Work Text:
Rain beat against the window shutters, and wind howled down Baker Street, as if threatening anyone who dared step outside. It was not the sort of night that encouraged one to retire to bed at a reasonable hour, for who could sleep with such a gale?
Instead, Holmes and Watson sat on either side of the fireplace as the night wore on. In here, isolated from the storm, they drifted in conversation from one topic to another, covering everything from the latest dark lantern improvements to opinions on various travel destinations. They had been rooming together for decades now, and as such never ran out of topics to discuss.
In truth, Holmes enjoyed these nights immensely. The simple pleasure of spending time with his old companion easily compensated for being trapped indoors, at least so long as it did not continue for too many days.
His thoughts took a certain turn eventually, however, circling around something that he had often wondered but never interrogated. Ordinarily, he would not have asked it. But the hour was late, and the wine excellent, and he was curious. “Watson.”
Watson glanced towards him, expression immediately softening into a smile. “Hmm?”
“Why are you still here?”
Chuckling, Watson set down his wine. “Well, that storm won’t make it any easier to sleep. But if you’d like the sitting room to yourself…”
“No, no, no.” Holmes gestured sharply for Watson to stay where he was, then flashed a quick smile. “That is not what I meant. My query was meant to encompass more than simply tonight. Why are you still living here, with me, when you might easily have married years ago?”
From the look on Watson’s face, he had not remotely expected the question, and had no idea how to answer it. “Well, why are you?”
“My dear Watson, you are well aware that I lack such tender feelings, and have no desire for marriage. I am equally aware that you are somewhat more… traditional.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Watson adjusted in his seat, winced, and rubbed his thigh. He had been wounded in war many decades ago, and it troubled him in bad weather. “I’ve just never felt the need to marry. I mean… Well, I have you.”
His cheeks flushed as he said it, and he avoided Holmes’ gaze. He kneaded at his thigh again, as if massaging the sore muscle would smooth out the odd moment.
Holmes was not ordinarily speechless, but he was uncertain how to respond to this. Such conversations and matters of emotion were very much not an area in which he was skilled. “What are we, Watson? What is the nature of this little relationship?”
Watson sighed. “I don’t know, Holmes.”
“I have often introduced us as friends, colleagues, companions, partners. The list goes on.” Holmes touched his index finger to his lips, concentrating. Sorting through decades of memories, of interactions, all in the hopes of finding a clear answer. “They are all accurate terms. Oh, would you like to move to the settee?”
“Hmm?”
Standing, Holmes held out a hand. “So that I might aid you with your leg.”
“Oh. Yes, thank you. That’s good of you.” With a wince, Watson took his hand and struggled upright. He limped to the settee and sat, letting out a heavy breath. “If all the terms are accurate, do we need to choose one?”
“I am fond of precision.” At once, Holmes put his fondness of precision to a different use, skimming his fingers across Watson’s thigh. He found the spots of worst tension, and began gently working to relax them. “And of solving mysteries.”
Watson chuckled. “I am not certain how successful you’ll be at solving the mystery of our relationship, old man.”
“Well, well, let us see. We are certainly quite attached to each other.” That was an understatement, in truth. “We take care of one another as best we can.”
“We love each other,” Watson said softly. “In one way or another.”
“Love. Something I have not often admitted to.” It was an impediment to his work, for such feelings muddled the clear reasoning that he relied on. Yet, would he not gladly do anything for his Watson? “I suppose it is accurate here.”
That drew another laugh from Watson. “Yes, Holmes. I would say so.”
Holmes nodded, thoughtful. Feelings of any kind were not easily quantified, and the harder he tried to grasp them, the more intangible they seemed. Love, yes, but what was the nature of that love? Was it the love of friends, or something else?
He struggled with the question of such absolutes until it began to give him a headache, then sighed. “This is difficult to categorize.”
“Does it need to be categorized? Would categorizing our relationship change anything?” Watson caught his hand, stilling the massage, and simply held it for a moment. “Does it matter?”
Holmes’ first instinct was to protest that of course it mattered, that he had built his life up to be as precise and reasoned and structured as possible. But the very nature of feelings was that they were imprecise, and often went against reason. Perhaps they defied structure as well.
“No,” he said slowly, squeezing Watson’s hand. “No, it would not change anything, nor does it truly matter. Whatever the nature of our connection, you are my Watson, and I wish to always have you by my side.”
For a moment, Watson looked as if he might cry from sheer emotion, and Holmes wondered if he had made a blunder. But Watson was smiling, too, and leaned their shoulders together. “It is my greatest joy and privilege to be by your side, Holmes.”
Holmes gave him a quick flash of a smile, and they settled in comfortably together. Rain drummed down outside, and the wind still howled. But in here, together, they were content.