caught sight of the small bruise on the side of his neck in the mirror, still a reddish-blue. “I only have a small headache,” he added reluctantly.
It was not something he would normally divulge, as the pain was marginal and he doubted it would have any bearing on his activities of the day. But he had promised Watson, and himself, to be honest about his condition, and tedious though it may be, he was determined to do so.
Watson’s expression, fond and a little awed at the admission, was quickly hidden under the guise of putting his valise back to rights.
“If you want something for it, let me know,” was all he said, and when he turned back his countenance was once more under his control. “Shall we go eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!”
“Well,” Holmes conceded as he held out his arm for the other to take. “We did work up a bit of an appetite!”
***
Breakfast was a lazy affair, with Mrs. Everman bustling around as usual and smiling fondly at them when she thought they weren’t looking. Watson could not help the blushes that appeared each time he caught her at it, but Holmes’ amused expression was worth the small embarrassment.
“Will you boys be needing anything else?” the elderly housekeeper asked once the plates had all been filled to her standards.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes replied, grinning up at her. “I must say, this spring air does agree with you. You look positively glowing!”
Watson raised his eyebrows at the unexpected compliment, but she just smiled and patted Holmes’ shoulder in a motherly fashion.
“Thank you, dear. The same could be said for yourself,” she replied cheekily. Watson felt his cheeks heat up, but Holmes merely smiled wider. “And no, you may not skip out on lunch. You’re skin and bones and your brother would have my hide if he thought I wasn’t taking care of you,” she added, her tone completely no-nonsense even as she added another kipper to Holmes’ plate. “Now eat up, the both of you. The lads have been a bit fidgety lately, and they may have a match later on, if you’d be interested.”
“Match?” Watson asked, ignoring Holmes’ snort of derision as he nevertheless began to eat.
“Oh, the boys do like a bit of rugby,” Mrs. Everman explained. She rested a hand absently on Holmes’ shoulder, who didn’t seem to notice, or mind, the familiar gesture. “The young masters don’t care too much for it, but I thought that maybe you might like to have a go, Doctor.”
“I haven’t played rugby in years!” Watson exclaimed happily, the prospect of a good match sending a thrill down his spine. “I would be delighted to play!”
“Watson -” Holmes began, and then stopped, clamping his lips closed on whatever he had been about to say. His eyes, however, could not hide their sudden concern, and Watson grinned at him reassuringly. It was not often Holmes censured himself to spare another’s feelings.
“I’ll be fine, old boy. A bit of rugby won’t bother my leg any more than running after some ne’er-do-well. Besides, it’s only a bit of fun, right, Mrs. Everman?”
“Just so, Doctor,” she agreed, smoothing Holmes’ pomaded hair over one ear as she did so. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Holmes. My William is a fair referee, and doesn’t let no harm come to the boys other than what is normal in the course of the game.”
Holmes’ eyes widened at this, not the least reassured as Mrs. Everman took her leave, tutting at one of the servant girls in the hall for “leaving the floor to mop itself.”
“Honestly, Holmes, I’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve never been to a rugby match. It will be a learning experience,” Watson teased, patting his friend’s hand before going back to his meal, grinning at the sudden turn of events.
Holmes watched him eat for a moment before resignedly returning his attention to his no longer appealing plate.
“Whatever you say, mother hen,” he sighed.
***
Part 11