Fic: Soldier's Heart Part 15/15 Complete!

[piplover]

Title: Soldier's Heart Part 15  Complete
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 .


After each man had eaten more than his fill they retried to the library as had become habit. Brandy in hand, they sat comfortably around the small fire which had been lit, as the evenings continued to hold a chill despite the daytime’s warmth.

Watson resumed his habitual chair, Mycroft sitting easily opposite him while Holmes stretched out upon the settee. For an hour they talked of the Irregulars, both past and present, and their plans for the young urchins. Watson brought up his own ideas of getting them positions in hospitals, which were greeted with great enthusiasm by both brothers. He was sure his grin was about to split his face at Holmes’ look of near adoration, and he was certain it was only Mycroft’s presence which prevented the other from kissing him near senseless in that moment.

After the situation of Holmes’ little army had been thoroughly discussed, Sherlock entertained his brother with a masterfully edited version of his recovery since arriving at the estate, concluding with his strange episode two nights previous.

He spoke of the event in a matter-of-fact way, as though such things were commonplace, or at least not completely unheard of, and Mycroft’s reaction only solidified Watson’s belief that this was so.

The elder Holmes merely nodded his head, his gaze contemplative as his shrewd eyes darted from his brother to Watson and back again.

“I am quite relieved to hear that you have found the peace and quiet that you needed, brother,” Mycroft murmured, steepling his fingers in a manner reminiscent of the detective. “I can see, however, that you are still weary. Why don’t you head on up to bed while I have a word with the doctor here? I promise not to keep him too long.”

The warmth he had been experiencing for the better part of the night vanished, leaving in its place a cold ball of nauseous expectation. Though he had been expecting it, and Holmes had warned him, he still found himself suddenly anxious about being left alone with Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock, sensing his wariness, stood easily with a mighty yawn and an exaggerated stretch of his arms. He arched his back as he did so, as though working out a kink, and when he stood upright once more had somehow made his way beside Watson’s chair.

“I am a bit more tired than I thought,” Holmes agreed pleasantly, resting his hand on Watson’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “Watson here is constantly trying to get me into bed. Please do not keep him too long, brother,” he added, leaving the room before Watson could get over the shock of his friend’s words and do him harm.

Watson gaped after Holmes’ back, his face near scarlet with mortification, though he knew full well that the words should have sounded perfectly innocent. When he finally had enough courage to face back to Mycroft, he found the other man laughing silently at him.

“More brandy, Doctor?” he asked cheerfully.

“God, yes,” Watson breathed, clambering to his feet to pour himself another drink and topping off Mycroft’s glass before sinking back down into his chair.

If he had been alone he may very well have gulped down the drink and then poured another. As it was he contended himself with sipping the drink carefully, his full concentration on the glass in his hand as he waited for Mycroft to speak.

He did not wait long.

“My brother is not the only one weary today, Doctor, so I won’t keep you long,” Mycroft assured him, taking a sip of his own drink before resting his chin in his hand, his gaze thoughtful as he watched Watson opposite him.

“Yes, you must be quite exhausted after your trip,” Watson agreed, clearing his throat nervously.

“Well, much as we may like to think we have progressed in this day and age, I fear that traveling is still a bit of an endeavor, especially with three lively young lads in tow. But no matter,” Mycroft continued, waving away his fatigue. “I wish to speak with you about my brother, and transparent though my wishes may be, I do believe he agrees that it is something that must be got out of the way.”

Watson cleared his throat again and took another sip of his brandy, motioning for Mycroft to continue. He didn’t trust his voice at the moment, afraid it would give away his true state of nervousness.

“I am aware of the true nature of your relationship,” Mycroft began, his voice much softer than it usually was and his gaze fastened on the fire. “I assure you I am perfectly happy for both of you, and wish you only the best. However, I believe that there are a few things that you may need to know for the future, and since I doubt very much my brother will divulge them to you willingly, I fear it falls to me to do so.”

Watson quickly looked up, his attention immediately caught. He had not expected the conversation to take such a turn, and now that it had he wasn’t certain where exactly Mycroft would go with it.

“Our parents,” Mycroft said, and the words were tinged with the barest hints of bitterness, his lips pursed as though in distaste. “Sherlock once remarked to you that there is art in our blood, and I fear that it manifests in some peculiar ways. Our mother suffered such bouts as Sherlock experienced the other night, and our father… He was not quite certain how to deal with such things. I fear that our upbringing was a bit unconventional,” he sighed, smiling in the manner of one who knows what they are saying is an understatement.

“Mr. Holmes,” Watson interrupted, suddenly realizing where the other was going with his speech and wishing to stop before he could say something which would trigger Watson’s temper. “I assure you, I know Sherlock better than most anyone, the good and the bad. I do not care what his peculiar habits are, or why he developed them. I love him, quite simply because he is who he is, and I would not change him for the world.” Watson swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry now that the words were out and he could not take them back.

When Mycroft nodded for him to continue, his expression one of delighted intrigue and not of shock, Watson took a deep breath and pressed on.

“The only things I would like to know about are the - the episodes, for lack of a better term, which he suffered the other night. I fear for his health, you understand, and although you and the rest of the household seem to find nothing remarkable about them, in all the years I have known him he has never suffered such a one in my sight. Please, Mycroft. I would very much like to know what happened.”

The fire popped loudly in the sudden quiet of the room, both men going over Watson’s impassioned speech in their mind until Mycroft sat a bit straighter and took a deep breath, as though preparing for an unpleasant task. Watson, accordingly, took a bracing sip of his brandy and prepared for whatever might be revealed.

“As you said, Doctor, you know my brother better than anyone, save perhaps myself and Mrs. Everman, who very nearly raised him,” Mycroft began, staring thoughtfully into the fire. “Many would call him, and perhaps myself, as well, cold and unfeeling. You know that to be patently untrue. If anything, my brother feels things too deeply, and thus has always been the case. Our mother was much the same way. She was a quiet, well mannered woman, who loved music, painting and nature. It is from her side of the family that Sherlock gets his love for the violin, and also, the strange episodes.”

Mycroft paused in his telling, taking a sip of his drink before looking at Watson for the first time.

“I, too, inherited the affliction, though mine manifests in different ways. I tell you this in strictest confidence, Doctor,” he continued, suddenly very serious. At Watson’s nod, he continued. “I do not hear music, as Sherlock does and mother did. I see the world in numbers and patterns, and though I cannot say for certain, I believe the two conditions are similar enough that I can give you some small insight into what sets them off. For me, personally, it tends to be a matter of too much information and stress. When my head feels too full of information, or I receive a great shock, the world tends to shift, and quite beyond my ability to control it, I suddenly perceive everything around me in an abstract, patterned way. I don’t believe I can describe it better, though I wish I could. As for Sherlock…”

“Yes?” Watson prompted after nearly a minute of silence fell between them.

“As for Sherlock,” Mycroft resumed, finishing off his drink and twirling the glass between his hands. “He tends to suffer the most after a great shock or change in his life. When our mother died, he complained of hearing the music for nearly three days. After-”

He stopped abruptly, biting his lip in an uncharacteristic display of concern.

“After I was married,” Watson prompted softly, earning a surprised look, followed by a sad, tight smile.

“Yes. After you were married, he had several such lapses. But not all the events were traumatic, Doctor,” Mycroft assured, suddenly leaning forward in his earnestness. “When he was but five years old and heard the violin for the first time, really heard it, he walked around in a daze for nearly a week. And later, after his first boxing match that he won, he again lost himself for a few hours.”

Here Mycroft paused, as though debating with himself, before he took a deep breath and said, “I believe that it was your change in relationship which brought about the episode. For the first time in his life my brother experienced love, true, unconditioned, passionate love, and it overwhelmed him for a short time.”

Watson found himself blushing again and forced himself to meet Mycroft’s gaze, knowing the other man was reading a hundred things in his expression and posture that even he was not aware of. He welcomed the gaze, embarrassed as it made him, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to him, Doctor. I am thankful you two have found each other again.”

Watson swallowed, suddenly overcome by emotion, for both the man he loved and the man before him, accepting their relationship and everything they were despite what society thought.

“I believe that it is time we headed up to our respective beds,” Mycroft prompted gently, standing with a bit of effort and placing his glass on the sideboard. “Good night, Doctor Watson.”

“Good night, Mr. Holmes,” Watson answered, pushing himself to his feet and placing his glass beside Mycroft’s, following the other man out of the library.

They went their separate ways at the top of the stairs, bidding each other good night once more, and when Watson opened the door to his room he was pleasantly surprised to find Holmes still awake, though in his dressing gown and under the covers. He was reading by candlelight the manuscript Watson had labored over the days previous, the room dim and mostly in shadow.

“You survived,” he observed, taking in Watson’s appearance with a single glance.

“I did,” Watson agreed, moving to take the sheaves of paper from his hands and bending to kiss him passionately.

He could taste a hint of the toothpowder Holmes favored, smell traces of soap on his skin. He breathed deep, closing his eyes as he did so and moving his lips from Holmes’ mouth to his jaw line, working his way back to his ear.

“Are you all right?” Holmes asked softly, turning his head as he did so to allow better access to Watson’s advances.

“I’m wonderful,” Watson breathed into his ear, sending a shudder down Holmes’ slender frame.

“Not that I’m objecting,” Holmes murmured as Watson placed the manuscript on the bedside table blindly before running his hand through Holmes’ hair. “But I’m not certain I’m comfortable with you being this amorous after talking with my brother.”

The comment was so unexpected, and yet so very Holmes, that Watson found himself laughing helplessly, resting his head on Holmes’ shoulder.

“Don’t ever change, Holmes!” he gasped out, taking in Holmes’ confused smile and cupping his face with his hands, trying to regain control of his mirth. “I love you, every bit of you, and don’t you dare change a thing!”

“Not even the indoor target practice?” Holmes asked innocently, earning another hearty laugh.

“Not even that!” Watson agreed. He kissed him again, deeply, passionately, and with everything he possessed. “I love you,” he breathed against Holmes’ lips.

“And I, you.”

There was no more talk as Watson undressed, folding his clothes precisely and laying them upon the chair and the desk so they did not wrinkle. His gaze did not leave Holmes as the detective stripped himself of his nightshirt, casting it to the floor in a manner that at any other time would have had Watson rolling his eyes.

Instead, all he could think of was the feel of Holmes’ skin beneath his, the feel of his friend and lover beside him. When he climbed into the bed a few moments later, naked, he was granted his wish.

He slid his hands over Holmes’ chest, arms and shoulders. He cupped his testicles delicately, and ran his fingers feather light over his erect manhood. He sucked on his nipples and bit lightly on his stomach, until Holmes was nearly whimpering with need.  Only then did he move, to whisper into the other’s ear, “I want you to take me tonight.”

Holmes gasped, startled and aroused beyond words. He nodded wordlessly, watching as Watson slipped out of the bed to make his way unsteadily to his valise, retrieving the bottle of oil once more. His manhood bobbed against his stomach as he walked, already leaking with his arousal, and when he climbed back into the bed he was slightly disconcerted to find that he was shaking.

“What - I mean, how -” Holmes asked, suddenly shy and hesitant.

“Remember what I did for you?” Watson asked, mouthing Holmes’ neck as he handed him the bottle. “Coat your fingers, and insert them gently, one at a time, into me. When I am prepared, then you can slide your cock into me.”

Holmes’ breath caught at Watson’s language, his eyes going dark at the image his words conjured.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” he whispered, his hands shaking slightly as he unstoppered the bottle and poured a small amount into his hand, placing the bottle on the bedside table for easy access and then moving so that he lay on top of Watson.

They kissed for several minutes before Watson gently guided Holmes slicked hand down to his groin, and then further, until his fingers caressed his opening. Hesitantly, Holmes rubbed his finger over the puckered entrance before daring to push the digit inside. Watson sighed and pushed against the finger, desire filling him until he thought he would go mad with it.

For several minutes Holmes worked fist one, then two fingers, into Watson’s body, scissoring them at Watson’s instructions and exploring his lover with the single mindedness which made him so formidable. He paused only briefly to add more oil before adding a third finger, swallowing Watson’s cries with his mouth as they kissed, Watson running his hands over Holmes’ body, pressing against the fingers wantonly.

“I’m ready,” he gasped, clumsily grabbing the bottle and spilling a good portion onto the sheets as he coated his hand, which he then moved to Holmes’ manhood, stroking it firmly and earning a deep moan.

“Watson, if you wish me to take you tonight then I advise you to stop!” Holmes growled, earning a breathless laugh as Watson pushed and guided Holmes until he was positioned.

“Just go slowly,” he advised, smiling into Holmes eyes as he felt the other man start to push in.

Holmes bit his lip as he slowly sank into Watson’s body, unable to take his eyes away from Watson’s face, searching for any signs of discomfort and pausing at the tightening of his brow.

They breathed deeply together, Holmes bending down to kiss Watson’s jaw, his cheek, and then his neck. Slowly he pushed further in, until he was completely seated in the other man, and the two of them stilled as they struggled to control their passion.

“You can move now,” Watson urged, lifting his hips in silent appeal.

It had been a very long time since the last time he had done this, but his body remembered the feeling of another man inside it, and the fullness of Holmes’ manhood stretched him in ways which bordered on painful. Still, as Holmes tentatively withdrew and then pushed back in, Watson thought he had never known such bliss.

Slowly they found their rhythm, Holmes running a hand from Watson’s chest to his member. He grasped it in a loose grip, stroking in time to his thrusts, until Watson could feel the tingle in his back and testicles which signaled his release was near.

Both men had been fairly silent throughout their lovemaking, moaning softly and gasping each other’s names as their passion mounted. Now, as Watson felt his little death approach, he heard words tumble from his mouth that at any other time he would be embarrassed by.

“God, Holmes, love you, love you so much, God, going to - need you, love you, Holmes!”

“Watson!” Holmes gasped, his thrusts becoming deeper and harder, his rhythm faltering as his own release approached.

The thought of Holmes coming inside of him was enough to send Watson over the edge, gasping and trembling as his release overtook him, his eyes clenched tight in the pleasure/pain of it.

A moment later he felt Holmes still, his member pulsing inside him, warmth filling his passage as he deliberately squeezed his internal muscles. Holmes gasped, nearly whimpering, and rested his forehead on Watson’s shoulder, chest heaving as he struggled for breath.

Watson gentled him through the climax, his own breaths labored as he stroked Holmes’ sweat covered back, running his hands from shoulder to buttock and back again. When his lover’s softened member finally slipped out of him, both men shuddered, clinging to each other tightly.

“It’s all right,” Watson soothed, resting one hand on Holmes’ back and running the other through his hair. “You were amazing, Holmes. Thank you.”

“No, Watson, thank you,” Holmes murmured, shifting so that he no longer rested his weight completely on the man beneath him, but lay to the side, resting his arm and leg over Watson’s and his head on Watson’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Watson kissed the top of his head, still struggling to catch his breath, and moved the arm that was trapped under Holmes’ to wrap it around his side.

“We should get cleaned up,” he murmured sleepily, struggling to keep his eyes open against the post-coital lethargy.

He could feel a wetness between his legs which he knew would be uncomfortable come morning, and there was a soreness in his nether region that he knew he would savor for several days to come. But at the moment, with Holmes wrapped around him, he could not remember a time when he was happier.

“I love you,” Holmes whispered softly, slurring the words in his exhaustion.

“I love you, too,” Watson answered, trying to keep the thickness from his voice.

They remained tangled together for several more minutes before Holmes finally dragged himself away, retrieving the cloth from the wash basin and tenderly cleaning Watson first before attending to himself. After, he blew out the candle and crawled back under the covers, snuffling happily as they settled down for sleep.

“Watson?” he asked, and it was only the tone of consternation in his voice that brought the doctor back from the edge of sleep.

“Yes?” he mumbled.

“I’m never going to be able to smell a bouquet again without thinking of this.”

They fell asleep between one breath of laughter and the next.

***

The days at the estate fell into a regular pattern after Mycroft’s arrival. Holmes and Watson would enjoy breakfast together, as had become their habit, and then spend the morning riding or walking around the grounds. When not lingering about the house, they would head into town on short excursions. Often they returned in time for tea, sometimes disheveled, sometimes burdened down with packages, but always in cheerful moods, and Mycroft would join them for their repast.

Updates on the Irregulars’ training were included in these interludes, with Holmes beaming proud as any father at the progress being made.

Though the three lads were rarely seen around the estate, the few glimpses Watson had caught had shown him they were happy, healthy, and more than willing to learn the trade they were being groomed for. These small glances into a life Watson had never dreamed possible for the children never failed to lighten his heart, and several times he found himself nearly choked with emotion when he considered all his friend had done for them.

When he was not at Holmes’ side Watson found himself writing once more, some days spending an entire afternoon holed up in the rooms, the sound of pen against paper the only disturbance to the quiet. Inevitably, while the doctor was thus preoccupied, Holmes would be out causing mischief.

The Exploding Goose, as the event came to be called, was only a precursor to numerous cooking experiments. With the help of the staff, Mrs. Everman amongst them, and sometimes with Mycroft’s assistance, it soon became common for small explosions and various smells to float up through the open window on a gentle breeze.

Watson considered the time spent at Chichester to be among some of his best.

Holmes’ recovery continued with minor setbacks, as was to be expected. Days would pass when he seemed as fit and hale as ever, only to be accompanied by nights of terrible dreams and bouts of summer sickness. His exhaustion slowly faded, until naps were no longer required for him to function, and he would pass entire days filled with energy before winding down like a clock the next day.

His wariness around large crowds faded, though sudden movements still startled him, and Watson had learned to wake him gently, lest he receive a flailing fist for his efforts.

After two weeks at the estate, Mycroft departed reluctantly, his own health seeming renewed by the rest and time with family. There had been no tearful goodbyes or prolonged exchanges of sentiment, as Watson had come to expect from the brothers. They had seen him off at the station, Sherlock embracing the larger man briefly before watching him board and then suggesting lunch at a café.

When their own time to depart arrived, three months after their arrival at Chichester, both men seemed torn between a longing for their familiar abode and reluctance to leave the acceptance and care of those who had become such an everyday part of their lives.

As they stood upon the steps to the house, waiting for their luggage and packages to be loaded onto the waiting carriage, they were surrounded by what appeared to be the entire household.

The young men Watson had played rugby with teased him gently about coming back for another go, while the young maids waited their turn to give him a quick bob as they dabbed at their eyes and then scurried back inside.

When Clara handed him a rose, smiling shyly up at him, he found himself brushing at his own eyes as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Watch out for him, Doctor,” she whispered softly, looking briefly to Holmes, who was watching them out of the corner of his eye as he nodded to whatever the young man before him was saying. “You’s always done good for him, more-so lately than ever, but he needs a bit of a keeper, if you don’t mind my saying.”

He laughed at her cheek and smiled down at her.

“I promise, Clara, that I will do everything within my power to keep him safe and well. You take care of yourself,” he admonished as she turned to go.

“Always, Doctor!” she giggled, pausing briefly to wave over her shoulder before departing, having already presented Holmes with his own rose and said her farewell.

Finally, with the last boxes having been secured and the driver waiting patiently for the two men, they stood alone with Mrs. Everman, who was wiping her eyes with her apron unashamedly, one arm around Holmes’ waist.

The detective held her close to him, resting his chin on her head as he pulled her into a possessive hug. Something caught in Watson’s throat at the sight, forcing him to turn his attention to one last view of the grounds in an attempt to give them some privacy.

“Don’t you dare wait so long to come back, young man,” Mrs. Everman was whispering, her voice quavering slightly. “Took nearly half my years away when you showed near dead last time, and then not a word after you up and left! If not for Mrs. Hudson’s telegram I wouldn’t have known where you were or that you still- still lived!”

“Hush, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes soothed absently. Then the woman’s words seemed to catch up to him at the same time as Watson comprehended what had been said, and they both turned accusing eyes her way. “What do you mean, Mrs. Hudson telegrammed you?”

“Of course she did, you silly thing!” Mrs. Everman chided, regaining some of her composure as she glared up at the detective. “Why, she was so distraught after you - after you disappeared that Mycroft feared for her health, and sent her here to recuperate for a few weeks. We became fast friends, of course, she’s a marvelous lady!”

The two men shared a look of dawning wonder as comprehension slowly set in.

“You - you’ve been in contact with Mrs. Hudson? All this time we’ve been here?” Watson asked, as hope bloomed in his chest. Perhaps Baker Street would be more welcoming than he had thought!

“Of course I have, Doctor,” Mrs. Everman replied primly. Her eyes darted to the waiting carriage driver, who was picking his nose and gazing at the sky in a bored fashion, before continuing. “She’s well aware of the situation and has made certain your rooms are just as they should be for your return. Honestly, gentlemen,” she sighed, wiping her eyes again to remove any traces of her earlier tears, now that she had control of herself. “She was quite upset that it took you so long to find your way, you know.”

Holmes’ eyes widened, bearing a distinct resemblance to a nighttime creature caught in unexpected lantern light.

“She was?” he asked softly, voice breaking on the last word.

“Very,” Mrs. Everman assured. “I’m certain she’ll have more to say when you get home.”

“I’m certain she will,” Holmes sighed, wincing in anticipation.

“Enough, you,” Mrs. Everman chastised, pulling Holmes closer for one final hug before pushing him gently away. “The two of you have to be going now, lest you miss your train. I expect to see you for Christmas, the both of you!”

“Of course!” Watson promised before Holmes could open his mouth. “And, if Mrs. Hudson has no prior engagement, perhaps she can come with us.”

He tried not to smile at Holmes’ look of horror, though he doubted he was successful as a moment later stout arms were wrapped around him in a fierce hug.

“You take care of that leg, Doctor,” Mrs. Everman said as she released him, sniffing carefully as a few tears managed to make their way past her control. “And take care of yourself. My Sherlock would be lost without you,” she added in a whisper meant for his ears only as she pulled him back and squeezed him once more.

“And I, him,” Watson assured, returning the hug for all he was worth. “I look forward to seeing you again, Mrs. Everman.”

There was a moment of stillness as all three prepared to go their ways, then Mrs. Everman was breaking the hold and shooing them both toward the carriage.

“Off with you now, and take care!” she called as they dutifully climbed into the waiting conveyance. The driver, happy to finally be on his way, clambered into his seat with haste. “Send me a telegram when you get home, young man! I mean it, Mr. Holmes!”

“I’ll make sure it’s done!” Watson called as the carriage began to move.

They waved their farewells until they had moved out of sight, then slowly sank back into their seats with weary sighs.

They were heading home.

***

“Where did we acquire so many things?” Holmes grumbled as he stumbled up the steps with the last box, sweat sliding down his cheek from his temple as he finally deposited his burden in the sitting room.

He leant against the doorjamb, panting, as he watched Watson rummage around one of the boxes and withdraw several books, looking as composed and put together as always. He wasn’t even sweating, Holmes thought bitterly.

“On the many excursions you insisted on,” Watson replied blandly, casting his friend an amused stare as he arranged the books easily onto one of the shelves. “I don’t think we managed to travel into town without picking something up. Honestly, Holmes, you were like a child in a sweet shop!”

“Yes, well, half of these are yours,” Holmes sighed, kicking the box out of his way as he finally closed the door and moved to collapse onto the settee, closing his eyes as he did so.

Gladstone, snuffling happily around the room as he reacquainted himself with Baker Street, whined piteously when he came upon his empty food dish.

“No,” Watson told him absently. “You ate on the train, boy.”

“Why are neither of you bothered by this damnable heat?” Holmes burst out, wiping sweat from his forehead in irritation.

“You know perfectly well why,” Watson said calmly, opening another box and retrieving a set of fragile teacups which were supposed to be a gift to their landlady. “If you’re that uncomfortable, Holmes, take a cool bath. You could use one, anyway.”

Holmes snorted, taking a guarded sniff of his arm as he did so. Perhaps Watson was right and some time soaking in temperate water would do him good.

“Very well, if you insist,” he sighed, grinning at the doctor’s rolled eyes. “Care to join me?”

“Holmes,” Watson warned, finally placing the tea cups to the side of the table for later wrapping. “Mrs. Hudson could return any moment, we don’t want to - even if she knows, we should still be circumspect.”

This time Holmes’ sigh was much more real, his shoulders sagging.

“Yes, I know,” he murmured, pushing himself to stand wearily. “I’ll be in the bath if you need me, probably for the next several hours if this blasted heat doesn’t let up.”

“It’s August in London, Holmes,” Watson laughed, finally taking pity on the other man and cupping his face in his hands as he leaned in for a brief kiss. “I doubt it’s going to let up any time soon.”

Holmes scowled at him even as he leaned in for a second kiss, nipping lightly at Watson’s lip in irritation.

“Go cool off,” Watson ordered, removing his hands to gently push Holmes in the direction of the bathroom. “You’ll feel better in clean clothes and a little relief.”

“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes murmured, wasting no more time as he began to shed his clothes, leaving a trail of garments until he was down to his small-clothes and starting the water.

When he finally sank up to his neck the relief was almost instantaneous. He allowed himself the luxury of simply laying back against the rim of the tub, dribbling water over his face and into his hair as he took several deep breaths.

The train ride had been uneventful, as had their cab right back to Baker Street. The temperature difference, however, had taken him by surprise, much to Watson’s amusement, and though they had only had six boxes and their two bags to bring in, it had felt much more.

Gladstone had been as good tempered as ever, taking the excursion in stride and behaving himself the entire journey. He had taken care of his business before departing Chichester, and so no accidents had caused undue embarrassment or interrupted their time together.

Whereas the first train journey had been fraught with too many things unspoken and Holmes’ own fear, the return had been companionable and peaceful, the two of them chatting easily before lapsing into silent contemplation of the scenic view passing outside their windows.

Uncertain of the reception they would receive, they had entered Baker Street cautiously, calling their presence into the unusual silence. A small maid they had never seen before had greeted them cheerfully, poking her head out of the kitchen.

“Hello!” she had exclaimed, quickly moving to greet them and wiping her hands on her apron. “Mrs. Hudson has gone to the market with Rachel but should be back soon. I’m Emily!”

“Hello, Emily,” Watson had answered, smiling charmingly. “When did you start?”

“Oh, a few weeks ago,” Emily answered airily, waving away the matter as little concern. “I’m making dinner now, it should be ready at about half seven, if that’s all right with you gentlemen?”

“Yes, thank you,” Holmes mumbled, hefting the box he held a bit higher and pushing his way past the two to make his way upstairs. “Nice meeting you,” he called, leaving any other social niceties for Watson to deal with.

His first glimpse of their sitting room had felt very much like the first time he had stepped through the door after his three year absence. The floors had been swept, his chemical table tidied, the books put away, and the papers disposed of. If not for the general clutter, the rooms would have looked respectable enough for any pair of bachelors living on their own, and certainly was acceptable enough for his practice, when he would resume it again.

He had stood there for a long minute, drinking in the sight of the familiar surroundings, before Watson’s tread on the stairs reminded him that he was blocking the door.

Gladstone had entered the room a moment before Watson, who deposited his own box on the floor with a scowl at Holmes for his rudeness.

“Come on, then,” was all he said, however. “We still have a few more things to bring up.”

Now, feeling the tension of the day drain from his body, Holmes felt as though he could breathe properly for the first time since that morning’s tearful goodbyes. He listened to the dim sounds of Watson putting the flat back in order, of boxes being relegated to either storage or rubbish, and then finally silence as his friend and lover finally settled down.

“Holmes! If you haven’t drowned in there, you may wish to come out,” Watson called, and Holmes started guiltily from what had nearly become a doze, splashing water over the sides of the tub.

“I’ll be out in a moment!” he called back, dunking his head under the water before a response could be given and scrubbing his hair thoroughly.

He washed quickly and then, towel wrapped about his waist, as he had forgotten to bring any clothes with him into the bathroom, made his way out into the sitting room.  Watson was standing just in the entrance of his bedroom, eyeing the door with a peculiar smile playing about his lips.

“Watson?” Holmes asked, making his way over to see what had so intrigued the other.

He stopped as soon as he was able to take in the room beyond, his mouth falling open in his surprise. Not only had the room been tidied, but a new bed had been installed in their absence, this one twice the size of the last and covered with a quilt that he was certain he had glimpsed in Mrs. Hudson’s room the few times he had approached her there.

New locks had been placed on the door, and thick drapes covered the windows, guaranteeing no light would be allowed to enter or escape the room.

“The same has been done to my room,” Watson said softly, his gaze riveted on the bed. “And when I checked the dressers, there’s a drawer empty in each.”

“This must be what Mrs. Everman was alluding to this morning, when she mentioned our rooms being made as they should.” Holmes swallowed as his gaze swept the room once more. “I must say, I could not have hoped for better.”

“I know,” Watson whispered. He leaned over and kissed Holmes chastely on the cheek, his eyes closed as he inhaled deeply of his scent. “You had best get dressed, it wouldn’t do to have all this hard work go to waste, would it?”

“No, no it wouldn’t,” Holmes agreed absently. He paused as he entered the room, smelling fresh linen and flowers from the open window. “We’re truly home, aren’t we, Watson?”

“Yes, we are,” Watson agreed.

He closed the door quietly behind him as he left Holmes to dress, and it was in something close to a daze that the detective did so.

***

Mrs. Hudson returned to Baker Street shortly before five, immediately making her way up the stairs to greet her tenants when alerted they had returned early. The new girl, Emily, was truly a gem, smiling cheerfully as she described the men’s apparent health and all the boxes they had brought back with them. The twinkle in her eyes as she mentioned how Mr. Holmes had thrown his clothes all about the room had just reaffirmed her decision to fire the last girls and hire new ones.

After all, Mr. Holmes dealt with such sensitive matters, it would not do to have a girl who could not be circumspect when the situation called for. Rachel, of course, had been one of the detective’s little urchins not too many years ago, and so of course could be trusted in all matters.

When she knocked on the door to the sitting room, tea tray held easily in her hands, she felt an unexpected flutter in her stomach as Dr. Watson opened the door, smiling brightly down at her as he motioned her in.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson,” he greeted brightly, taking the tray from her hands and setting it on the table. “You look lovely as always!”

“Thank you,” she returned, smiling as her eyes scanned the room quickly for her other tenant. She froze for just a moment when her eyes fell upon the small picture which had been placed on the mantel, the doctor and his deceased wife smiling happily back at her, before she turned her attention back to the man before her. “Has Mr. Holmes managed to drown himself in the bath yet, or is he saving that for one of his experiments?”

“You only wish, Nanny!”

She could not keep the smile from her face as she turned to see Mr. Holmes emerge from his room, looking nothing like the sickly man which had departed several months before. Dressed impeccably in a summer suit of white linen, his face freshly shaved and his hair tamed, he appeared the very definition of a gentleman. His eyes, which were usually filled with teasing good humor, seemed to sparkle, and his smile was more genuine than any she had seen in a very long time.

“I must say, Mr. Holmes, that country living seems to have agreed with you,” she managed to say, clearing her throat as she tried to regain her equilibrium and engage in their usual banter. “And the food, too, it seems.”

His scowl was purely for show, though the doctor’s laughter was free and easy as he made to pour them all a cup of tea.

“I believe that was due to the lovely Mrs. Everman’s feeding up,” he said as he presented her with a cup, made to her liking. “Ten pounds, wasn’t it, Holmes?”

“Eight,” Holmes growled as he tugged his jacket down self consciously.

“And it looks wonderful on you,” Watson murmured as he passed him his cup.

Holmes’ eyes softened, and he hastily took a sip of tea to cover his reaction. Mrs. Hudson smiled into her own cup and sipped delicately.

“Oh, we have a present for you!” Watson exclaimed, moving over to a lumpy, hastily wrapped parcel which he presented to her with all the charm he possessed.

“Thank you, Doctor, Mr. Holmes!”

Placing her cup back onto the table, she unwrapped the gift delicately, her delighted cry earning twin smiles as she examined the teacups appreciatively.

“Thank you!” she whispered again, and swallowed the lump in her throat quickly, giving a little cough as she did so, knowing she had not fooled either man. “Dinner will be served at half seven, gentlemen. Welcome home!”

If her exit seemed more hasty than was pardonable by good manners she knew neither man would blame her, and for a long moment she stood outside the door, trying to compose herself.

Her gentlemen had come home. They were both healthy and looked happier than she had seen either for too long to remember. Clutching her teacups to her chest like a prized treasure, she made her way silently down the stairs, knowing that everything was finally as it should be.

In the sitting room of 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson shared their first real kiss in what had been, and always would be, their home.

The End