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Fic: Soldier's Heart Part 14 of 15
Title: Soldier's Heart Part 14
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 .
His body ached in ways he had never thought to experience, his mind foggy with pleasure and exhaustion. He did not protest when Watson untangled himself and retrieved a damp flannel from the wash basin, tenderly cleaning him and taking special care of his intimate areas.
He had never known such exquisite pleasure in his life, not just with the act itself but with the knowledge that he had given Watson a part of himself no one else could ever claim. He truly belonged to the doctor now, in every way that was possible.
When warm arms closed around him he held onto them tightly, Watson’s front to his back as they lay on their sides, their breathing evening out slowly as the rush of their exertions finally started to recede.
“I love you,” he whispered sleepily, his limbs turning leaden with the pull of slumber.
“I love you, too.”
The words were breathed into his ear, a kiss placed tenderly against his neck, and then he knew no more.
***
He dreamt of waterfalls; of a sibilant voice fading into mocking laughter before morphing into a scream. It echoed around him, the very air thrumming with the cry, and when he tried to move, to block his ears, he found his body frozen.
When he woke, breath struggling to fill his chest, he found his limbs frozen, his sleep muddled mind trying to comprehend he was in no danger. An arm, warm and muscular, lay across his chest, and Watson’s deep, snuffling breaths puffed gently against the back of his neck.
Slowly his body relaxed, taking in the shadows of the room cast by the dying embers from the fire. Above the mantel a clock ticked, its steady rhythm reminiscent of a metronome.
Carefully he disentangled himself, wincing as a soreness in his backside reminded him of the acts the two had engaged in earlier. Despite the persistent memory-fear in his foggy brain he found himself smiling, lingering as he donned his dressing gown to allow his gaze to take in the lax features of his slumbering lover.
Watson remained deeply asleep, exhausted by their lovemaking. He was curled on his side, the arm which had been cast over Holmes stretched out before him. The duvet bunched under his arm, and his naked shoulders and chest were clearly visible.
Tenderly, Holmes drew the blanket around the doctor’s form, tucking it carefully under his chin to stave off any chill. Then, feet protected against the spring cold by his slippers, he made his way silently out the door.
He knew the hallways and side passages of the estate intimately. He had played with Mycroft in them from a very young age, and had spent many of his formative years exploring and memorizing the layout. If blindfolded he had no doubt he could make his way easily from any point to any point without a moment’s hesitation.
Now he put his knowledge to use and descended to the garden, easily avoiding the servants’ quarters and those still awake despite the hour. When he stepped out into the star filled night, cold air filled his lungs, a slight breeze caressing his face and teasing the hair at his temple.
To his left and hanging from an ornamental hook, a wind chime’s gentle tinkle floated across the small sanctuary. The trees which surrounded the garden and kept the worst of the wind at bay swayed, leaves rustling in accompaniment to the chimes.
Slowly, heedless of the mud from so many days of rain, Holmes made his way to the small stone bench his mother had placed along the well worn path. Though the garden was not large by many standards, it had always been a refuge in his family for those who sought to escape the world. Servants knew not to bother any who took solace in its sheltered isolation, and Holmes could remember often sitting for long periods in silence with his mother.
Now, feeling the chill from the bench seep past the thin material of his dressing gown and into his naked flesh, the last remnants of his nightmare faded away. Tension drained from his lithe frame, and though his body ached pleasantly in new and interesting places, he found the bench strangely comfortable.
His world filled with the night sounds of the estate, a music as comforting as it was unique. It seemed to come from all around him, from the chimes and the wind and his own breaths, settling into his bones until he was swaying in time with it.
He had once heard his father describe the sensation as being swallowed by a music box, and distantly he could only agree as each new chirp and rustle seemed to pluck upon the tines of his soul. It was an occurrence which happened seldom, but was all encompassing when it did.
He did not know how long he stayed sat on the bench, lost to the music only he could hear, but when a voice, frantic and lost, called his name, he opened his eyes and was immediately greeted by the sight of Watson. Dressed in trousers, shirt, shoes and dressing gown, the other man stood in the doorway, squinting into the darkness to make out his form, worry creasing his brow. The moment he caught sight of Holmes he seemed to relax, running a hand through his already disarrayed hair.
“Hello, Watson,” Holmes greeted, sighing in contentment as he stood, the sound of his feet squelching in the mud accompanying the creak of a wooden gate, the calling of a night bird.
“Holmes, thank God!” Watson exclaimed, running over to him and embracing him almost desperately. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Listening!” Holmes whispered, closing his eyes once more as Watson’s heartbeat, frantic and racing, thumped against his chest. His head rested against the other‘s collarbone, each breath a vibrating note that rose above the others. “It’s such a lovely night!” he whispered. “I wish you could hear it.”
“Hear what, Holmes?“ Watson asked softly, confusion and fear coloring his tone. “Are you naked under this?” Watson asked after a moment of silence, pulling back to take in his lover’s appearance, fingering the thin cloth of the dressing gown. “Good God, Holmes, you’re freezing! Come, we must get you inside before you catch your death!”
Holmes allowed himself to be led back into the house, Watson’s arms still securely around him. He blinked at the sudden light which filled the hallways, smiling almost vacantly as the music about him changed, the hiss of the gas lamps joining their footsteps and the footsteps of those who bustled around. Voices seemed to become a chorus, and he found himself stumbling to a halt, listening.
“Holmes, look at me!” Watson ordered, his gaze intent as the detective obeyed. “What did you take?”
There was more force in the question than the doctor had intended, but the vacant expression on his friend’s countenance frightened him more than he cared to admit. Waking to find the other man gone, the sheets cold and no sign of where he had got to had started doubts creeping into Watson’s mind. Fearful thoughts of Holmes being frightened by what they had done or hating Watson for taking things too fast had all skittered through his brain, chasing themselves down the ’what if’ paths until he had lurched from the bed and dressed hastily.
When no sight of his friend could be found along the corridor, he had set out downstairs, intent on searching every room of the estate if he had to. When he had nearly collided with Mrs. Everman, a cup of tea splashing across the floor in her surprise, he had not thought twice about asking for her help.
Now, nearly an hour after those first few moments of wakefulness, when battle trained senses had alerted him that something was wrong, he stared deeply into Holmes’ eyes, seeking any trace of chemical which he may have turned to, or regret clouding the eyes.
What he found was only sleepy confusion and the glazed, almost dreamy look that resembled, but was not quite, like a morphine torpor.
“Holmes? Did you take anything?” Watson demanded again, though more gently this time.
“Take?” Holmes asked, wrinkling his brow at Watson’s concern. “I haven’t taken anything, Watson.”
“You’ve found him, then!” Mrs. Everman’s voice interrupted the two of them as she came around the corner, Clara close behind. Both were dressed in their white nightgowns, the little maid holding a candle tightly in her hands as she followed the older woman. “Is he all right?”
“I’m not certain,” Watson admitted, allowing his intermingled worry and relief to show through by his grimacing smile. “He’s a bit - off.”
Mrs. Everman motioned Clara to move the light closer so she could look at Holmes, and when she saw his expression her worry seemed to drain out of her, leaving her smiling and pressing a hand to her chest.
"Oh, dear, he's like that, is he?” she laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of Holmes’ eyes. He smiled at her, cocking his head as though listening. “It’s all right, Doctor, this has happened before. We'll just get the bath for him, and you can put him to bed. He won't be making a lot of sense until the morning, I promise."
Holmes suddenly scowled, glaring at the woman. "I'm making complete sense!” he protested. “You just can't hear it, so it only sounds as though I'm not! I'm perfectly fine!"
“Yes, perfectly,” Watson sighed, rolling his eyes. “Come along, Holmes, I want to get you warmed up.”
Still scowling, lips turned down in a cross pout, Holmes allowed himself to be led back to the room, Mrs. Everman remaining behind while Clara took off to arrange for the bath.
“Honestly, Watson,” Holmes persisted as he was steered into the room, where servants were already hastily setting up the metal tub, yawning sleepily in their nightclothes as they scuttled around.
“Hush,” Watson murmured, tightening his grip around Holmes’ waist.
He sat them both down on the bed, making certain Holmes’ dressing gown was closed for modesty’s sake, though he doubted it would have bothered the servants otherwise. They all seemed to take being woken in the middle of the night to search for one of the masters of the estate with surprising equanimity, and not one of them batted an eye at Holmes’ mud covered feet or near nudity.
Clara entered a moment later, carrying a large bucket which steamed enticingly, and poured it with practiced ease into the tub. Several others followed, until in what was an extraordinary short time, the tub was filled halfway and ready.
Watson waited until the room cleared out, watching in surprise as Clara approached bashfully, smiling shyly at him before turning to Holmes and whispering, as though for the detective’s ears only, “Is the song different this time, Mr. Holmes?"
Holmes smiled up at her, his expression only slightly less vacuous as he sighed, “Yes. Yes, Clara, very different.”
Watson blinked in astonishment as her heart-shaped face burst into a delighted smile, her cheeks dimpling. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Holmes’ cheek, ducking her head at her impropriety.
"Good. Bout time you had a different melody," she whispered, turning swiftly and leaving, her bucket clanging slightly as it banged against her leg in her haste.
She closed the door behind her, still smiling brightly, and when Watson turned to ask Holmes what she had been talking about he found his friend smiling as well, seemingly pleased with the strange conversation.
Giving up on getting any coherent answers from anyone that night, Watson instead turned his attention to helping Holmes undress and settle in the tub. As he gently dribbled water over Holmes’ chest with his hand, sleeves dripping unheeded, he wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever stop being surprised by this man he loved.
He hoped not.
***
Holmes woke slowly, breathing deeply as he took in his surroundings without opening his eyes. The sheets beneath him were warm and smooth against his bare skin, reminding him that he had gone from bath to bed without dressing first. He shifted his head, enjoying the rasp of his hair against the pillow, the way it cradled his head.
In front of him and breathing softly, though not as deeply as if he were sleeping, he could sense Watson, much the way he suspected flowers could sense the sun. His lips turned up as he snuggled closer into the other’s warmth, blinking his eyes open to see the blue gaze regarding him fondly.
“Good morning,” Watson whispered softly, his face close enough to Holmes’ on the pillow that he could make out the pale eyelashes.
“Good morning,” Holmes responded, just as softly, and closed the distance between them to press his lips lightly against the other man’s.
He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation even as he listened for the stray notes which had permeated his senses last night. He was relieved to hear nothing more than the songbirds outside their window.
As if sensing his thoughts, Watson pulled back to regard him, searching his face.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Holmes smiled as he shifted, the tenderness in his backside reminding him once more of what had occurred between them.
“I love you,” he answered, smiling as Watson’s eyes crinkled around the corners in a relieved grin. “And although I fear I may be unable to sit comfortably for a few days, dear boy, I can only wonder when we may do it all over again?”
Watson laughed, burying his face into the pillow to muffle the sound, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head.
“Don’t ever change,” he murmured into the pillow, emerging only to gasp slightly and stare at Holmes in wonder. “You scared the hell out of me last night, I hope you realize,” he added, conversationally.
Holmes sighed, nodding his head.
“That wasn’t my intent,” he promised, moving to brush a hand through Watson’s tangled, disheveled hair. “I had simply wanted to slip out for a few moments to gather my thoughts. I was - distracted,” he added, reluctantly.
Watson regarded him, his face softening into the one he seemed to reserve solely for Holmes. It was part fond exasperation and part worry, a half smile which warred with a creased brow.
“Please don’t do it again,” he asked, covering Holmes’ hand with his own, stopping the caress. “I understand fully needing to be by one’s self, to contemplate momentous events without a second party intruding. But when I woke and found the sheets cold… “ Watson closed his eyes, visibly reliving the memory. “I had feared I had frightened you off, or that you had second thoughts. It was not - not a pleasant way to wake.”
“Forgive me, Watson,” Holmes hastened to ask, inching closer so that his knees brushed against the doctor’s, resting his forehead against the cool brow. “I had not intended to be gone so long, and - well, when I become as I was last night, I do not always have the best grasp of time.”
Watson could feel Holmes’ shoulders tense, as though prepared for him to question the strange condition which had overcome him. But Watson had learned long ago the value of patience, especially in things concerning the detective, and only kissed him softly.
“When you are ready, you can tell me about it.”
Holmes sighed, his shoulders easing back from around his ears, and pressed his nose into the crease of Watson’s neck. Watson released the hand he still covered and reciprocated the motion of running his hand through sleep disarrayed hair.
For a long time they remained thus, entangled and silent, simply enjoying the other’s company. Watson could not help the smile that seemed to keep trying to escape, and Holmes, who could read his thoughts as easily as ever, understood why.
Holmes was his now in every way that mattered. He did not doubt for an instant that no other would ever belong as he did to Watson again. Knowing this, and knowing his doctor, he was certain Watson would be even more protective and mother hennish than ever.
As fingers slowly carded through his hair and down his cheek, Holmes found he did not truly mind that in the least. After all, he reminded himself rather ruefully, he was probably going to be just as, if not more so, invested in his friend’s well being.
***
It was only when Holmes’ stomach rumbled and Watson’s bladder began to make him shift uncomfortably that they parted, each going about their morning ablutions in languid motions. They lingered over dressing, kissing and caressing and basically being a hindrance to each other, until they deemed themselves respectable and left the privacy of their rooms.
When they settled at the breakfast table the servants bustled about as usual, none of them mentioning Holmes’ strange episode, and Watson found his curiosity piqued despite himself. He watched as Mrs. Everman smiled tenderly at his friend as she set the teapot before him, absently smoothing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead before departing.
“Have a good meal, gentlemen,” she said as she left, her fond expression taking in both men.
Watson contemplated his toast as he buttered it with more focus than was necessary, more than willing to follow the others’ lead and let the subject lie a while longer. When he caught Holmes watching him out of the corner of his eye, nibbling on his own meal, he knew he had made the correct decision in not pressing the issue.
“What would you like to do today?” he asked instead, and smiled smugly at the surprised expression which crossed Holmes’ features. “We could go for a walk, or a ride, if you - oh, perhaps not,” he added as Holmes winced at the idea, shifting slightly in his chair.
“I think, perhaps, a carriage ride,” Holmes suggested, taking a delicate sip of his tea. “You haven’t been around the village yet, and there is a bookstore I think you would enjoy. Not to mention, a lovely café we can enjoy lunch at.”
“Wonderful!” Watson exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the thought of leaving the relative isolation of the estate.
Though the peace and solitude had done wonders for Holmes’ nerves, not to mention their relationship, Watson figured it was time for them to venture out into public once more, if only for a short time. Holmes thrived around people normally, and if he could increase his tolerance for large crowds, by the time they returned to London he would have an easier time escaping such attacks as prompted the retreat in the first place.
“I’m certain one of the others can arrange for Gladstone to have his daily constitutional, and we can set out after we’re done eating,” Watson thought aloud, absently sucking marmalade off his finger.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed, eyes riveted to the finger in Watson’s mouth.
Both men blushed when they realized what they were doing, and turned hastily back to their meals, coughing and shifting as they regained their composure. Watson could not help, however, the smile which played about his lips at the slight blush which continued to tinge Holmes’ cheeks long after his attention had been diverted.
***
They returned to the estate at nearly half two, each bearing a parcel of books from the seller Holmes had suggested, and a few other items they had picked up while idly strolling through the village.
Though Holmes had shown no sign of the anxiety which had descended on him so suddenly in London, Watson had been certain to keep an eye on him, and had insisted they return after lunch. He was glad of the decision now as Holmes sleepily fell onto the settee in the library, curling up into his familiar position and asleep by the time Watson had settled himself in his own chair with his book.
The doctor did not remain seated for long, however. After only a quarter hour he carefully set the book aside and crept from the room, making sure to close the door securely behind him. He did not wish his friend’s slumber disturbed, and he did not wish to be interrupted while he sought the answers to last night’s strange events.
It did not take him long to find Clara, humming happily to herself as she scrubbed the corridor they had all converged at last night, erasing all traces of the mud they had trampled in.
“Clara?” Watson called softly, standing just outside the section she had already cleaned, her head jerking back to look at him with large, startled eyes.
Her expression turned at once to a brilliant smile as she stood, wiping her hands on her apron as she made her way to him, curtseying smartly even as her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Hello, Doctor,” she greeted him cheerfully. “How is Mr. Holmes doin’ today?”
“He’s very well, thank you,” he assured, his own smile turning rueful as he looked down at her. “In fact,” he added, running a hand over his mustache thoughtfully, “he’s the reason I would like to speak to you, if you have a few moments. I promise I won’t take you away from your work.”
“I can always spare a few moments,” she assured cheekily, her dimples showing once more as she cast a disdainful glare at the bucket. “’Specially when it comes to the floors!”
He laughed, and motioned her to the small alcove where several jackets were hung and mud covered boots decorated the floor. She watched him curiously as he absently straightened one of the coats, patient with a grace beyond her years and upbringing.
She was not the smallest maid in the house, and certainly not the youngest, but the deprivations of the street had taken their toll on her stature, and her delicate frame barely came to his shoulder. She had been one of the first female Irregulars he had ever met, and had quickly disillusioned him to any thoughts that her sex impaired her ability to work for his friend. She had also, much to her chagrin, been one of his patients, and had seemed to look at him with more trust than any other besides Holmes since that time.
He was happy to see her thriving, and cleared his throat as he broached the subject.
“Clara, last night you asked Holmes if the song was different. What did you mean by that?” he asked, leaning against the wall and folding his hands.
She nodded, as though she had been expecting the question, and deliberately turned her attention to one of the boots at her feet, going to her knees as she picked up the brush that had hidden beside it and beginning to clean it.
“It was just after you was married,” she began, looking up at him from beneath her lashes to gauge his reaction, clearing her throat when he nodded for her to continue. “I was with Marble, helpin’ him find some bricks Mr. Holmes was interested in. It was late, very dark like, when we saw him.”
She paused, both in her speech and her movements, the brush resting against the wrinkled, cracked leather. She gazed at the floor, frowning at the memory.
“At first we thought maybe he was drunk,” she continued, her tone quieter than before. When she resumed the careful brush strokes they were softer, more deliberate and evenly paced. Watson watched the movement, mesmerized, his complete attention on her words. “When he got closer we saw he was swayin’ a bit and figured it might be a good idea to make sure he got home safe. But he saw us and -” She paused, swallowed hard and put more pressure behind the brushstrokes.
“He took our hands like we was his kids and led us back to Baker Street, humming all the way, as though he had just come from a concert. But Marble and me, we both knew he had been to the boxing ring, as he was cut up in the face and his knuckles were all bloody. He didn’t smell of drink, though, and when we got inside he talked to the old- um, the landlady,” she corrected herself quickly, earning a grin from Watson and a motion for her to continue. “Well, he greeted her all nice and gentlemanly, and then took us both upstairs. I don’t think she approved, said it was too late to have us littles up, but he ignored her and told her he had a treat for us.”
She paused once more, looking up to Watson as though to make certain she had his attention. When he nodded, she set the boot and brush aside, folding her hands in her lap and gazing at them intently.
“He took out his violin, said he wanted us to share what he was hearin’. We didn’t understand, as there was no music playin’, and that’s when he - when he told us.” She closed her eyes, as though to better remember the exact words. “He said, the music was too loud that night, that it wouldn’t go away. And he wanted someone to hear it with him. So he played for us, and - and my Lord, Doctor,” she breathed, shaking her head. When she gazed back up at him he nearly flinched at the pinched look on her face. “It was the saddest thing I ever heard! It kept goin’ for near an hour before he seemed to remember we was there, and it was so late that he had us sleep on the floor by the fire so’s we wouldn’t get in trouble on the streets. He curled up on the couch like he does, and hummed all night.”
She paused, as though uncertain whether to continue, but at Watson’s nod she let out a deep sigh and stood, brushing her skirts and avoiding his gaze.
“He was cryin’ in his sleep, like a little kid does when they’re too tired to cry awake. And when he woke up and saw us, I think he had totally forgotten about what happened, ‘cause he looked all surprised like.” She paused, took a deep breath, and met Watson’s gaze fully for the first time. “Every time after I saw him, I asked if he still heard the song, and he said yes, and would hum a bit to me.”
She smiled suddenly, her eyes lighting up once more.
“But last night - last night he heard a different song! And I ain’t never seen him so happy, Doctor!” she added earnestly, moving shyly past Watson back to her scrubbing. “I’m so happy for you both, Dr. Watson, if I may say so.”
“Thank you, Clara,” Watson murmured, returning her smile as she resumed her work and he turned to head back to the library.
He was lost in thought as he settled himself once more before the fireplace, empty now that the weather had settled into a gentle warmth during the day. Absently he stroked his mustache, his gaze going unbidden to Holmes’ sleeping form, snoring softly on the couch.
He had lived with the detective for nearly ten years, and not once had he seen an episode as he had witnessed the night before, or heard described to him. According to Clara, the one she had seen had taken place shortly after his marriage, probably within the three month span when he had been too busy establishing his practice and settling his house to visit.
Guilt flickered briefly in his gut and he forced it down, determined not to dwell on the past. What was done was done, and nothing could change it. But gazing steadily at his sleeping friend, he could only wonder what else had occurred in his absence.
***
The next day dawned brightly, the sun already casting warmth into the bedroom as Holmes stirred lazily amongst the sheets. Beside him, still slumbering deeply, Watson snored on, his nose wrinkling slightly as Holmes impishly tickled it very gently with a corner of the sheet.
The two of them had spent a quiet evening the previous night, sharing brandy and cigars in the library until late, when they had retired to collapse haphazardly into the bed, barely awake enough to strip off their jackets, collars and cuffs before giving up on the rest of the attire.
It had only been several hours later, when the light outside the window was nothing more than a thick velvet, that Watson had woken him up and insisted they both undress properly.
Holmes had told him, quite emphatically, what he had thought of the idea, the exact phrasing of which brought a smile to his face now as he once more tickled his friend’s nose, smirking at Watson’s grimace as the other man turned his head, snuffling deeply in a sound suspiciously close to one a pig would make.
Holmes buried his head in the pillow, trying to stifle his laughter as he ceased his teasing, shoulders shaking silently as he struggled not to giggle out loud. Only when he had regained some control of himself did he settle down, one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, as he lazily watched Watson sleep.
He was content.
The knowledge gentled his expression into something more mysterious and fond. Those who had glimpsed the Mona Lisa would have recognized it, a secret turning of his lips that was meant for one person only.
Gently, Holmes ran his finger, feather light, along Watson’s eyebrow, tracing the delicate arch of bone and skin. Memorizing once more the face of the man who held his heart.
He had despaired, once, of ever feeling anything other than misery again. Carried his pain with him as a talisman against the dark, warding off the hopelessness and black moods which had plagued him before that wretched time of hiding. He had imagined himself noble, prostrate upon cold stone floors and dusty straw.
Now, lazing in a bed of rumpled sheets with dust motes dancing in the early morning sunbeams, he realized how truly unhappy he had been. A part of his soul, and all of his heart, had been left behind while he ran.
He was thankful the person who kept both had cherished them so thoroughly.
He was not healed, though. The lingering traces of pain which assaulted him at unknown intervals, the flinches he could not suppress and the nightmares which haunted him were all proof of this. But as Watson had cautioned repeatedly, his full recovery would take time.
He snorted ruefully to himself, finding himself grinning as Watson echoed the sound and turned in his sleep, grumbling something under his breath before huffing into Holmes’ hair.
Once more laughter threatened, and any lasting doubts which hung over the happiness that burbled in his chest vanished.
He was not used to being patient with himself. But, with Watson’s example to guide him (for who was more patient where it really counted than his beloved?) he knew that his body would once more be restored to him.
As if in agreement, Watson snorted again, jerking slightly as he did so before blinking dazed, sleep drugged eyes. When he turned his head his nose rubbed against Holmes’ neck, and the detective could not refrain any longer and found himself chuckling, shoulders shaking.
“What?” Watson mumbled, his mustache and lips warm and ticklish against Holmes’ sensitive skin, producing more laughter. “Do you find something funny?” he asked, and even though he could not know what had set his friend off, his own laughter tinged his words. “Am I amusing?” he persisted.
With a quickness Holmes had not expected, (though he probably should have, he ruefully thought later) Watson was on him, tickling his sides with a ruthlessness bordering on single-mindedness. Holmes’ sudden undignified squeals devolved into loud cries for mercy interspersed with full body laughs, his thin frame shaking as he struggled half-heartedly to get away.
“I don’t see anything amusing this morning,” Watson gasped, his fingers unerringly finding Holmes’ most sensitive spots. He had the other man pinned beneath him, his knees planted on either side of Holmes’ thighs as he tickled him.
Finally, after several minutes of laughter on both their parts, Watson’s fingers gentled, becoming caresses rather than sharp prods, his hands lingering over warm skin, Holmes’ nightshirt gaping open at the chest.
Holmes’ hands roamed over Watson’s shoulders, down his arms and then back again, eyes turning dark in arousal as he pushed himself up to capture Watson’s lips with his own.
They kissed languidly, exploring each others’ mouths and bodies. Their nightshirts were quickly discarded, and cheeks which had been flushed with laughter and mirth were now blushing with passion.
“My dear boy, you have no idea what you do to me,” Watson panted heavily against Holmes’ lips.
“Oh, I think I can imagine,” Holmes growled, his hand moving down to the doctor‘s fully aroused member. “Why Watson, you positively scintillate this morning,” he laughed.
“I’ll show you scintillation,” Watson replied, and reciprocated Holmes’ action, adjusting them until they were laying facing each other.
He gently removed Holmes’ hand, moving so that his leg was thrown over Holmes’ hip, and grasped them both. His strokes were steady and even, their breath harsh in the early hour’s quiet, and when they came it was with matching moans of need and desperation.
For several minutes they lay completely still, gasping for breath as their hearts beat rapidly in their chests. Then Watson turned to regard Holmes and kissed him lazily, almost sloppily.
“What were you laughing about earlier?” he asked.
Holmes burst out laughing again, and no amount of prodding could get him to answer.
***
Mycroft and his three charges arrived shortly after half two that afternoon, their carriage drawn by two sturdy horses whose hooves churned up dust along the lane. Holmes, along with Watson, Mrs. Everman, Clara and a young man Watson did not recognize, waited patiently on the steps.
“Anthony,” Holmes murmured beside him, his voice nearly too soft to be heard above the sounds of the carriage.
“Beg pardon?” Watson asked, turning startled eyes to his friend, the name seeming to come from nowhere.
“The young man with Clara is Anthony. He was one of mine after you were married,” Holmes explained, once more having read Watson’s thoughts with disconcerting accuracy.
Watson did not have a chance to reply, however, as the carriage came to a halt and a long-limbed, slightly awkward youth stumbled out, followed quickly by two others. All three were freshly shorn and scrubbed, tugging absently at clothes still stiff with newness.
Watson immediately recognized Jasper, the young man who had summoned him so frantically the day of Holmes’ collapse, his red hair and freckles making him appear younger than his companions. They stood to either side of him, one dark hair and fair skinned, the other brown and plain. All three regarded the house above them with slightly dazed eyes, taking in the grounds and obvious wealth with an awe that Watson could well appreciate.
Behind them the carriage rocked as Mycroft heaved his ponderous bulk down the single step, landing heavily on the gravel with a relieved sigh. He adjusted his clothes as he did so, taking in the welcoming party with a single look and his wide face breaking out into a grin at the sight of his brother.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed, and there was no feigned joy in his features or his voice as his gaze swept his younger brother from head to toe. “You are looking remarkably well!”
Smiling broadly, Holmes moved from his place beside Watson and made his way to his elder sibling, pausing before embracing him briefly and then stepping back a pace. For a silent minute both sets of Holmes’ eyebrows performed a strange dance, raising and falling in reply to unspoken comments and rebuttals. Then, to the doctor’s amazement, Sherlock’s face turned a deep pink, Mycroft’s left eyebrow rising nearly to his hairline.
This seemed to be the end of the silent exchange, because Mycroft then swept his brother into another hug, holding him tightly for a moment before whispering something into his ear. Holmes’ blush deepened, but was tempered by the smile which had not faded, and Watson had a feeling that in a single glance, Mycroft had learned all the two of them had been up to since their arrival. His own cheeks heated at the thought, and he found himself bowing his head as he tried to master his embarrassment.
Someone cleared their throat noisily, bringing all attention to Mrs. Everman as she made her way slowly down the stairs, beaming at the brothers as she did so. Holmes stepped back from Mycroft’s side, his cheeks still flushed, and Watson could not help but be grateful to the elderly housekeeper for saving them all from what could have been an awkward experience.
“Welcome home, Master Mycroft,” she said, pausing a moment for her own silent exchange of eyebrow raising. “If you’ve no complaint, I’ll take the young men inside now and get them settled. Your tea is prepared and set up in the sitting room.”
“Mrs. Everman, I would be lost without you,” Mycroft sighed, moving forward to wrap his large arms gingerly around her stout frame.
There was something infinitely tender in the elder Holmes’ movements, as though he feared to break the small woman who came barely to his chest. Both brothers wore similar expressions of fondness when he released her, and once more Watson found himself wondering at this heretofore hidden aspect of his friend’s family life.
Mrs. Everman patted her hair, smiling at the brothers before turning her attention to the three boys, who had moved themselves several steps away from the trio, watching with round, uncertain eyes.
She took in their appearance, inspecting them as closely as any officer had ever inspected Watson’s old regiment, absently straightening a waistcoat or brushing dust off a shoulder.
Behind them, watching fondly as any parent, Sherlock Holmes beamed proudly. Though he would never have children of his own, Watson knew, more so now than ever, that his little army of urchins was as close to offspring as the detective would ever get.
A pain, gentled now with the passing of time, fluttered briefly in the doctor’s chest before fading. He and Mary had never truly discussed children. There had always been more pressing matters, such as new drapes for the drawing room, or a new case with Holmes. Then Holmes had died, and Mary had become sickly, and the matter had perished with her.
Watching his friend, and seeing the lads standing bravely in the face of unknown challenges ahead, Watson suddenly found himself wondering if his friend would object to his placing a good word to some of his colleagues. There were many jobs in hospitals, after all, for those who could read and write. And even some very simple medical positions which could lead to further learning, if any of the children were so inclined.
Deciding to bring the matter up later, possibly that night in bed, Watson found himself suddenly alone on the steps, Clara and the young man who had stood beside her leaving him at a quick hand motion from Mrs. Everman. They did so with such prideful expressions on their face that Watson had to cover his mouth to hide his smile.
“I think you lads will do fine,” Mrs. Everman finally said approvingly. “Clara and Anthony will be able to help if you have any questions, and Anthony will be your main tutor for the foreseeable future.” She turned once more to the Holmes brothers, raising an eyebrow.
“Mind your manners and what Mrs. Everman tells you, gentlemen. Remember, you represent myself and my brother,” Holmes said sternly.
The boys nodded their heads earnestly as they chorused, “Yes, Mr. Holmes!”
The little troupe filed back inside, Clara and Anthony leading the way with the newcomers following gratefully, Mrs. Everman bringing up the rear. She smiled at Watson as she passed him, patting his shoulder as she did so and then closing the door behind her, leaving the three men to finish their reunion.
“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greeted warmly, holding out his hand.
“Mr. Holmes,” Watson answered cheerfully, making his way down the steps and grasping the large appendage, shaking it heartily.
“I see that you have taken excellent care of my brother, thank you,” Mycroft continued, smiling broadly. There was a knowing gleam to the elder Holmes’ face, and once more Watson felt his own heat up. “I have not seen Sherlock look so well in a very long time, and I know it is all due to your influence.”
Mycroft covered the hand he still held with his other, and the doctor could not deny the earnest thanks he found in the other man’s eyes.
“Enough, Mycroft,” Holmes chided, his own cheeks colored at the compliment and the things his brother’s speech alluded to. “Come inside so we can have our tea, I know you have been looking forward to Mrs. Everman’s cakes.”
“Brother, any man who has tasted of Mrs. Everman’s cakes could not find fault with that,” Mycroft laughed, finally releasing Watson and gesturing for both men to precede him into the house. “But you are correct, I have been eagerly looking forward to catching up with you two, and it seems there is much to tell.”
Though the elder Holmes’ tone was teasing, there was an edge to it that promised evasive answers would not be tolerated. Watson knew Mycroft to be too well bred to mention anything so crass as sex at the table, but he was certain that the new relationship would at least be mentioned in passing.
***
Tea passed amicably, the brothers chatting between themselves with Watson interjecting when called for. He could tell, by the length of pauses, raised eyebrows and subtle changes in tone that the two were having a conversation entirely their own, and for once was quite happy to be excluded.
No mention, passing or otherwise, was made of their relationship, and Watson found a tension in his shoulders easing he had not been aware of. He doubted the matter would be allowed to rest, but for the moment he was content to leave Holmes to deal with his sibling.
Afterward, while Mycroft settled into his rooms, which were located near the opposite side of the house than their own, Holmes took his arm and led him outside for a leisurely stroll.
They passed several minutes in silence, enjoying the pleasant weather and each other’s presence, before Watson felt comfortable breaking the peace.
“I take it that your brother does not mind, but am I to receive a speech in the near future about the proper tending of you?” he asked, keeping his tone deliberately lighthearted despite his honest trepidation.
Sensing as always the question beneath the question, Holmes squeezed Watson’s arm and steered him over to a well worn stone bench where he sat, bringing Watson with him. Rose bushes and trees obscured them from prying eyes as Holmes kissed him tenderly, the hand not tucked into the crook of Watson’s elbow cupping the doctor’s cheek.
“Mycroft knows that without you I do not function well,” Holmes observed softly once they broke apart. His hand lingered a moment longer on Watson’s cheek before moving to take his hand. “He will not threaten or bully you, or ask for details. He will, in all likelihood, pull you aside for a quiet word to make certain you are comfortable with the situation and that I am treating you well.”
This last was said with only a tinge of annoyance, and Holmes refused to meet Watson’s gaze, staring instead at their entwined fingers.
“You must be completely honest with him,” he urged. “He will know if you speak false, or if you have any reservations. Please do not feel that you are obliged to lie in any way or form, for Mycroft is as discreet as any man, and has kept secrets far worse than ours. If you - If there is something you would like to say, but feel hesitant for fear of my well being, then you should let him know, and he -”
Watson broke off the speech with a kiss, capturing Holmes’ lips in a fierce, possessive meeting that had the other man stuttering to a stop. Watson did not allow him to continue when he felt the detective start to pull away, chasing him instead to press his advantage, their tongues twisting and dancing together until they were breathless and had to stop to catch their breaths.
He rested his forehead against Holmes’, eyes closed as he slowly untangled both his hands and moved them to card through his friend’s hair, cupping the back of his head gently.
“Please believe me when I say that if I had any reservations or worries I would not take them to a third party. I know you, Holmes,” he whispered fiercely, punctuating the words with a tightening of his hands around the black strands entangled in his fingers. “The good, the bad, and everything in between. And it is because I know you that I love you!”
He could feel Holmes’ breath upon his lips, the flutter of his lashes against his cheek, they were pressed so close together. He could not miss the tiny shudder that ran though him at his words, but he did not comment, moving his hands instead to the bony shoulders, rubbing and soothing the tension which never seemed to leave.
“I would be lost without you,” Holmes whispered softly, the words almost too low to be heard despite their proximity. “Was lost,” he added, reluctantly.
“And now you have me again. I’m not going anywhere, Holmes,” Watson assured, placing another kiss to the soft, warm lips and moving to wrap his arms into a proper hug.
“Good,” Holmes sighed, resting his head on Watson’s shoulder, hair brushing the other’s chin.
They remained in their secluded alcove for nearly a quarter hour, holding each other and kissing as the urge took them. Only when the bench began to become uncomfortable did they resume their walk, the air, already filled with the sounds of birds and the warmth of spring, seeming more enjoyable with each step.
***
It was nearing five when they returned to the house, cheeks flushed from the sunshine and each other, and were told promptly that dinner would be served at seven and they were to keep out of the way, if they would be so kind.
Always one to understand and comply with his marching orders, Watson dragged Holmes back to their room for a passionate encounter which left them both breathless and pleasantly sated.
After, they had just enough time to wash and dress, eliminating the traces of their lovemaking and becoming presentable once more. Holmes adjusted Watson’s tie as they finished donning their clothes, running a hand almost absently through his lover’s hair. Watson returned the gesture, taming the wild mane easily and then spending several minutes tugging and smoothing the material of his jacket until it met with his approval.
“Shall we?” Holmes asked, holding out his arm.
“With pleasure!” Watson agreed.
The two of them descended the stairs side by side, the mouth watering smells coming from the kitchen enough to make even Holmes’ stomach growl.
“It appears Mrs. Everman has gone out of her way,” Watson observed when they entered the dinning room, eyebrows raised at the sight before him.
The table was set elegantly and far more formally than any of their previous meals. Flowers and settings of fine china accented by elegant silverware marked their places, and for a moment the two men simply stood and admired the view.
“Yes, well, Mycroft always did like a bit of pomp,” Holmes finally sniffed.
“It’s tradition!” Mrs. Everman’s voice called from the other room, followed a moment later by the woman herself, carrying a large covered dish. “It’s only one night, Mr. Holmes, and you enjoy it as much as your brother,” she chided.
“You know me too well, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes agreed easily, taking the dish from her and placing it near the head of the table.
“As well she should, brother,” Mycroft greeted from the doorway, making his way slowly over to the table, his eyes twinkling as his lips quirked appreciatively. “Mrs. Everman, it looks marvelous!” he enthused, bending down to kiss a wrinkled cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself!”
“Oh, stop, you,” she laughed, blushing. “Sit down, gentlemen, and dinner will be out shortly!”
She hurried from the room, cheeks still tinged pink and her mouth turned up in merriment, as the men followed instructions and took their seats.
Mycroft sat at the head of the table with Holmes to his right and Watson to his left, all three settling easily and without discussion. The elder Holmes took in their appearance and raised a single eyebrow, his smile growing into what on any other man might be called “naughty.” Watson felt his cheeks flush, though he had been certain there was no trace of their previous activities on their person or appearance.
“I must say, Sherlock, that fresh air agrees remarkably with you! Why, you seem positively glowing tonight!” was all Mycroft said.
Holmes glared, the blush slowly creeping across his cheeks and down his neck the only sign that he was as embarrassed as Watson.
“Thank you, brother. In all honesty I have never felt so invigorated! Perhaps you should attempt to gain some fresh air yourself while you are here.”
Watson choked on the mouthful of wine he had been drinking, nearly spitting it across the table and onto the offender, who merely turned an innocent expression his way.
“I say, Doctor, are you all right?” Mycroft asked, patting his back helpfully until he was able to regain his breath.
“Yes, sorry, I’m fine,” Watson coughed, wiping his mouth delicately with his napkin as he attempted to regain his composure. “Went down the wrong way, that’s all.”
Sherlock’s grunt as his boot connected with his shin was quite satisfying, and he ignored the little smirk playing about Mycroft’s lips as Holmes scowled.
“Tell me, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, once he was certain Watson was recovered, “how fare the paths this year? I haven’t been out to inspect them myself in years, but Mrs. Everman told me you have been making use of them quite frequently.”
If Watson had not known him he never would have noticed the slight hesitation of his friend’s answer, or the way his eyes darkened as he graced his brother with a cheerful smile.
“They are well tended, Mycroft. Just the other day Watson and I took the horses for a ride down to the pond and found the way terrifically scenic. The good doctor is always after me to exercise more and has been having his way with me quite frequently recently, haven’t you, Watson?”
This time Watson was certain he left a bruise with the force of his kick to Holmes’ shin, but he managed to smile innocently even as he felt heat rush to his cheeks once more. Damn his Scottish complexion!
“Yes, I have,” Watson replied easily, happy that his voice sounded perfectly normal. “Although I think that perhaps for the next few days we may have to relent on the exercise for a bit, as I wouldn’t want to strain your endurance. Fresh air is marvelous for recovery, but so is plenty of quiet.”
Holmes’ eyes widened in alarm, and Mycroft was suddenly overcome with a coughing fit, his pudgy cheeks turning red as he turned his head and attempted to cover the sounds with his fist.
“Are you all right?” Watson asked, eyes glinting with mischief as he returned Mycroft’s earlier gesture and patted his back.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Mycroft managed to gasp out, tears escaping his eyes as he continued to cough, the fit seeming to become worse whenever he chanced to glance at his brother’s annoyed countenance. “Dear me, I do hope there isn’t anything catching,“ he finally managed to say, the fit seeming to have passed. “I wouldn’t wish to try your patience, Doctor. Goodness knows that one Holmes under your care is quite enough!”
“Yes, Mycroft, I agree.” Holmes’ voice was so patently filled with false sympathy that Watson had to fight the urge to kick him again. “Poor Watson is stuck with me for probably the rest of his life, and one Holmes is enough for any man.”
“True, true,” Mycroft agreed, and something about this expression softened, the teasing tone of his voice exchanged for something far more gentle. “Well, I dare say that if any man is equipped to deal with Sherlock it would be you, Doctor Watson. I know he’s in the best of hands, and it does put my mind to rest knowing you are there for him.”
Watson swallowed hard, hoping his expression was sufficiently neutral to continue the ruse that the conversation in any way resembled one of innocence and not matters considered illegal.
“I do my best,” was all he managed to get out before Mrs. Everman bustled through the door, followed by several of the servants, each bearing a dish.
“Ahh! Dinner!” Mycroft exclaimed, clapping his hands as the table was slowly ladened down, the smell of roast chicken filling the room.
“Enjoy the meal, gentlemen,” Mrs. Everman urged, pausing long enough to pat Mycroft’s shoulder as she passed.
All three turned their attention to the food before them, even Holmes filling his plate to a respectable degree. Wine was poured and, after each glass was topped, Mycroft rose with more grace than one would expect from such a cumbrous frame. He lifted his glass, the other two diners following suit.
“Too seldom has this table graced more than myself and my work associates. I am thankful that tonight not only is my brother here to join me in what I’m certain is going to be a fabulous meal, but that you are as well, Doctor Watson. Welcome to the family, and may there be many more such meals to come!”
“Hear, hear!” both men chorused, all three touching their glasses together before sitting down once more.
It was, as Mycroft predicted, a wonderful meal.
***
Part 15
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 .His body ached in ways he had never thought to experience, his mind foggy with pleasure and exhaustion. He did not protest when Watson untangled himself and retrieved a damp flannel from the wash basin, tenderly cleaning him and taking special care of his intimate areas.
He had never known such exquisite pleasure in his life, not just with the act itself but with the knowledge that he had given Watson a part of himself no one else could ever claim. He truly belonged to the doctor now, in every way that was possible.
When warm arms closed around him he held onto them tightly, Watson’s front to his back as they lay on their sides, their breathing evening out slowly as the rush of their exertions finally started to recede.
“I love you,” he whispered sleepily, his limbs turning leaden with the pull of slumber.
“I love you, too.”
The words were breathed into his ear, a kiss placed tenderly against his neck, and then he knew no more.
***
He dreamt of waterfalls; of a sibilant voice fading into mocking laughter before morphing into a scream. It echoed around him, the very air thrumming with the cry, and when he tried to move, to block his ears, he found his body frozen.
When he woke, breath struggling to fill his chest, he found his limbs frozen, his sleep muddled mind trying to comprehend he was in no danger. An arm, warm and muscular, lay across his chest, and Watson’s deep, snuffling breaths puffed gently against the back of his neck.
Slowly his body relaxed, taking in the shadows of the room cast by the dying embers from the fire. Above the mantel a clock ticked, its steady rhythm reminiscent of a metronome.
Carefully he disentangled himself, wincing as a soreness in his backside reminded him of the acts the two had engaged in earlier. Despite the persistent memory-fear in his foggy brain he found himself smiling, lingering as he donned his dressing gown to allow his gaze to take in the lax features of his slumbering lover.
Watson remained deeply asleep, exhausted by their lovemaking. He was curled on his side, the arm which had been cast over Holmes stretched out before him. The duvet bunched under his arm, and his naked shoulders and chest were clearly visible.
Tenderly, Holmes drew the blanket around the doctor’s form, tucking it carefully under his chin to stave off any chill. Then, feet protected against the spring cold by his slippers, he made his way silently out the door.
He knew the hallways and side passages of the estate intimately. He had played with Mycroft in them from a very young age, and had spent many of his formative years exploring and memorizing the layout. If blindfolded he had no doubt he could make his way easily from any point to any point without a moment’s hesitation.
Now he put his knowledge to use and descended to the garden, easily avoiding the servants’ quarters and those still awake despite the hour. When he stepped out into the star filled night, cold air filled his lungs, a slight breeze caressing his face and teasing the hair at his temple.
To his left and hanging from an ornamental hook, a wind chime’s gentle tinkle floated across the small sanctuary. The trees which surrounded the garden and kept the worst of the wind at bay swayed, leaves rustling in accompaniment to the chimes.
Slowly, heedless of the mud from so many days of rain, Holmes made his way to the small stone bench his mother had placed along the well worn path. Though the garden was not large by many standards, it had always been a refuge in his family for those who sought to escape the world. Servants knew not to bother any who took solace in its sheltered isolation, and Holmes could remember often sitting for long periods in silence with his mother.
Now, feeling the chill from the bench seep past the thin material of his dressing gown and into his naked flesh, the last remnants of his nightmare faded away. Tension drained from his lithe frame, and though his body ached pleasantly in new and interesting places, he found the bench strangely comfortable.
His world filled with the night sounds of the estate, a music as comforting as it was unique. It seemed to come from all around him, from the chimes and the wind and his own breaths, settling into his bones until he was swaying in time with it.
He had once heard his father describe the sensation as being swallowed by a music box, and distantly he could only agree as each new chirp and rustle seemed to pluck upon the tines of his soul. It was an occurrence which happened seldom, but was all encompassing when it did.
He did not know how long he stayed sat on the bench, lost to the music only he could hear, but when a voice, frantic and lost, called his name, he opened his eyes and was immediately greeted by the sight of Watson. Dressed in trousers, shirt, shoes and dressing gown, the other man stood in the doorway, squinting into the darkness to make out his form, worry creasing his brow. The moment he caught sight of Holmes he seemed to relax, running a hand through his already disarrayed hair.
“Hello, Watson,” Holmes greeted, sighing in contentment as he stood, the sound of his feet squelching in the mud accompanying the creak of a wooden gate, the calling of a night bird.
“Holmes, thank God!” Watson exclaimed, running over to him and embracing him almost desperately. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“Listening!” Holmes whispered, closing his eyes once more as Watson’s heartbeat, frantic and racing, thumped against his chest. His head rested against the other‘s collarbone, each breath a vibrating note that rose above the others. “It’s such a lovely night!” he whispered. “I wish you could hear it.”
“Hear what, Holmes?“ Watson asked softly, confusion and fear coloring his tone. “Are you naked under this?” Watson asked after a moment of silence, pulling back to take in his lover’s appearance, fingering the thin cloth of the dressing gown. “Good God, Holmes, you’re freezing! Come, we must get you inside before you catch your death!”
Holmes allowed himself to be led back into the house, Watson’s arms still securely around him. He blinked at the sudden light which filled the hallways, smiling almost vacantly as the music about him changed, the hiss of the gas lamps joining their footsteps and the footsteps of those who bustled around. Voices seemed to become a chorus, and he found himself stumbling to a halt, listening.
“Holmes, look at me!” Watson ordered, his gaze intent as the detective obeyed. “What did you take?”
There was more force in the question than the doctor had intended, but the vacant expression on his friend’s countenance frightened him more than he cared to admit. Waking to find the other man gone, the sheets cold and no sign of where he had got to had started doubts creeping into Watson’s mind. Fearful thoughts of Holmes being frightened by what they had done or hating Watson for taking things too fast had all skittered through his brain, chasing themselves down the ’what if’ paths until he had lurched from the bed and dressed hastily.
When no sight of his friend could be found along the corridor, he had set out downstairs, intent on searching every room of the estate if he had to. When he had nearly collided with Mrs. Everman, a cup of tea splashing across the floor in her surprise, he had not thought twice about asking for her help.
Now, nearly an hour after those first few moments of wakefulness, when battle trained senses had alerted him that something was wrong, he stared deeply into Holmes’ eyes, seeking any trace of chemical which he may have turned to, or regret clouding the eyes.
What he found was only sleepy confusion and the glazed, almost dreamy look that resembled, but was not quite, like a morphine torpor.
“Holmes? Did you take anything?” Watson demanded again, though more gently this time.
“Take?” Holmes asked, wrinkling his brow at Watson’s concern. “I haven’t taken anything, Watson.”
“You’ve found him, then!” Mrs. Everman’s voice interrupted the two of them as she came around the corner, Clara close behind. Both were dressed in their white nightgowns, the little maid holding a candle tightly in her hands as she followed the older woman. “Is he all right?”
“I’m not certain,” Watson admitted, allowing his intermingled worry and relief to show through by his grimacing smile. “He’s a bit - off.”
Mrs. Everman motioned Clara to move the light closer so she could look at Holmes, and when she saw his expression her worry seemed to drain out of her, leaving her smiling and pressing a hand to her chest.
"Oh, dear, he's like that, is he?” she laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of Holmes’ eyes. He smiled at her, cocking his head as though listening. “It’s all right, Doctor, this has happened before. We'll just get the bath for him, and you can put him to bed. He won't be making a lot of sense until the morning, I promise."
Holmes suddenly scowled, glaring at the woman. "I'm making complete sense!” he protested. “You just can't hear it, so it only sounds as though I'm not! I'm perfectly fine!"
“Yes, perfectly,” Watson sighed, rolling his eyes. “Come along, Holmes, I want to get you warmed up.”
Still scowling, lips turned down in a cross pout, Holmes allowed himself to be led back to the room, Mrs. Everman remaining behind while Clara took off to arrange for the bath.
“Honestly, Watson,” Holmes persisted as he was steered into the room, where servants were already hastily setting up the metal tub, yawning sleepily in their nightclothes as they scuttled around.
“Hush,” Watson murmured, tightening his grip around Holmes’ waist.
He sat them both down on the bed, making certain Holmes’ dressing gown was closed for modesty’s sake, though he doubted it would have bothered the servants otherwise. They all seemed to take being woken in the middle of the night to search for one of the masters of the estate with surprising equanimity, and not one of them batted an eye at Holmes’ mud covered feet or near nudity.
Clara entered a moment later, carrying a large bucket which steamed enticingly, and poured it with practiced ease into the tub. Several others followed, until in what was an extraordinary short time, the tub was filled halfway and ready.
Watson waited until the room cleared out, watching in surprise as Clara approached bashfully, smiling shyly at him before turning to Holmes and whispering, as though for the detective’s ears only, “Is the song different this time, Mr. Holmes?"
Holmes smiled up at her, his expression only slightly less vacuous as he sighed, “Yes. Yes, Clara, very different.”
Watson blinked in astonishment as her heart-shaped face burst into a delighted smile, her cheeks dimpling. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Holmes’ cheek, ducking her head at her impropriety.
"Good. Bout time you had a different melody," she whispered, turning swiftly and leaving, her bucket clanging slightly as it banged against her leg in her haste.
She closed the door behind her, still smiling brightly, and when Watson turned to ask Holmes what she had been talking about he found his friend smiling as well, seemingly pleased with the strange conversation.
Giving up on getting any coherent answers from anyone that night, Watson instead turned his attention to helping Holmes undress and settle in the tub. As he gently dribbled water over Holmes’ chest with his hand, sleeves dripping unheeded, he wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever stop being surprised by this man he loved.
He hoped not.
***
Holmes woke slowly, breathing deeply as he took in his surroundings without opening his eyes. The sheets beneath him were warm and smooth against his bare skin, reminding him that he had gone from bath to bed without dressing first. He shifted his head, enjoying the rasp of his hair against the pillow, the way it cradled his head.
In front of him and breathing softly, though not as deeply as if he were sleeping, he could sense Watson, much the way he suspected flowers could sense the sun. His lips turned up as he snuggled closer into the other’s warmth, blinking his eyes open to see the blue gaze regarding him fondly.
“Good morning,” Watson whispered softly, his face close enough to Holmes’ on the pillow that he could make out the pale eyelashes.
“Good morning,” Holmes responded, just as softly, and closed the distance between them to press his lips lightly against the other man’s.
He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation even as he listened for the stray notes which had permeated his senses last night. He was relieved to hear nothing more than the songbirds outside their window.
As if sensing his thoughts, Watson pulled back to regard him, searching his face.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Holmes smiled as he shifted, the tenderness in his backside reminding him once more of what had occurred between them.
“I love you,” he answered, smiling as Watson’s eyes crinkled around the corners in a relieved grin. “And although I fear I may be unable to sit comfortably for a few days, dear boy, I can only wonder when we may do it all over again?”
Watson laughed, burying his face into the pillow to muffle the sound, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head.
“Don’t ever change,” he murmured into the pillow, emerging only to gasp slightly and stare at Holmes in wonder. “You scared the hell out of me last night, I hope you realize,” he added, conversationally.
Holmes sighed, nodding his head.
“That wasn’t my intent,” he promised, moving to brush a hand through Watson’s tangled, disheveled hair. “I had simply wanted to slip out for a few moments to gather my thoughts. I was - distracted,” he added, reluctantly.
Watson regarded him, his face softening into the one he seemed to reserve solely for Holmes. It was part fond exasperation and part worry, a half smile which warred with a creased brow.
“Please don’t do it again,” he asked, covering Holmes’ hand with his own, stopping the caress. “I understand fully needing to be by one’s self, to contemplate momentous events without a second party intruding. But when I woke and found the sheets cold… “ Watson closed his eyes, visibly reliving the memory. “I had feared I had frightened you off, or that you had second thoughts. It was not - not a pleasant way to wake.”
“Forgive me, Watson,” Holmes hastened to ask, inching closer so that his knees brushed against the doctor’s, resting his forehead against the cool brow. “I had not intended to be gone so long, and - well, when I become as I was last night, I do not always have the best grasp of time.”
Watson could feel Holmes’ shoulders tense, as though prepared for him to question the strange condition which had overcome him. But Watson had learned long ago the value of patience, especially in things concerning the detective, and only kissed him softly.
“When you are ready, you can tell me about it.”
Holmes sighed, his shoulders easing back from around his ears, and pressed his nose into the crease of Watson’s neck. Watson released the hand he still covered and reciprocated the motion of running his hand through sleep disarrayed hair.
For a long time they remained thus, entangled and silent, simply enjoying the other’s company. Watson could not help the smile that seemed to keep trying to escape, and Holmes, who could read his thoughts as easily as ever, understood why.
Holmes was his now in every way that mattered. He did not doubt for an instant that no other would ever belong as he did to Watson again. Knowing this, and knowing his doctor, he was certain Watson would be even more protective and mother hennish than ever.
As fingers slowly carded through his hair and down his cheek, Holmes found he did not truly mind that in the least. After all, he reminded himself rather ruefully, he was probably going to be just as, if not more so, invested in his friend’s well being.
***
It was only when Holmes’ stomach rumbled and Watson’s bladder began to make him shift uncomfortably that they parted, each going about their morning ablutions in languid motions. They lingered over dressing, kissing and caressing and basically being a hindrance to each other, until they deemed themselves respectable and left the privacy of their rooms.
When they settled at the breakfast table the servants bustled about as usual, none of them mentioning Holmes’ strange episode, and Watson found his curiosity piqued despite himself. He watched as Mrs. Everman smiled tenderly at his friend as she set the teapot before him, absently smoothing a stray lock of hair back from his forehead before departing.
“Have a good meal, gentlemen,” she said as she left, her fond expression taking in both men.
Watson contemplated his toast as he buttered it with more focus than was necessary, more than willing to follow the others’ lead and let the subject lie a while longer. When he caught Holmes watching him out of the corner of his eye, nibbling on his own meal, he knew he had made the correct decision in not pressing the issue.
“What would you like to do today?” he asked instead, and smiled smugly at the surprised expression which crossed Holmes’ features. “We could go for a walk, or a ride, if you - oh, perhaps not,” he added as Holmes winced at the idea, shifting slightly in his chair.
“I think, perhaps, a carriage ride,” Holmes suggested, taking a delicate sip of his tea. “You haven’t been around the village yet, and there is a bookstore I think you would enjoy. Not to mention, a lovely café we can enjoy lunch at.”
“Wonderful!” Watson exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the thought of leaving the relative isolation of the estate.
Though the peace and solitude had done wonders for Holmes’ nerves, not to mention their relationship, Watson figured it was time for them to venture out into public once more, if only for a short time. Holmes thrived around people normally, and if he could increase his tolerance for large crowds, by the time they returned to London he would have an easier time escaping such attacks as prompted the retreat in the first place.
“I’m certain one of the others can arrange for Gladstone to have his daily constitutional, and we can set out after we’re done eating,” Watson thought aloud, absently sucking marmalade off his finger.
“Yes,” Holmes agreed, eyes riveted to the finger in Watson’s mouth.
Both men blushed when they realized what they were doing, and turned hastily back to their meals, coughing and shifting as they regained their composure. Watson could not help, however, the smile which played about his lips at the slight blush which continued to tinge Holmes’ cheeks long after his attention had been diverted.
***
They returned to the estate at nearly half two, each bearing a parcel of books from the seller Holmes had suggested, and a few other items they had picked up while idly strolling through the village.
Though Holmes had shown no sign of the anxiety which had descended on him so suddenly in London, Watson had been certain to keep an eye on him, and had insisted they return after lunch. He was glad of the decision now as Holmes sleepily fell onto the settee in the library, curling up into his familiar position and asleep by the time Watson had settled himself in his own chair with his book.
The doctor did not remain seated for long, however. After only a quarter hour he carefully set the book aside and crept from the room, making sure to close the door securely behind him. He did not wish his friend’s slumber disturbed, and he did not wish to be interrupted while he sought the answers to last night’s strange events.
It did not take him long to find Clara, humming happily to herself as she scrubbed the corridor they had all converged at last night, erasing all traces of the mud they had trampled in.
“Clara?” Watson called softly, standing just outside the section she had already cleaned, her head jerking back to look at him with large, startled eyes.
Her expression turned at once to a brilliant smile as she stood, wiping her hands on her apron as she made her way to him, curtseying smartly even as her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Hello, Doctor,” she greeted him cheerfully. “How is Mr. Holmes doin’ today?”
“He’s very well, thank you,” he assured, his own smile turning rueful as he looked down at her. “In fact,” he added, running a hand over his mustache thoughtfully, “he’s the reason I would like to speak to you, if you have a few moments. I promise I won’t take you away from your work.”
“I can always spare a few moments,” she assured cheekily, her dimples showing once more as she cast a disdainful glare at the bucket. “’Specially when it comes to the floors!”
He laughed, and motioned her to the small alcove where several jackets were hung and mud covered boots decorated the floor. She watched him curiously as he absently straightened one of the coats, patient with a grace beyond her years and upbringing.
She was not the smallest maid in the house, and certainly not the youngest, but the deprivations of the street had taken their toll on her stature, and her delicate frame barely came to his shoulder. She had been one of the first female Irregulars he had ever met, and had quickly disillusioned him to any thoughts that her sex impaired her ability to work for his friend. She had also, much to her chagrin, been one of his patients, and had seemed to look at him with more trust than any other besides Holmes since that time.
He was happy to see her thriving, and cleared his throat as he broached the subject.
“Clara, last night you asked Holmes if the song was different. What did you mean by that?” he asked, leaning against the wall and folding his hands.
She nodded, as though she had been expecting the question, and deliberately turned her attention to one of the boots at her feet, going to her knees as she picked up the brush that had hidden beside it and beginning to clean it.
“It was just after you was married,” she began, looking up at him from beneath her lashes to gauge his reaction, clearing her throat when he nodded for her to continue. “I was with Marble, helpin’ him find some bricks Mr. Holmes was interested in. It was late, very dark like, when we saw him.”
She paused, both in her speech and her movements, the brush resting against the wrinkled, cracked leather. She gazed at the floor, frowning at the memory.
“At first we thought maybe he was drunk,” she continued, her tone quieter than before. When she resumed the careful brush strokes they were softer, more deliberate and evenly paced. Watson watched the movement, mesmerized, his complete attention on her words. “When he got closer we saw he was swayin’ a bit and figured it might be a good idea to make sure he got home safe. But he saw us and -” She paused, swallowed hard and put more pressure behind the brushstrokes.
“He took our hands like we was his kids and led us back to Baker Street, humming all the way, as though he had just come from a concert. But Marble and me, we both knew he had been to the boxing ring, as he was cut up in the face and his knuckles were all bloody. He didn’t smell of drink, though, and when we got inside he talked to the old- um, the landlady,” she corrected herself quickly, earning a grin from Watson and a motion for her to continue. “Well, he greeted her all nice and gentlemanly, and then took us both upstairs. I don’t think she approved, said it was too late to have us littles up, but he ignored her and told her he had a treat for us.”
She paused once more, looking up to Watson as though to make certain she had his attention. When he nodded, she set the boot and brush aside, folding her hands in her lap and gazing at them intently.
“He took out his violin, said he wanted us to share what he was hearin’. We didn’t understand, as there was no music playin’, and that’s when he - when he told us.” She closed her eyes, as though to better remember the exact words. “He said, the music was too loud that night, that it wouldn’t go away. And he wanted someone to hear it with him. So he played for us, and - and my Lord, Doctor,” she breathed, shaking her head. When she gazed back up at him he nearly flinched at the pinched look on her face. “It was the saddest thing I ever heard! It kept goin’ for near an hour before he seemed to remember we was there, and it was so late that he had us sleep on the floor by the fire so’s we wouldn’t get in trouble on the streets. He curled up on the couch like he does, and hummed all night.”
She paused, as though uncertain whether to continue, but at Watson’s nod she let out a deep sigh and stood, brushing her skirts and avoiding his gaze.
“He was cryin’ in his sleep, like a little kid does when they’re too tired to cry awake. And when he woke up and saw us, I think he had totally forgotten about what happened, ‘cause he looked all surprised like.” She paused, took a deep breath, and met Watson’s gaze fully for the first time. “Every time after I saw him, I asked if he still heard the song, and he said yes, and would hum a bit to me.”
She smiled suddenly, her eyes lighting up once more.
“But last night - last night he heard a different song! And I ain’t never seen him so happy, Doctor!” she added earnestly, moving shyly past Watson back to her scrubbing. “I’m so happy for you both, Dr. Watson, if I may say so.”
“Thank you, Clara,” Watson murmured, returning her smile as she resumed her work and he turned to head back to the library.
He was lost in thought as he settled himself once more before the fireplace, empty now that the weather had settled into a gentle warmth during the day. Absently he stroked his mustache, his gaze going unbidden to Holmes’ sleeping form, snoring softly on the couch.
He had lived with the detective for nearly ten years, and not once had he seen an episode as he had witnessed the night before, or heard described to him. According to Clara, the one she had seen had taken place shortly after his marriage, probably within the three month span when he had been too busy establishing his practice and settling his house to visit.
Guilt flickered briefly in his gut and he forced it down, determined not to dwell on the past. What was done was done, and nothing could change it. But gazing steadily at his sleeping friend, he could only wonder what else had occurred in his absence.
***
The next day dawned brightly, the sun already casting warmth into the bedroom as Holmes stirred lazily amongst the sheets. Beside him, still slumbering deeply, Watson snored on, his nose wrinkling slightly as Holmes impishly tickled it very gently with a corner of the sheet.
The two of them had spent a quiet evening the previous night, sharing brandy and cigars in the library until late, when they had retired to collapse haphazardly into the bed, barely awake enough to strip off their jackets, collars and cuffs before giving up on the rest of the attire.
It had only been several hours later, when the light outside the window was nothing more than a thick velvet, that Watson had woken him up and insisted they both undress properly.
Holmes had told him, quite emphatically, what he had thought of the idea, the exact phrasing of which brought a smile to his face now as he once more tickled his friend’s nose, smirking at Watson’s grimace as the other man turned his head, snuffling deeply in a sound suspiciously close to one a pig would make.
Holmes buried his head in the pillow, trying to stifle his laughter as he ceased his teasing, shoulders shaking silently as he struggled not to giggle out loud. Only when he had regained some control of himself did he settle down, one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, as he lazily watched Watson sleep.
He was content.
The knowledge gentled his expression into something more mysterious and fond. Those who had glimpsed the Mona Lisa would have recognized it, a secret turning of his lips that was meant for one person only.
Gently, Holmes ran his finger, feather light, along Watson’s eyebrow, tracing the delicate arch of bone and skin. Memorizing once more the face of the man who held his heart.
He had despaired, once, of ever feeling anything other than misery again. Carried his pain with him as a talisman against the dark, warding off the hopelessness and black moods which had plagued him before that wretched time of hiding. He had imagined himself noble, prostrate upon cold stone floors and dusty straw.
Now, lazing in a bed of rumpled sheets with dust motes dancing in the early morning sunbeams, he realized how truly unhappy he had been. A part of his soul, and all of his heart, had been left behind while he ran.
He was thankful the person who kept both had cherished them so thoroughly.
He was not healed, though. The lingering traces of pain which assaulted him at unknown intervals, the flinches he could not suppress and the nightmares which haunted him were all proof of this. But as Watson had cautioned repeatedly, his full recovery would take time.
He snorted ruefully to himself, finding himself grinning as Watson echoed the sound and turned in his sleep, grumbling something under his breath before huffing into Holmes’ hair.
Once more laughter threatened, and any lasting doubts which hung over the happiness that burbled in his chest vanished.
He was not used to being patient with himself. But, with Watson’s example to guide him (for who was more patient where it really counted than his beloved?) he knew that his body would once more be restored to him.
As if in agreement, Watson snorted again, jerking slightly as he did so before blinking dazed, sleep drugged eyes. When he turned his head his nose rubbed against Holmes’ neck, and the detective could not refrain any longer and found himself chuckling, shoulders shaking.
“What?” Watson mumbled, his mustache and lips warm and ticklish against Holmes’ sensitive skin, producing more laughter. “Do you find something funny?” he asked, and even though he could not know what had set his friend off, his own laughter tinged his words. “Am I amusing?” he persisted.
With a quickness Holmes had not expected, (though he probably should have, he ruefully thought later) Watson was on him, tickling his sides with a ruthlessness bordering on single-mindedness. Holmes’ sudden undignified squeals devolved into loud cries for mercy interspersed with full body laughs, his thin frame shaking as he struggled half-heartedly to get away.
“I don’t see anything amusing this morning,” Watson gasped, his fingers unerringly finding Holmes’ most sensitive spots. He had the other man pinned beneath him, his knees planted on either side of Holmes’ thighs as he tickled him.
Finally, after several minutes of laughter on both their parts, Watson’s fingers gentled, becoming caresses rather than sharp prods, his hands lingering over warm skin, Holmes’ nightshirt gaping open at the chest.
Holmes’ hands roamed over Watson’s shoulders, down his arms and then back again, eyes turning dark in arousal as he pushed himself up to capture Watson’s lips with his own.
They kissed languidly, exploring each others’ mouths and bodies. Their nightshirts were quickly discarded, and cheeks which had been flushed with laughter and mirth were now blushing with passion.
“My dear boy, you have no idea what you do to me,” Watson panted heavily against Holmes’ lips.
“Oh, I think I can imagine,” Holmes growled, his hand moving down to the doctor‘s fully aroused member. “Why Watson, you positively scintillate this morning,” he laughed.
“I’ll show you scintillation,” Watson replied, and reciprocated Holmes’ action, adjusting them until they were laying facing each other.
He gently removed Holmes’ hand, moving so that his leg was thrown over Holmes’ hip, and grasped them both. His strokes were steady and even, their breath harsh in the early hour’s quiet, and when they came it was with matching moans of need and desperation.
For several minutes they lay completely still, gasping for breath as their hearts beat rapidly in their chests. Then Watson turned to regard Holmes and kissed him lazily, almost sloppily.
“What were you laughing about earlier?” he asked.
Holmes burst out laughing again, and no amount of prodding could get him to answer.
***
Mycroft and his three charges arrived shortly after half two that afternoon, their carriage drawn by two sturdy horses whose hooves churned up dust along the lane. Holmes, along with Watson, Mrs. Everman, Clara and a young man Watson did not recognize, waited patiently on the steps.
“Anthony,” Holmes murmured beside him, his voice nearly too soft to be heard above the sounds of the carriage.
“Beg pardon?” Watson asked, turning startled eyes to his friend, the name seeming to come from nowhere.
“The young man with Clara is Anthony. He was one of mine after you were married,” Holmes explained, once more having read Watson’s thoughts with disconcerting accuracy.
Watson did not have a chance to reply, however, as the carriage came to a halt and a long-limbed, slightly awkward youth stumbled out, followed quickly by two others. All three were freshly shorn and scrubbed, tugging absently at clothes still stiff with newness.
Watson immediately recognized Jasper, the young man who had summoned him so frantically the day of Holmes’ collapse, his red hair and freckles making him appear younger than his companions. They stood to either side of him, one dark hair and fair skinned, the other brown and plain. All three regarded the house above them with slightly dazed eyes, taking in the grounds and obvious wealth with an awe that Watson could well appreciate.
Behind them the carriage rocked as Mycroft heaved his ponderous bulk down the single step, landing heavily on the gravel with a relieved sigh. He adjusted his clothes as he did so, taking in the welcoming party with a single look and his wide face breaking out into a grin at the sight of his brother.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed, and there was no feigned joy in his features or his voice as his gaze swept his younger brother from head to toe. “You are looking remarkably well!”
Smiling broadly, Holmes moved from his place beside Watson and made his way to his elder sibling, pausing before embracing him briefly and then stepping back a pace. For a silent minute both sets of Holmes’ eyebrows performed a strange dance, raising and falling in reply to unspoken comments and rebuttals. Then, to the doctor’s amazement, Sherlock’s face turned a deep pink, Mycroft’s left eyebrow rising nearly to his hairline.
This seemed to be the end of the silent exchange, because Mycroft then swept his brother into another hug, holding him tightly for a moment before whispering something into his ear. Holmes’ blush deepened, but was tempered by the smile which had not faded, and Watson had a feeling that in a single glance, Mycroft had learned all the two of them had been up to since their arrival. His own cheeks heated at the thought, and he found himself bowing his head as he tried to master his embarrassment.
Someone cleared their throat noisily, bringing all attention to Mrs. Everman as she made her way slowly down the stairs, beaming at the brothers as she did so. Holmes stepped back from Mycroft’s side, his cheeks still flushed, and Watson could not help but be grateful to the elderly housekeeper for saving them all from what could have been an awkward experience.
“Welcome home, Master Mycroft,” she said, pausing a moment for her own silent exchange of eyebrow raising. “If you’ve no complaint, I’ll take the young men inside now and get them settled. Your tea is prepared and set up in the sitting room.”
“Mrs. Everman, I would be lost without you,” Mycroft sighed, moving forward to wrap his large arms gingerly around her stout frame.
There was something infinitely tender in the elder Holmes’ movements, as though he feared to break the small woman who came barely to his chest. Both brothers wore similar expressions of fondness when he released her, and once more Watson found himself wondering at this heretofore hidden aspect of his friend’s family life.
Mrs. Everman patted her hair, smiling at the brothers before turning her attention to the three boys, who had moved themselves several steps away from the trio, watching with round, uncertain eyes.
She took in their appearance, inspecting them as closely as any officer had ever inspected Watson’s old regiment, absently straightening a waistcoat or brushing dust off a shoulder.
Behind them, watching fondly as any parent, Sherlock Holmes beamed proudly. Though he would never have children of his own, Watson knew, more so now than ever, that his little army of urchins was as close to offspring as the detective would ever get.
A pain, gentled now with the passing of time, fluttered briefly in the doctor’s chest before fading. He and Mary had never truly discussed children. There had always been more pressing matters, such as new drapes for the drawing room, or a new case with Holmes. Then Holmes had died, and Mary had become sickly, and the matter had perished with her.
Watching his friend, and seeing the lads standing bravely in the face of unknown challenges ahead, Watson suddenly found himself wondering if his friend would object to his placing a good word to some of his colleagues. There were many jobs in hospitals, after all, for those who could read and write. And even some very simple medical positions which could lead to further learning, if any of the children were so inclined.
Deciding to bring the matter up later, possibly that night in bed, Watson found himself suddenly alone on the steps, Clara and the young man who had stood beside her leaving him at a quick hand motion from Mrs. Everman. They did so with such prideful expressions on their face that Watson had to cover his mouth to hide his smile.
“I think you lads will do fine,” Mrs. Everman finally said approvingly. “Clara and Anthony will be able to help if you have any questions, and Anthony will be your main tutor for the foreseeable future.” She turned once more to the Holmes brothers, raising an eyebrow.
“Mind your manners and what Mrs. Everman tells you, gentlemen. Remember, you represent myself and my brother,” Holmes said sternly.
The boys nodded their heads earnestly as they chorused, “Yes, Mr. Holmes!”
The little troupe filed back inside, Clara and Anthony leading the way with the newcomers following gratefully, Mrs. Everman bringing up the rear. She smiled at Watson as she passed him, patting his shoulder as she did so and then closing the door behind her, leaving the three men to finish their reunion.
“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greeted warmly, holding out his hand.
“Mr. Holmes,” Watson answered cheerfully, making his way down the steps and grasping the large appendage, shaking it heartily.
“I see that you have taken excellent care of my brother, thank you,” Mycroft continued, smiling broadly. There was a knowing gleam to the elder Holmes’ face, and once more Watson felt his own heat up. “I have not seen Sherlock look so well in a very long time, and I know it is all due to your influence.”
Mycroft covered the hand he still held with his other, and the doctor could not deny the earnest thanks he found in the other man’s eyes.
“Enough, Mycroft,” Holmes chided, his own cheeks colored at the compliment and the things his brother’s speech alluded to. “Come inside so we can have our tea, I know you have been looking forward to Mrs. Everman’s cakes.”
“Brother, any man who has tasted of Mrs. Everman’s cakes could not find fault with that,” Mycroft laughed, finally releasing Watson and gesturing for both men to precede him into the house. “But you are correct, I have been eagerly looking forward to catching up with you two, and it seems there is much to tell.”
Though the elder Holmes’ tone was teasing, there was an edge to it that promised evasive answers would not be tolerated. Watson knew Mycroft to be too well bred to mention anything so crass as sex at the table, but he was certain that the new relationship would at least be mentioned in passing.
***
Tea passed amicably, the brothers chatting between themselves with Watson interjecting when called for. He could tell, by the length of pauses, raised eyebrows and subtle changes in tone that the two were having a conversation entirely their own, and for once was quite happy to be excluded.
No mention, passing or otherwise, was made of their relationship, and Watson found a tension in his shoulders easing he had not been aware of. He doubted the matter would be allowed to rest, but for the moment he was content to leave Holmes to deal with his sibling.
Afterward, while Mycroft settled into his rooms, which were located near the opposite side of the house than their own, Holmes took his arm and led him outside for a leisurely stroll.
They passed several minutes in silence, enjoying the pleasant weather and each other’s presence, before Watson felt comfortable breaking the peace.
“I take it that your brother does not mind, but am I to receive a speech in the near future about the proper tending of you?” he asked, keeping his tone deliberately lighthearted despite his honest trepidation.
Sensing as always the question beneath the question, Holmes squeezed Watson’s arm and steered him over to a well worn stone bench where he sat, bringing Watson with him. Rose bushes and trees obscured them from prying eyes as Holmes kissed him tenderly, the hand not tucked into the crook of Watson’s elbow cupping the doctor’s cheek.
“Mycroft knows that without you I do not function well,” Holmes observed softly once they broke apart. His hand lingered a moment longer on Watson’s cheek before moving to take his hand. “He will not threaten or bully you, or ask for details. He will, in all likelihood, pull you aside for a quiet word to make certain you are comfortable with the situation and that I am treating you well.”
This last was said with only a tinge of annoyance, and Holmes refused to meet Watson’s gaze, staring instead at their entwined fingers.
“You must be completely honest with him,” he urged. “He will know if you speak false, or if you have any reservations. Please do not feel that you are obliged to lie in any way or form, for Mycroft is as discreet as any man, and has kept secrets far worse than ours. If you - If there is something you would like to say, but feel hesitant for fear of my well being, then you should let him know, and he -”
Watson broke off the speech with a kiss, capturing Holmes’ lips in a fierce, possessive meeting that had the other man stuttering to a stop. Watson did not allow him to continue when he felt the detective start to pull away, chasing him instead to press his advantage, their tongues twisting and dancing together until they were breathless and had to stop to catch their breaths.
He rested his forehead against Holmes’, eyes closed as he slowly untangled both his hands and moved them to card through his friend’s hair, cupping the back of his head gently.
“Please believe me when I say that if I had any reservations or worries I would not take them to a third party. I know you, Holmes,” he whispered fiercely, punctuating the words with a tightening of his hands around the black strands entangled in his fingers. “The good, the bad, and everything in between. And it is because I know you that I love you!”
He could feel Holmes’ breath upon his lips, the flutter of his lashes against his cheek, they were pressed so close together. He could not miss the tiny shudder that ran though him at his words, but he did not comment, moving his hands instead to the bony shoulders, rubbing and soothing the tension which never seemed to leave.
“I would be lost without you,” Holmes whispered softly, the words almost too low to be heard despite their proximity. “Was lost,” he added, reluctantly.
“And now you have me again. I’m not going anywhere, Holmes,” Watson assured, placing another kiss to the soft, warm lips and moving to wrap his arms into a proper hug.
“Good,” Holmes sighed, resting his head on Watson’s shoulder, hair brushing the other’s chin.
They remained in their secluded alcove for nearly a quarter hour, holding each other and kissing as the urge took them. Only when the bench began to become uncomfortable did they resume their walk, the air, already filled with the sounds of birds and the warmth of spring, seeming more enjoyable with each step.
***
It was nearing five when they returned to the house, cheeks flushed from the sunshine and each other, and were told promptly that dinner would be served at seven and they were to keep out of the way, if they would be so kind.
Always one to understand and comply with his marching orders, Watson dragged Holmes back to their room for a passionate encounter which left them both breathless and pleasantly sated.
After, they had just enough time to wash and dress, eliminating the traces of their lovemaking and becoming presentable once more. Holmes adjusted Watson’s tie as they finished donning their clothes, running a hand almost absently through his lover’s hair. Watson returned the gesture, taming the wild mane easily and then spending several minutes tugging and smoothing the material of his jacket until it met with his approval.
“Shall we?” Holmes asked, holding out his arm.
“With pleasure!” Watson agreed.
The two of them descended the stairs side by side, the mouth watering smells coming from the kitchen enough to make even Holmes’ stomach growl.
“It appears Mrs. Everman has gone out of her way,” Watson observed when they entered the dinning room, eyebrows raised at the sight before him.
The table was set elegantly and far more formally than any of their previous meals. Flowers and settings of fine china accented by elegant silverware marked their places, and for a moment the two men simply stood and admired the view.
“Yes, well, Mycroft always did like a bit of pomp,” Holmes finally sniffed.
“It’s tradition!” Mrs. Everman’s voice called from the other room, followed a moment later by the woman herself, carrying a large covered dish. “It’s only one night, Mr. Holmes, and you enjoy it as much as your brother,” she chided.
“You know me too well, Mrs. Everman,” Holmes agreed easily, taking the dish from her and placing it near the head of the table.
“As well she should, brother,” Mycroft greeted from the doorway, making his way slowly over to the table, his eyes twinkling as his lips quirked appreciatively. “Mrs. Everman, it looks marvelous!” he enthused, bending down to kiss a wrinkled cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself!”
“Oh, stop, you,” she laughed, blushing. “Sit down, gentlemen, and dinner will be out shortly!”
She hurried from the room, cheeks still tinged pink and her mouth turned up in merriment, as the men followed instructions and took their seats.
Mycroft sat at the head of the table with Holmes to his right and Watson to his left, all three settling easily and without discussion. The elder Holmes took in their appearance and raised a single eyebrow, his smile growing into what on any other man might be called “naughty.” Watson felt his cheeks flush, though he had been certain there was no trace of their previous activities on their person or appearance.
“I must say, Sherlock, that fresh air agrees remarkably with you! Why, you seem positively glowing tonight!” was all Mycroft said.
Holmes glared, the blush slowly creeping across his cheeks and down his neck the only sign that he was as embarrassed as Watson.
“Thank you, brother. In all honesty I have never felt so invigorated! Perhaps you should attempt to gain some fresh air yourself while you are here.”
Watson choked on the mouthful of wine he had been drinking, nearly spitting it across the table and onto the offender, who merely turned an innocent expression his way.
“I say, Doctor, are you all right?” Mycroft asked, patting his back helpfully until he was able to regain his breath.
“Yes, sorry, I’m fine,” Watson coughed, wiping his mouth delicately with his napkin as he attempted to regain his composure. “Went down the wrong way, that’s all.”
Sherlock’s grunt as his boot connected with his shin was quite satisfying, and he ignored the little smirk playing about Mycroft’s lips as Holmes scowled.
“Tell me, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, once he was certain Watson was recovered, “how fare the paths this year? I haven’t been out to inspect them myself in years, but Mrs. Everman told me you have been making use of them quite frequently.”
If Watson had not known him he never would have noticed the slight hesitation of his friend’s answer, or the way his eyes darkened as he graced his brother with a cheerful smile.
“They are well tended, Mycroft. Just the other day Watson and I took the horses for a ride down to the pond and found the way terrifically scenic. The good doctor is always after me to exercise more and has been having his way with me quite frequently recently, haven’t you, Watson?”
This time Watson was certain he left a bruise with the force of his kick to Holmes’ shin, but he managed to smile innocently even as he felt heat rush to his cheeks once more. Damn his Scottish complexion!
“Yes, I have,” Watson replied easily, happy that his voice sounded perfectly normal. “Although I think that perhaps for the next few days we may have to relent on the exercise for a bit, as I wouldn’t want to strain your endurance. Fresh air is marvelous for recovery, but so is plenty of quiet.”
Holmes’ eyes widened in alarm, and Mycroft was suddenly overcome with a coughing fit, his pudgy cheeks turning red as he turned his head and attempted to cover the sounds with his fist.
“Are you all right?” Watson asked, eyes glinting with mischief as he returned Mycroft’s earlier gesture and patted his back.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Mycroft managed to gasp out, tears escaping his eyes as he continued to cough, the fit seeming to become worse whenever he chanced to glance at his brother’s annoyed countenance. “Dear me, I do hope there isn’t anything catching,“ he finally managed to say, the fit seeming to have passed. “I wouldn’t wish to try your patience, Doctor. Goodness knows that one Holmes under your care is quite enough!”
“Yes, Mycroft, I agree.” Holmes’ voice was so patently filled with false sympathy that Watson had to fight the urge to kick him again. “Poor Watson is stuck with me for probably the rest of his life, and one Holmes is enough for any man.”
“True, true,” Mycroft agreed, and something about this expression softened, the teasing tone of his voice exchanged for something far more gentle. “Well, I dare say that if any man is equipped to deal with Sherlock it would be you, Doctor Watson. I know he’s in the best of hands, and it does put my mind to rest knowing you are there for him.”
Watson swallowed hard, hoping his expression was sufficiently neutral to continue the ruse that the conversation in any way resembled one of innocence and not matters considered illegal.
“I do my best,” was all he managed to get out before Mrs. Everman bustled through the door, followed by several of the servants, each bearing a dish.
“Ahh! Dinner!” Mycroft exclaimed, clapping his hands as the table was slowly ladened down, the smell of roast chicken filling the room.
“Enjoy the meal, gentlemen,” Mrs. Everman urged, pausing long enough to pat Mycroft’s shoulder as she passed.
All three turned their attention to the food before them, even Holmes filling his plate to a respectable degree. Wine was poured and, after each glass was topped, Mycroft rose with more grace than one would expect from such a cumbrous frame. He lifted his glass, the other two diners following suit.
“Too seldom has this table graced more than myself and my work associates. I am thankful that tonight not only is my brother here to join me in what I’m certain is going to be a fabulous meal, but that you are as well, Doctor Watson. Welcome to the family, and may there be many more such meals to come!”
“Hear, hear!” both men chorused, all three touching their glasses together before sitting down once more.
It was, as Mycroft predicted, a wonderful meal.
***
Part 15