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The problem was not, in fact, that societal pressures and a deep-seated compulsion to perform gentlemanly duties had left Holmes not only without a flatmate but also without an investigative partner. No, it stood to reason that nothing in the end was truly Watson's fault.
It was merely Holmes' inability to adapt to new habits, which was to be expected; when one becomes conditioned to expect a particular face or tone of voice in a common setting, such as breakfast, or the scene of a mildly intriguing homicide involving a lady and her secret affair with the butler, one must take the necessary steps to learn new procedures once that face or voice is no longer present.
Adaptability was part of the human condition. There was not a living creature on earth who did not possess the inherent need to change and grow with their surroundings.
The day after Holmes saw the last of Watson's things being removed from his room on Baker Street, he sat down in his study—a study that was completely the same save for the lack of a certain bulldog lurking around his feet—and lit his pipe with careful, deliberate movements. He struck the match and watched it burn a slow, glowing red near the tips of his fingers until he could no longer stand the heat.
A simple matter of conditioning, he thought as he drew the smoke into his lungs with practised ease. He was not, after all, addicted to John Watson. He might not be able to shake his dependence on cocaine, but there was no reason for him not to carry on without his doctor—his partner. His friend.
Holmes gripped his pipe with a bit more force, the bowl hot beneath his fingertips.
Conditioning. That was all.
~
It was three months after Watson officially left Baker Street that Holmes found himself entangled in a case concerning a woman, a Mrs. Darby, and her scoundrel of a husband, who had most assuredly faked his own death—a large sum of money was missing from the couple's bank account, and there was no body to be found after a fire had ripped through their home, save that of the family cat. Holmes had been summoned to Mrs. Darby's brother's estate, where she was recuperating from the shock.
"He took everything," said Mrs. Darby through shaky tears, but she was not distraught. She was frightened. "I intended to be at home that evening, but a friend invited me to dinner. I know he meant to kill me—the money is in my name, you see, and he cannot access it without my signature."
"Or your death," Holmes replied dryly, ignoring the sharp look from the brother. "Regardless, his motives are somewhat lacking in stealth. Arson is a terribly unpredictable and shoddy way to murder someone, and was more than likely performed with very little planning or foresight."
The brother gave another indignant huff. "Do show your respect, sir, the woman has been through quite a trauma."
For a fleeting moment, he pictured Watson in the sitting room, standing just to the left beside Holmes' elbow as he gave Mrs. Darby a kind smile and a few reassuring words. She'd no doubt sigh and attempt to give him a look of gratitude in return, only to have Watson insist she retire for the evening with a good sedative to help her sleep.
Holmes, meanwhile, did none of those things. He raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Darby's brother and replied calmly, "I'm merely stating that your dear sister cannot be in any real danger. The man only wanted what's kept behind bank walls, and he succeeded in acquiring just that. I should think he'll show himself to you within the month, if not by next week."
Mrs. Darby's hand fluttered to her chest in horror. "But did you not just state I was in no danger? How can that be if he's to come back to find me?"
"My lady, you are not wearing a wedding ring, nor any other piece of substantial jewelery a woman of your standing would naturally keep upon her person. It is safe to say your husband is a gambler, and thereby used your collective jewels to help pay off his debts. The money with which he absconded from the bank will not last him long on the run. His death, such as it is, will be short-lived."
"He could still try to kill her," the brother said fiercely. "We cannot take chances."
"Indeed," Holmes said. "I wager he is holed up in the closest gambling hall to your estate. If he is hell bent on taking your life, madam, it won't be this night."
He left them not longer after, with plans to track Darby the following day in an effort to follow what would no doubt be a quickly dwindling money trail. The air was thick with fog as the cab made its way through the dark streets, and again, unbidden, Holmes found himself imagining Watson sitting across from him, possibly inquiring about the woman's true wealth or whether or not the husband may in fact be a murderer. He would smile at Holmes with the simplest upward curve of his mouth when Holmes insisted the man lacked too much common sense to be so notorious.
"Because only the most logical men become true criminals," he heard Watson's voice reply in his head, an affectionate, familiar lilt to his words.
Holmes closed his eyes and sighed.
Then the cab arrived at Baker Street, and like he'd done for the past three months, Holmes resigned himself to a dark, quiet home as he unlocked the front door. The key felt heavy and cold against his palm.
"Taking midnight calls again, I see."
He was so rarely startled, but then again, Holmes so rarely saw Watson standing in his foyer in the middle of night these days. He blinked a few times, clearing his throat.
"Yes, well. You've obviously been trying your hand at burglary and trespassing."
Watson tilted his head to one side, smirking as he held up a copy of Holmes' key. "I never gave it back. You never asked for it."
Of course I didn't, Holmes thought. And I never shall.
"Have you been lurking in the dark long?" he asked instead. It was difficult not to take stock of Watson to determine how much three months and a marriage had changed him. He appeared to look exactly the same, much to Holmes' secret chagrin.
"I just arrived. Had there been a light left on in the hallway as usual, I would have avoided said lurking."
Holmes came very close to remarking on the fact that there was no need for lights to be left on when he was only one residing in the house, but Holmes held his tongue. He lit the lamp at the end of the staircase, wondering briefly if Watson expected to be invited up. Or invited anywhere at all.
"Either you've decided to run away from your middle-class life of leisure, or your lovely wife has thrown you out into the streets. Neither reason will get you free room and board here, I'm afraid." Holmes was quite pleased with his bored tone, which was not an easy feat when one's heart was beating too quickly.
Three months. Three months and only a handful of letters exchanged between the two of them. His conditioning was going rather well until now.
Watson ducked his head for a moment, then quickly raised his chin to meet Holmes' eyes. He had a look of determination, but Holmes could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tick in his jaw.
"You were meeting with a Mrs. Darby this evening, were you not?" asked Watson.
Holmes smiled. "Why, dear Watson, have you been following me as well as lurking?"
"There was no need to follow you. Mrs. Darby is a childhood friend of Mary's, and word of the terrible fire at her estate spread quickly. She insisted I pay you a visit."
All the conditioning in the world could not make the sickening clench of his chest any less noticeable. "I see. Mary sent you, then. Otherwise you wouldn't dream of setting foot on Baker Street in the middle of the night." He shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it carelessly over the banister. "Go home, Watson. The case is being seen to by yours truly, and you can assure your lovely wife that her friend is safe from all the evils of the world."
He turned to make his way up the stairs, telling himself that Watson was perfectly capable of showing himself out. But then Holmes felt a hand slide over his elbow. It did not exude any force, but Holmes stopped nonetheless.
"If it's any consolation, she wanted me to find you in the morning," Watson said softly, not quite meeting Holmes' eyes.
"And yet here you are." He took a slow breath to steady his mind, which was racing as quickly as his heart. "And where, pray tell, did you plan on sleeping this evening? It may come as shock, but someone took away your bed some months ago."
There it was, the simple half-smile, barely visible in the dim light. "While it's certainly not to be mistaken for a featherbed, I've had my share of nights spent on your bedroom floor."
It was, for the most part, a lie. Watson had spent exactly one night on Holmes' floor, and that was due in equal parts to Holmes' inability to come to from a morphine sleep and Watson's inability to leave his side until he woke. For days afterward, Watson had tried very unsuccessfully to hide the pain in his hip from having slept with it pressed awkwardly into the floorboards.
Holmes rolled his eyes. "You'd have me send you back to the wife with a dreadful cold from the drafts, or a permanent crook in your spine? I should think not."
"So am I to sleep in the parlor, then?" Watson called after him as Holmes headed up the stairs.
"You are to sleep in a bed, my good doctor. I would think that much was obvious," Holmes threw over his shoulder.
~
Sleep was not to be had for Holmes that night, not when the doctor was curled up in his bed, clad in one of Holmes' dressing gowns. It was as if Watson knew Holmes would let him stay the night, that he wouldn't simply insist on putting him up in a hotel and politely reserve their conversation for the morning. The man had not even packed a change of clothes; he'd arrived at Baker Street with his coat and walking stick and nothing else. Not even a revolver.
Holmes lay on the bedroom carpet and stared up at the ceiling, pointedly focusing on the silence of the room and not on Watson's quiet, gentle breathing not ten feet away. He hummed a little in his sleep, which signified Watson was dreaming; Holmes could recall more than a dozen times of Watson napping in a chair in their sitting room, whimpering softly as his eyelids fluttered. And on more occasions than Holmes cared to admit, he would watch Watson and wonder if the images flashing through his mind were happy ones, or ones that caused him pain.
"Doesn't matter anymore, old boy," he whispered to the dark before rolling onto his side and tucking his face tightly into his pillow.
~
Mrs. Hudson was, to say the least, beside herself with glee to see Watson in the house once more. She fussed over him, remarking that Mary was letting him get too thin again, and insisted on making them both breakfast.
A slight, happy blush spread across the bridge of Watson's nose as he replied, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I should be very—"
"That won't be necessary, the doctor has a very busy schedule and we mustn't keep him," Holmes interrupted smoothly.
The look Watson gave him was painfully familiar, full of knowing and exasperation. "My business is with you, Holmes," he said evenly.
"My apologies, but I no longer work with a partner. You see, I've been solo for some months now, and it's been quite refreshing. I'd hardly know how to handle another body under foot at this point." He smiled brightly at Watson. "You understand, my good man, old habits are infinitely hard to break."
Watson narrowed his eyes. "Indeed. Then by your logic, you shouldn't have any problem at all having me by your side for this case." He raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, Holmes felt pinned.
But it only lasted a moment. "Very well, Doctor, come along if you must. If my theory proves me right, this excursion should not occupy much of your day. You should be home for supper before the sun has even set."
"Time is not an issue here," Watson said under his breath.
Time is always an issue, for there is never enough of it, Holmes thought as he left Watson standing in the foyer to hail a cab. By this time tomorrow morning, Watson would be gone and life would resume its proper course.
~
Darby had been quite busy in the wake of his new-found arsonist title and possible attempt at murder. At least a half dozen gambling halls had seen him the previous day, always with money in hand, and in most cases he had been successful in his bets.
"I heard 'im say something about buying a boat," one man told them. "Never would've thought 'e'd just set fire to 'is own 'ouse, not from the way 'e was acting."
"Well, there you have it," Holmes said as they came back out into the street. It was midday, but the sky was gray and heavy with impending rain.
"Have what?" Watson asked. The streets were crowded, and he leaned in close to Holmes as he spoke, their shoulders pressed together. It was a perfectly natural touch, a necessity for them to carry on a conversation within the chaos of a busy street.
But Holmes slid away neatly, putting a few inches between them as he replied, "He's trying to leave the country. He wants out of the marriage to Mrs. Darby, but the family would never allow such a thing, so the fire was his one attempt to disappear. He had no intention of killing her, only of taking the money he deemed his rightful sum and running away to some far-off destination. The gambling, however, is a vice he cannot seem to shake."
Watson shook his head. He reached out his hand to grab Holmes by the elbow, slowing his pace, and once again Holmes found himself much too close as Watson said in his ear over the din of the crowd, "Then why go to the trouble of the fire at all? Why not slip away in the night?"
"Mrs. Darby has an inherently overprotective family, does she not? Darby knew he would be found if he did not attempt, albeit unsuccessfully, to fake his own death." Watson's breath was warm against Holmes' neck. It was the most Holmes had been touched in months; that was explanation for his sensitivity, the way he felt his shoulders tense when Watson huffed in disbelief, the air skirting once more over Holmes' skin.
"There are ways other than arson to survive a bad marriage," Watson said, finally dropping his hand.
Holmes bit the inside of his lower lip to resist responding, Perhaps you could share your experience with Darby. Instead he replied, "Three months in and already the jaded husband, Watson?"
"I would not have the patience to fake my own death, let alone set a fire. Besides, in theory, it would be pointless for me to attempt escape, as Mary would know instantly where to look for me."
"Oh?" Holmes kept his gaze forward, but he let the corner of his mouth curve into a smirk. "Unlike Mrs. Darby, your wife has no pretences about your vices."
"She has no pretences about my affinity for Baker Street," Watson replied softly.
Holmes did not look over, not for a second. To do so would be acknowledging far too much within that statement than was intended.
He cleared his throat and said, "If I'm not mistaken, Darby should be celebrating his latest wins at The Blue Cod Pub near the wharf."
Watson didn't reply, only nodded in agreement.
~
The intention of tracking Darby to the pub was not a complicated one; once his whereabouts were discovered and it was clear the man would not be going anywhere anytime soon, Holmes would alert the police, stay until the man was arrested, and then send a telegram to Mrs. Darby informing her of her husband's capture.
Simple, really, and Holmes felt a keen satisfaction in having wrapped things up neatly within the span of forty-eight hours, give or take.
"This feels too simple," Watson said, interrupting Holmes inner monologue of self-congratulation. They were in the doorway to the pub, and sitting in the corner, surrounded by a group of rather unseemly fellows, was Darby.
The familiar note of skepticism in Watson's tone both irritated Holmes and made his chest ache. "Simple crimes for simple men," Holmes sniffed. "I apologise if this case lacked the intrigue and danger for which you were, clearly, so hoping, but I cannot always guarantee the culprits are not dimwits."
Watson sighed. "I'm merely pointing out that maybe, perhaps, you've underestimated the man."
"Watson, you yourself stated that were you to be in the same predicament as Darby, your methods of hiding would be most predictable."
"Yes, but I am not Darby, nor would I set fire to my own home. By all accounts, he doesn't seem mentally sound, which means we should tread lightly."
"Well, then, mother hen, there is a constable outside standing by the lamp post. Run out and alert him to the fact that a wanted arsonist is within our midst."
Watson didn't immediately do as Holmes asked. "You know that I'm right," he hissed, glaring at Holmes before ducking outside.
Unfortunately, that was moment Darby chose to glance at the front door. He met Holmes' gaze, his eyes going wide either out of recognition or instinctively knowing his gig was up—Holmes wagered it was a bit of both. It scarcely mattered at the moment, however, because an instant later the man was flinging himself out of the closest window.
"Watson, he's on the run!" Holmes cried, scrambling outside just as he saw Watson catching the attention of the constable. He didn't wait for them to catch up; rather, Holmes took off after Darby, who ran quite fast for a dead man. They were headed straight for the water, and Holmes knew that if Darby gave chase into the river, he wouldn't get far.
He did not count on Darby blindly firing a pistol twice over his shoulder, nor did he account for both bullets hitting their target with such precision.
The pain did not register immediately. Holmes continued running until it felt as if the breath had been sucked completely from his lungs, and his vision grew dark. He finally dropped ungracefully to his knees as he clutched his hand to his shoulder, which felt too warm, too damp. Holmes glanced down, only to see a stain of bright red slowly spread across his chest.
He could vaguely make out a voice calling his name, far away, muffled as if spoken through cotton. It sounded very much like Watson, and suddenly hands were gripping his arms, his neck, fingers cradling the back of his skull. Holmes did not remember lying on the ground, but somehow he'd ended up on his side, legs bent awkwardly.
Watson was speaking to him, but Holmes couldn't hear the words clearly. Keeping his eyes open suddenly felt like a monumental feat, and the hand against his neck felt soft and gentle.
Holmes slipped into unconsciousness, but not before leaning into the touch and hoping, if this was to be his final moment on Earth, that the hands belonged to Watson.
~
Holmes did not like to admit that he dreamed frequently and quite vividly, with or without chemical assistance. Sometimes he would force himself to take just enough morphine to cause a black out deep enough to avoid a dream state, but those times were rare and dangerous. And they only occurred when he missed Watson more than he could bear.
None of this Holmes would ever speak of, even under penalty of death. But the unfortunate thing about dreams is that they have a will of their own. While Holmes had spent the better part of three months conditioning himself to no longer need his former partner, his subconscious brain was an entirely different matter, one completely beyond his control.
And he was dreaming once more, only the room was far too bright, and he felt sluggish, as if his limbs were being held down in quicksand. He moved his lips to speak, but the words came slowly, half syllables that did not quite seem to match their intended meaning. Holmes grit his teeth in frustration, but then Watson was there, leaning over him, and oh, yes, of course Holmes was in a bed. That was usually where his subconscious mind tended to place him in these sorts of fantasies.
Only now Watson was shaking his head, and his expression was an odd amalgamation of fear and worry and determination, along with some other sort of emotion Holmes couldn't quite place. But his blue eyes were soft and hazy, and for a brief moment all Holmes could think was that Watson was, truly, the most beautiful thing he'd ever looked upon. He could feel his lips form the words, feel the vibrations in his throat as he spoke them out loud.
Watson blinked slowly, then a careful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Holmes tried to lift a hand to touch him, for in these dreams he always touched him without hesitation, but there was a sharp, searing pain throughout his body when he attempted to do so. He'd never felt pain in these dreams before, and it was very disconcerting.
"There shouldn't be any pain," Holmes said with a huff, glaring at his rebellious hand. "Why is there pain?"
"Hush now," Watson replied. His hand skimmed over Holmes' forehead, which was strange. Normally Watson would be pressing along his side, mouthing at Holmes' skin whilst he whispered all the things he wished for Holmes to do to him once they were naked.
Holmes shut his eyes. This was turning into a most unsatisfying dream. "You haven't even kissed me yet," he sighed sadly.
"I..." Watson faltered for a moment, sounding genuinely perplexed. Then he cleared his throat and added in a much softer voice, "Holmes, you really must rest. You mustn't exert yourself."
He laughed weakly. "I am resting, that is the whole point. But you're resisting me, and that I find most distressing. This is my dream, and if I can't have you in the real world, I'll damn well have you kiss me within the confines of my own mind."
"Holmes—"
"No, please." He opened his eyes to find Watson had not moved any closer, but he was still braced above him, his hands on either side on Holmes' shoulders on the bed. "Please," he whispered again, his throat growing tight with an unwanted surge of emotion. The pain in his body became a moot point as he reached up to cup his hand around Watson's neck and pull him close, parting his lips on a soft gasp of breath. Waiting.
It happened more slowly than Holmes remembered from previous dreams. Watson breathed something against Holmes' mouth, something that sounded very much like Holmes' name, and then, finally, he kissed Holmes with tentative brushes of his lips, warm and soft. He lightly trailed his fingertips over Holmes' cheek, almost as if Watson feared the slightest pressure would cause him to break into pieces.
The pain was beginning to be too much for Holmes to continue holding onto Watson, but he couldn't bring himself to let go. He threaded his fingers into Watson's hair, whimpering into the kiss with both pleasure and agony. Watson started to pull away, but Holmes shook his head and tightened his hold as much as he could bear.
"I don't want to hurt you," Watson whispered against Holmes lips, and Holmes thought with a bitter smile, Compared to the day you left, this is nothing at all.
He did not think he uttered the words out loud, but Watson winced and leaned back just enough to meet Holmes' gaze.
"You never write to me," he said. The words felt almost too warm as they flittered over Holmes' chin. "It's...perhaps I should have known, but I still...I had hoped..."
Watson never spoke like this in the dreams. He never looked so sad and regretful, and Holmes couldn't stand to see him so. "I write to you every day, I simply do not have the heart to put pen to paper," he replied softly.
Watson closed his eyes, then leaned in to press their foreheads together. "You really must sleep, Holmes," he whispered, but Holmes let himself believe he really meant, I miss you.
"The feeling is and always will be mutual, my dear friend," murmured Holmes, sweeping his lips over the corner of Watson's mouth before the heaviness in his limbs pulled him back down into a quiet darkness.
~
He woke to an ache in his chest, far more painful than anything he'd endured in quite some time. Holmes swallowed against the constant throb echoing through his body and forced his eyes open to take in the scene at hand: his bed, his sheets, his own room...
"I see the sedatives have worn off again," came a familiar voice. "But at least you slept through the night for the most part."
It should not have put his mind so at ease to know Watson was at his bedside, but Holmes was in no condition to fight the instant surge of relief. "Watson, there seems to have been a misunderstanding, as I feel as if I've been shot," he replied. His voice sounded unused and scraped raw, as if he had not spoken for days.
"Once again, your powers of deduction astound me," Watson replied from his chair beside the bed. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his collar unbuttoned, his hair slightly mussed. He looked exhausted.
"Darby shot me," Holmes said quietly.
Watson pressed his lips into a tight line, then nodded. "Yes. Twice in the shoulder. You're lucky the bastard's aim wasn't more accurate." He pushed a hand through his hair, looking down at his lap as he added, "Once the surgeon removed the bullets, I had you transferred back ho—back to Baker Street. You've been in and out of consciousness for several days now."
Several days. He attempted to reconcile the number of hours he had lost, but everything felt fragmented and unfocused in his mind. Holmes could barely recall chasing Darby toward the wharf, the suddenly report of gunfire, and then nothing.
"How long have you been playing the part of nursemaid?" Holmes asked, gritting his teeth as he tried to push himself into a sitting position. It was as if every inch his body refused to operate without some degree of pain.
Watson's hand shot out, immediately easing Holmes back against the pillows. "For God's sake, Holmes, do be careful, you've barely begun to heal." Then he sighed and scrubbed the heal of his palm across his unshaven cheek. "And to address your question, I've been present at your side the entire time."
Holmes felt another sharp pain, much too close to his heart. "I daresay your wife regrets her decision to send you out on this case," he softly replied. Several days of unconsciousness, and Watson had not left him alone in a hospital bed; rather, Holmes was home, in his own bed, dressed in his own nightshirt. With his fingertips he traced the edges of the bandages along his chest, which felt fresh.
He never left. Holmes dropped his head back into his pillow and fought the ridiculous, irrational surge of hope that he knew full well would never amount to anything.
"She understands my obligations," Watson said, his voice low and careful—the tone he used whenever he was not completely sure of himself.
"Ah, yes. I had forgotten I had changed lists—the good detective is no longer a patient nor a friend, but merely an obligation." He didn't look away from the ceiling, wishing he were physically able to perhaps shove his fist into Watson's jaw. The irrational hope had bled into anger, with which Holmes was quite familiar.
"Holmes," Waston sighed again, and this time his tone was one of regret. "That was not my intention , I was only stating—"
"There is no need to elucidate your meaning, Doctor, I understand perfectly. The burden of Sherlock Holmes really is something to bear, is it not?" He let himself glance over just in time to catch the pinch between Watson's eyes, the way his mouth twisted downward. Holmes felt a sick satisfaction knowing he could still wound his old partner with nothing more than his words.
"You are not a burden, Holmes, you are a friend. You know better than anyone in this world that I would never leave you to fend for yourself after some lunatic put two bullets in your chest. After everything that's happened, everything we've been through, do you honestly believe, in all your infinite wisdom, that I no longer care for you?"
"As usual, you are far too romantic for your own good, Watson." Holmes managed a hateful smirk. "It scarcely matters what I think, as you've shown your thoughts on the matter quite clearly in the last few months. However, if you were expecting sonnets written to you on the hour in the wake of your leaving Baker Street, then I must apologise for the grievous oversight."
He expected Watson to shout, or perhaps storm out of the room altogether. He did not expect Watson to draw in a deep breath and narrow his eyes as he leaned closer to the bed.
"I know why you took the Darby case," Watson said, his hands clutched between his spread knees. "I had thought, at first, that it would be rather too pedestrian for you, but then I wondered if you were merely in need of the funds. Yet Mrs. Hudson says you've been throwing yourself into cases nonstop since I left, some of which have been quite lucrative. So if it wasn't the money, why else would you allow yourself to traipse around London after a rather shoddy arsonist?"
Holmes' heart beat a little faster. He swallowed tightly and focused his gaze once more on the ceiling. "My mind is in constant need of stimulation, Watson, you know this. I found the case fascinating."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Watson shake his head. "No," he said. "You somehow discovered Mrs. Darby's connection to Mary. You knew I would get involved."
Holmes did not blink, nor did he breathe. "Excellent theory, my good man, but you have no proof."
"I have all the proof I need. It is amazing what one will confess when under duress from a fever-induced delirium." Watson's voice was barely above a whisper.
Blurred images began to flash through his mind, like memories of a dream; the sensation of soft hair beneath his fingers, his chest tight with longing, and the gentle, careful pressure of lips upon his—
Holmes' stomach lurched as he felt his face flush. "The ramblings of a delusional man mean nothing," he replied roughly as he turned slowly onto his side, putting his back to Watson. He shut his eyes and willed sleep to return to him, even with the pain throbbing throughout his body.
After many long minutes, he heard the legs of the chair scrape against the floor, then Watson's heavy footsteps moving away from the bed. The bedroom door opened with a quiet creak, and soon Holmes was alone, as he should have always been.
~
Watson did not return to the room that evening, nor did he return during the night. Holmes struggled to find sleep through the haze of pain clinging heavily to his body, but he refused to go in search of Watson's sedatives, or better yet, what little was left of his morphine supply. He was determined to wait out the pain on his own, without any assistance other than his sheer will.
It was, naturally, a very long night.
He had barely begun to sink into numb, exhausted unconsciousness as dawn peaked around the edges of the curtains, cutting faint shafts of light across the room. Holmes sighed and tried to focus on the quiet ticking of the clock on his desk, counting the seconds into minutes in time with the steady beating of his heart. His eyes grew heavy just as the door to his room swung open.
Holmes did not open his eyes. He laid completely still, his arm hugged across his abdomen. He could hear the careful footsteps coming toward him, until they stopped beside the bed.
Warm, callused fingers touched the back of his hand and slid around to cup his wrist.
"Stupid man," whispered Watson. "Insufferable, selfish, stupid man."
He did not move a muscle, nor did he respond in kind. He held his breath as Watson's fingers left Holmes' hand to skim over his forehead, through the unruly hair over his pillow. The touch was gentle, tentative, and so much more than Holmes deserved. But he did not flinch away from Watson's hand, though he desperately longed to.
Eventually he felt the prick of a needle in his arm, and slowly the constant throb of pain began to ebb. Holmes could not help himself; he sighed and made a soft groan of relief.
"Better?"
It was no use feigning sleep any longer. Holmes opened his eyes and looked up at Watson, who was watching Holmes with an unreadable expression.
"Quite," Holmes breathed, relishing the gradual tug into blissful, painless unconsciousness.
He thought perhaps that Watson gave a quiet huff, something bordering on affection, but sleep took him before Holmes could adequately define the sound.
~
Holmes' recovery was slow and tedious. Such was the habit of bullet wounds, especially ones that went deep and terribly close to the heart. Eventually he was well enough to leave his bed for a few minutes at a time, but the movement exerted him greatly, forcing him back down to the mattress as he hissed in pain and exhaustion.
He did not, in his recovery, ask Watson for assistance. He did not ask Watson for anything, save the one moment when he desperately desired his violin. Watson brought him the Stradivarius without hesitation, and Holmes merely held it in his hands, fitting the strings beneath his fingertips.
"Are you to play for me, or should I request a sonata?" Watson asked, arms crossed over his chest.
Holmes swallowed tightly and did not look up from where his fingers plucked random chords. "I only wish to hold it," he replied. "I am not inspired to make music at the moment."
Watson was quiet for several minutes. "Perhaps I should leave you to find your inspiration, then," he finally said softly, head bowed.
"Yes, that might be for the best." Holmes sniffed as he kept his tone brisk and rather cold.
He didn't put his bow to the strings until Watson closed the door behind him. His hand only shook a little.
~
He wondered how often Watson sent word to Mary, giving her updates on Holmes' recovery and a countdown to the days when he would be returning home once more, to his true home. Holmes never saw Watson writing on stationary sheets, however, only in his notebooks at Holmes' desk. The sound of Watson's pen tip scratching against paper had lulled Holmes to sleep more times than he cared to count.
He wondered if Mary blamed him at all for her husband's absence. Holmes would not have faulted her if she had.
~
Watson normally changed his dressings in the morning, just after Holmes woke. They never spoke as his capable doctor's hands carefully checked the wounds and applied fresh bandages once he was satisfied with Holmes' progress.
But on this occasion, Watson's fingers found a stray battle scar from a boxing match Holmes had engaged in several weeks before the shooting occurred. He traced it lightly, starting from the crook of Holmes' left arm down to his ribcage.
"You were not treated for this," Watson said quietly.
Holmes rolled his eyes. "I scarcely noticed it until the following morning. There was no need to seek medical assistance." He tried not watch the tentative way Watson spread his thumb over the scar, as if willing it to disappear.
"It required stitches." Watson glared at the puckered skin, then turned the look upon Holmes.
"Perhaps, but I survived all the same and lived to see another day. Not all ills require a doctor's touch." He did not flinch at Watson's gaze, nor did he shiver when Watson's hand finally left his skin.
Silence fell between them once more as Watson finished with the new dressings and began storing his supplies back in his medical bag. His movements where deliberate and sharp.
"Mary's coming to pay a visit this afternoon," he said without any preamble at all.
Holmes felt a distinctly unpleasant cold settle deep within him. "Of course. A newly wedded wife cannot be parted from her husband for too long."
Watson pressed his lips together tightly. "She asked to come. I have not been home in weeks."
"An occupational hazard of any medical professional. Tell Nanny to set out the good China."
Watson said no more, only shut his bag with loud snap and left the room.
~
Holmes pretended not to hear the front door open quietly later that afternoon. He did not hear the soft, high lilt of a feminine voice, or the pleasant cadence of Watson's own response. Holmes did not need to hear their words, for they meant nothing to him.
They meant so little to him that it mattered even less that Holmes managed to climb awkwardly out of bed and don his dressing gown in order to slip silently to the bedroom door and peak outside into the foyer.
Mary stood before Watson, and her smile was one of genuine warmth and affection. She had a gloved hand against Watson's arm as she whispered something to him, something that caused Watson to sigh and shake his head in fervent disagreement. He took her free hand and laced their fingers together, his head bowed.
"He cannot help it," Watson whispered.
"Darling," she replied, cupping his cheek as she placed a loving kiss there. "You don't expect him to, no more than you yourself can."
"You don't understand, it's not—he doesn't need—"
"Of course he does. Now, I do hope your patient is well enough to at least allow you time for an early dinner out with your wife?"
Watson sighed before kissing her quick and soft on the mouth. He leaned back and bestowed upon her the very same smile, one of happy contentment. "I do believe he is sleeping at the moment," he said. "Not that he particularly cares when I come and go." There was no remorse in his tone, only traces of annoyance.
Holmes closed the door and did not watch them leave. He pressed his forehead to the cold wood for a moment, however, and listened as the carriage pulled away from the curb.
~
Holmes had not gone back to bed in the meantime; rather, he'd dressed and sat at his desk pouring over the backlog of his mail as he smoked his pipe for the first time in weeks. There were several cases to be considered, cases that would no doubt pay handsomely and provide adequate stimulation and distraction that did not come in the form of a syringe.
Watson did not return to Baker Street until later that evening. From the single pair of footsteps climbing the staircase, Holmes knew Mary had not returned with him, which was not surprising. Watson had inevitably sent her on her way with a promise to be home within the next few days, or as soon as his insufferable patient was free to function on his own.
He had just opened a letter from a Member of Parliament when Watson pushed his bedroom door open slowly.
"Oh," he said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "You're up and about, I see."
"Yes, and that is precisely what I'd like to speak to you about, Watson." Holmes set his pipe down upon the desk and folded his hands neatly in his lap. He tipped his chin up as he willed every inch of his body to remain calm and indifferent. "I feel that my recovery is near its conclusion, therefore your services are no longer needed."
Watson took another step toward the desk. "My 'services'?" There was a pinch between his eyes that Holmes steadfastly ignored.
"I am quite thankful for your aid in the tending of my wounds, but there is only so much mothering a grown man can abide. As you observed, I am upright and reviewing cases at this very moment, and you have a home of your own that is empty without your presence. You're welcome to stay through the night, but in the morning I would feel it beneficial to us both if you retired from Baker Street and deemed this particular patient healed and well." He turned back to the desk, lifted his pipe back to his lips, and did not elucidate further.
It was, for all intents and purposes, a dismissal.
But Watson would have none of it. "You're reviewing cases?" he asked angrily as he stormed over to Holmes, his walking stick pounding against the floorboards. "Holmes, you have two bullet holes in your shoulder, and need I remind you that they are, in fact, still fresh and healing quite slowly. You have suffered a great trauma, one that does not allow for you to suddenly decide to start chasing after criminals whenever you deem it appropriate."
Holmes stared down at the letter in his hands, but he could not read it. There was a loud roaring in his ears. "I no longer require a doctor," he replied, despising the tightness in his throat.
"You cannot expect to simply dismiss me and be done with it," Watson said, slamming his palm against the desk.
"I expect you to respect my wishes."
"As your doctor, I'll do no such thing."
"Very well, then I relieve you of your professional obligation. You're no longer my physician."
"And what about your dear friend? Am I to be relieved of that title as well, or have you ceased to refer to me as such for some time now?"
There were many, many things in the world which Holmes could ignore with great ease, but a stricken, wounded Watson was not one of them, even when Holmes' words had been designed to deliver such blows. But he had not expected Watson to voice his feelings so earnestly—after the exchange he'd witnessed earlier that day with Mary, Holmes had deduced Watson would say nothing and leave him as Holmes requested.
"Your place is away from here, playing the role of the doting husband," Holmes replied evenly. He wished Watson's hand was not in his line of sight, allowing Holmes to count the veins lining his skin.
Suddenly, he felt a hand seize his chin and force his gaze upward. Watson looked furious, and his grip was just as angry.
"I know what it is you think you're doing," Watson said through clenched teeth. "And it will not work."
"I hardly know what it is you are—"
It happened so quickly, Holmes did not have a moment to question Watson's judgment as a doctor in regard to Holmes' injuries. Holmes' eyes went wide as Watson grabbed him by the arm and jerked him to his feet, pushing him roughly against the wall beside the bed. Holmes stumbled over a stack of newspapers in the process, sending them scattering across the floor, but Watson seemed oblivious to everything save pinning Holmes with his dark glare.
"You don't write or speak to me for months, and you insist on attempting to convince me that you despise my company. But I know you, Holmes, and I know you do not wish me gone so easily." He held Holmes by his good shoulder, his other hand splayed along the wall beside Holmes' cheek. He was breathing heavier than he should have been, and his cheeks were flushed in anger.
Holmes shook his head and gave Watson an icy smile even as he winced in pain. "I have wished you gone from my sight every day," he replied. "It is much easier than you think."
The fury faded in Watson's eyes. "I know you do not mean that," he whispered.
"If only you had respected my wishes, you would not have the unfortunate consequence of discovering how irrelevant you have become to my existence. I did not need you before you came back to Baker Street, and I certainly have no need for you now." He was relieved to have the wall against his back, for he would have surely collapsed under the weight of his lies.
Watson swallowed, his eyes slipping shut. He appeared beaten as he bowed his head, and Holmes waited for him to bring his hands back to his sides and leave. The palm against his shoulder was like a brand, burning a heat through Holmes' skin that he could hardly bear.
"I don't believe you," Watson finally said, the slightest waver in his voice.
If ever there was a moment Holmes wished to kiss the man within an inch of his life, it was in that instant. Instead, he replied cruelly, "Then you're a fool."
"No." Watson raised his head as he slowly opened his eyes, and their blue was stunningly intense, determined and heartbreaking. "We are both fools," he breathed in reply, and Holmes knew the second he had lost the fight when Watson pressed forward and kissed him.
For all the anger and tension between them, the kiss was achingly gentle and tentative. The hand at Holmes' shoulder slowly lifted and came to rest against his cheek, callused fingertips that were so familiar, even though they had never touched him in such a way before. His shoulder throbbed in pain, and he could not pull enough air into his lungs, but none of that mattered; Holmes was content to simply melt into the wall and let Watson do with him as he wished. He refused to kiss him back too eagerly for fear that the moment would end and Watson would truly leave.
Eventually Watson did pull away, but only to rest his forehead against Holmes' and whisper, "I thought I was past being consumed by everything that is Sherlock Holmes. I thought that surely if you no longer cared about the state of our friendship, then neither did I. But I...I was gravely mistaken on both counts, it seems."
"Watson." Holmes finally allowed himself to touch him, tangling his hands in the front of Watson's shirt. He couldn't bear to hear the words, but he also couldn't bear to let Watson go.
"I have missed you dearly, and you have said as much to me, though it was fever-induced." Watson huffed, pressing a little tighter against him. "You kissed me much the same way then, as well."
Holmes didn't have adequate words to respond, could only lean into the palm cupped to his cheek and wish he were a stronger man who could resist his vices. "Watson, I—"
"I cannot help but be pulled into your orbit, Holmes. And Mary knows this just as well as I do. I had not spoken of you in months until the day the news arrived of Mrs. Darby's estate burning, and even then it was Mary who suggested I seek you out. My wife loves me, Holmes, and yet she knows better than anyone that I am unable resist you." His voice broke slightly on the last few words.
"I believe I said you were free to leave," Holmes replied in a small voice, eyes closed. He could feel his hands shaking where they gripped the cotton of Watson's shirt.
Watson shook his head slowly. "I...I need you to need me," he whispered. "I need to know it, to hear you say it."
After months of conditioning and willing his mind into new habits that did not centre around one John Watson, Holmes found himself tumbling back to square one, as if no time had passed at all and he still believed he wouldn't be alone. He felt a spark of hope in his chest, a warm flare that spread through his entire body. Holmes despised his weakness even as he clung to it.
"I did not take on the Darby case with the intention of finding you within it," Holmes said. Ever so carefully, he turned his face into Watson's palm and kissed the heel of his hand. "But I will not lie and say I didn't have an irrational hope that you would turn up along the way."
He gasped softly when Watson brushed his lips along the corner of Holmes' mouth. "Say it, please," Watson breathed.
The ache in his shoulder reminded Holmes that death was inevitable, and that his heart was merely an organ that could easily be bruised. In the end he did not say all the words, could not bring himself to a full confession, but he did whisper, "Always," for he knew that word alone was enough to shatter himself before Watson's eyes and wait on bated breath for Watson to gather the pieces back together.
One word was enough.
They fell upon each other with a breathless desperation, as if their time was limited, and perhaps it was. But Holmes would not let himself think of Mary waiting patiently back home for her faithful husband, not when Watson was mouthing at his throat in between intermittent soft scrapes of his teeth against Holmes' skin. Not when their hips came together with such fierce intensity and pulsing rhythm. Not when he could feel Watson's cock hard against his leg and his breath hot against his chest as they stripped one another bare.
Holmes didn't think of anything save the sight of Watson sinking to his knees before him with his braces tangled about his legs, shirtless and flushed and gorgeous. He nuzzled the curved of Holmes' erection through his trousers almost lovingly before tearing them open, his blue eyes the darkest Holmes had ever seen. And he had never seen Watson so aroused before, and never on his account.
"Watson," he gasped, though he was very close to moaning John.
Watson looked up at him through his lashes, Holmes' cock a mere inch away from his mouth. "I may gag at first," he said in a deep, rough voice that made Holmes shudder.
"I—" And then all rational thought fled Holmes' mind the instant Watson swallowed him down.
It did not last long, unfortunately. Holmes had gone far too long without appropriate stimulation on his part to keep from climaxing within a handful of minutes; and there was fact that it was Watson himself who was now licking the come off his own lips as he slid up the length of Holmes' body.
Then, to Holmes' utter amazement, he saw that Watson was shaking.
"Dear man," Holmes said, his hand curling around the back of Watson's neck to pull him down into a kiss, one that was less frantic and meant to soothe. He nipped gently at Watson's mouth, holding him close as the haze of his orgasm settled.
"Please," Watson panted, thrusting unevenly against Holmes' thigh.
It was not how Holmes had imagined their first coupling in his deepest fantasies, but it was enough to witness Watson's expression slide from desperation into blissful release the moment Holmes shoved his hand between them and ground his palm against Watson's cock. He rubbed him off in less than a minute, Watson's entire body jerking violently as he came gasping Holmes' name.
For a long time they stayed slumped against the wall, gasping into each other's skin as the world righted itself. Holmes slowly opened his eyes and gazed over Watson's bare shoulder to find their shirts scattered across the floor. His shoulder protested greatly at the exertion, but it only served to make Holmes remember Watson's own injury and the time spent on his knees.
"You should be more careful," Holmes mumbled, skimming his fingertips over Watson's hip.
He felt Watson's shrug. "We shall both be feeling this tomorrow, I'd wager." His words sounded drowsy, sated, and what Holmes most wanted to believe, content.
The calm in the room felt fragile, but there were questions to be asked, although Holmes did not want to break the spell. Still, he asked carefully, "When you said Mary knew, what exactly did you mean?"
Watson lifted his head off Holmes' shoulder and sighed, glancing down at the mess that was now the front of his trousers. "We've...come to an understanding," he replied without meeting Holmes' eyes as he retrieved his shirt from the floor. There was a distinct flush across the bridge of his nose that was not post-coital.
Holmes' own trousers were still open and he was more than exposed, but he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. "Would that understanding involve certain lascivious illegal acts of perversion?"
Watson sighed again, his back to Holmes. The light hit his back just so, throwing his scars into stark relief. Holmes itched to trace his mouth over them.
"We have an understanding," he repeated quietly. "As I've said before, Mary knows very well of my affinity for Baker Street."
"Baker Street the location, or Baker Street the man?" Holmes whispered. He crossed the few paces between them and pressed himself against Watson, chest to back. He slid his arms around Watson's waist as he kissed along the angry red lines marring his skin.
He kept waiting for the moment Watson shoved him away, but it never came.
"Do not ask questions whose answers you know full well, Holmes," Watson replied, but his tone was soft, affectionate and warm. It was a tone Holmes had thought he would never hear again.
"So you are to stay through my full recovery, then?"
"Until I know you won't go running out into the streets with fresh bandages on, yes." Watson's hands covered Holmes', lacing their fingers together over his lower abdomen. He didn't elucidate further about the future of their companionship, whether new adventures were in store for them or whether Watson would be a fixture at Baker Street once more, and Holmes didn't ask; for now, this was enough.
"Well, then." Holmes went up on tiptoe just enough to bury his face in the crook of Watson's neck. "I suppose I must reinstate you as my personal doctor."
"I was never actually relieved of that post, so the action is completely unnecessary." But he felt Watson squeeze his hand tightly for a moment. "Now, can we please clean up and get you back into bed?"
"I believe it to be my doctor who initiated our current circumstances, as it were, so if there is a problem, I would consult him on the matter."
Watson huffed loudly and turned in Holmes' arms. He was frowning, but a familiar glint was in his eyes.
"Bed. Now."
"As you wish." Holmes would do anything Watson asked of him in that moment, conditioning be damned.