Love's Bitter Sting, 1/?
Title: Love’s Bitter Sting, 1/?
Author: fiery_fox2
Pairing/Characters: Slash; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Often, truth comes too late.
Warnings: Spoilers for the new film; m/m relations; angst; violence, alcohol abuse, suicidal tendencies.
Word Count: 1,379 for this particular section.
A/N: This takes a bit of a turn into an AU, but I’ve done my best to keep it mostly canonical to the film. As it's my first Holmes/Watson fanfiction (I'm very, very new to this pairing), I would appreciate any and all constructive criticism that others are willing to give.
----
The moment Holmes heard the music start, he knew the night would end in disaster. When the cheering started, it was apparent Watson had joined the fray. But by the time he gathered the nerve to leave the tent and garner a look, Holmes realized his error in waiting.
Watson was in the middle of the Gypsy ring, dancing wildly to the music of the instruments, quite obviously very, very drunk. It was alarming that one man could imbibe so much sweet poison and yet still be able to remain upright. But that was hardly the issue.
The issue was that Holmes found himself completely unable to tear his gaze away from Watson.
The other detective’s movements were surprisingly controlled for one so full of liquor, but more than that, Watson was laughing. He was truly happy for the first time since they’d started their journey, and it brought warmth to Holmes-unfortunately, in more ways than one.
Whirling around in time to the beat, Watson caught Holmes’ eyes.
“Come on then!” he shouted, breathless from laughter and his dancing. “Shall we see if you’re better at this than I?”
Not the best idea.
But against his better judgment, Holmes’ feet carried him into the circle. With a twinkle in his own eyes, Watson said loudly, “Strike up a good tune, chaps.”
Get out of this while you still have your decency, boy, Holmes pleaded with himself, but then the music differed, and Holmes’ feet took on a mind of their own.
Watson matched Holmes step for step.
“Now there is the Holmes I know,” he grinned wildly. “Never one to back down from a challenge, eh, good man?”
The music was becoming more frantic, the movements of the two causing them to draw closer to each other unintentionally. Watson’s gaze was changing; becoming something else. Holmes felt his breath catch-and not simply because of the quickened pace.
Watson had somehow managed to lose his outer garments, leaving him in only his thin white undershirt, which, damp with sweat, clung to his lithe frame. In the deepening twilight, the fire’s flames danced in his eyes, which were now dark and deep as sin.
The tune escalated into a frenzy, the two dancing faster and faster until Holmes thought his ankles might snap; until Watson decided to shrug off the offending shirt altogether and Holmes could barely think; until his mind would no longer function and all that he desired was to simply-
The music stopped.
Panting, the two stared at each other in the sudden silence, until Watson smiled crookedly. “Shall we have a toast to your superior footwork?”
Holmes caught his wrist before the other man could reach for the nearby bottle of Gypsy wine.
“Watson,” he said, praying his voice didn’t quake. “I do believe that you’ve had quite enough. No, no,” he repeated firmly, as Watson began to protest. “Come with me.”
The laughter and music resumed as Holmes pulled Watson into the surrounding woods and shoved him violently against a tree; losing his footing, Watson tumbled to the ground.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Holmes seethed. “I’m quite through with your little game tonight.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Watson whispered. “It’s only that I…” He swallowed tightly. “You’re a detective, and yet you’re blind to what’s right in front of your eyes.”
“Speak, man,” Holmes spat. “What is it you’re attempting to say?”
“I am only truly happy when I’m with you. How can I make myself any more plain?”
“Watson…“ Holmes growled, and Watson slurred his next words miserably.
“I’ve fallen for you, you fool. I desire nothing else but you.”
Holmes dropped to one knee, but Watson flinched away. “If you must hit me, then do so. I refuse to hide any longer.”
Heart pounding furiously in his chest, Holmes curled his fingers around Watson’s chin, hesitating only a moment.
Guilt swept over Holmes like an ocean wave as Watson surged up into the kiss, a groan of need forced from his throat, and Holmes pushed the other man down into the loam and twigs, carefully straddling his thighs to gently roll his hips downward, starting a delicious friction that immediately transformed
Watson into an incoherent, shuddering mess.
Watson’s hands were gripping Holmes’ shirt front as though the other man was his only hope of survival. When Holmes leant down to place a tender kiss upon his brow, his fingers slipping past cloth to rest on bare flesh, Watson’s hips arched, and he whimpered in such a way that Holmes knew the sound would have liked to be a scream.
“Holmes…”
The breathless whisper, fraught with desire and heat, jerked Holmes back to his senses at once, and he pulled away, horror and loathing filling him. Dear lord, what was wrong with him? The man had a wife, their marriage barely a week old-never mind the fact that Watson was far too inebriated to know what he was doing. To follow through with this act of debauchery would be a terrible betrayal.
Watson dragged himself to his feet when Holmes stood.
“You are no longer a free man,” Holmes said tightly. “Mary trusts you. She believes you are steadfast; faithful. I will not allow her to be crushed over a foolish, tawdry affair such as this.”
Holmes’ heart was breaking, yet he forced himself to speak the last few words, putting as much disgust and hatred into his tone as he could. Watson deserved better than to be associated with such a vile fiend as he.
“Do not for an instant entertain the thought that I care for you, Watson. Truth be told, you mean very little to me.”
Tears rose now in Watson’s eyes, brimming over in a moment’s time. Turning away swiftly lest he shatter, Holmes ended the conversation coldly.
“I no longer require your services as a detective. Our business partnership has ended.”
Holmes remained rooted to the spot until he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Watson had returned to the Gypsy tents. In the deepening twilight, the silence grew, until the only sound became that of Holmes’ quiet weeping.
~*~
Holmes had suspected since Moriarty’s game had begun that there was a price to be paid, and when they reached Switzerland, he knew what that price must be. Nothing remained to determine; there was no cause-and-effect left to deduce.
Only one element mattered anymore.
Holmes knew the ball would be the focal point of those in attendance, and therefore it would be difficult to draw their attention away for any reason until the appointed time. He had but one chance.
Watson’s gaze was devoid of feeling when Holmes touched his arm, drawing him into a private room.
“What is it that you require?” he said coolly.
To see the visible pain on Holmes’ face stunned Watson, but he was unable to ask what the other man was planning before Holmes turned, and his eyes met Watson’s own.
And Watson knew.
“No,” he demanded. “There must be another way.”
Holmes’ sad smile was the only reply he received, and hot anguish filled Watson’s soul. He looked away, but Holmes’ gentle hand upon his cheek redirected his gaze. In that one look was everything that would never be able to be voiced.
Holmes’ lips came to rest upon his forehead in a gentle kiss, and then, in the space of a moment, he was gone.
Watson felt the tears upon his cheek, and knew that not all of them were his own.
~*~
Holmes heard the vicious kick to the door an instant before Watson appeared on the balcony. Their gazes locked, and Watson’s filled with a terrible, haunting sense of grief and loss.
When Holmes let himself fall, he did not open his eyes. Perhaps in that way, if only for a brief, fleeting moment, he would find peace.
Author: fiery_fox2
Pairing/Characters: Slash; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Often, truth comes too late.
Warnings: Spoilers for the new film; m/m relations; angst; violence, alcohol abuse, suicidal tendencies.
Word Count: 1,379 for this particular section.
A/N: This takes a bit of a turn into an AU, but I’ve done my best to keep it mostly canonical to the film. As it's my first Holmes/Watson fanfiction (I'm very, very new to this pairing), I would appreciate any and all constructive criticism that others are willing to give.
----
The moment Holmes heard the music start, he knew the night would end in disaster. When the cheering started, it was apparent Watson had joined the fray. But by the time he gathered the nerve to leave the tent and garner a look, Holmes realized his error in waiting.
Watson was in the middle of the Gypsy ring, dancing wildly to the music of the instruments, quite obviously very, very drunk. It was alarming that one man could imbibe so much sweet poison and yet still be able to remain upright. But that was hardly the issue.
The issue was that Holmes found himself completely unable to tear his gaze away from Watson.
The other detective’s movements were surprisingly controlled for one so full of liquor, but more than that, Watson was laughing. He was truly happy for the first time since they’d started their journey, and it brought warmth to Holmes-unfortunately, in more ways than one.
Whirling around in time to the beat, Watson caught Holmes’ eyes.
“Come on then!” he shouted, breathless from laughter and his dancing. “Shall we see if you’re better at this than I?”
Not the best idea.
But against his better judgment, Holmes’ feet carried him into the circle. With a twinkle in his own eyes, Watson said loudly, “Strike up a good tune, chaps.”
Get out of this while you still have your decency, boy, Holmes pleaded with himself, but then the music differed, and Holmes’ feet took on a mind of their own.
Watson matched Holmes step for step.
“Now there is the Holmes I know,” he grinned wildly. “Never one to back down from a challenge, eh, good man?”
The music was becoming more frantic, the movements of the two causing them to draw closer to each other unintentionally. Watson’s gaze was changing; becoming something else. Holmes felt his breath catch-and not simply because of the quickened pace.
Watson had somehow managed to lose his outer garments, leaving him in only his thin white undershirt, which, damp with sweat, clung to his lithe frame. In the deepening twilight, the fire’s flames danced in his eyes, which were now dark and deep as sin.
The tune escalated into a frenzy, the two dancing faster and faster until Holmes thought his ankles might snap; until Watson decided to shrug off the offending shirt altogether and Holmes could barely think; until his mind would no longer function and all that he desired was to simply-
The music stopped.
Panting, the two stared at each other in the sudden silence, until Watson smiled crookedly. “Shall we have a toast to your superior footwork?”
Holmes caught his wrist before the other man could reach for the nearby bottle of Gypsy wine.
“Watson,” he said, praying his voice didn’t quake. “I do believe that you’ve had quite enough. No, no,” he repeated firmly, as Watson began to protest. “Come with me.”
The laughter and music resumed as Holmes pulled Watson into the surrounding woods and shoved him violently against a tree; losing his footing, Watson tumbled to the ground.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Holmes seethed. “I’m quite through with your little game tonight.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Watson whispered. “It’s only that I…” He swallowed tightly. “You’re a detective, and yet you’re blind to what’s right in front of your eyes.”
“Speak, man,” Holmes spat. “What is it you’re attempting to say?”
“I am only truly happy when I’m with you. How can I make myself any more plain?”
“Watson…“ Holmes growled, and Watson slurred his next words miserably.
“I’ve fallen for you, you fool. I desire nothing else but you.”
Holmes dropped to one knee, but Watson flinched away. “If you must hit me, then do so. I refuse to hide any longer.”
Heart pounding furiously in his chest, Holmes curled his fingers around Watson’s chin, hesitating only a moment.
Guilt swept over Holmes like an ocean wave as Watson surged up into the kiss, a groan of need forced from his throat, and Holmes pushed the other man down into the loam and twigs, carefully straddling his thighs to gently roll his hips downward, starting a delicious friction that immediately transformed
Watson into an incoherent, shuddering mess.
Watson’s hands were gripping Holmes’ shirt front as though the other man was his only hope of survival. When Holmes leant down to place a tender kiss upon his brow, his fingers slipping past cloth to rest on bare flesh, Watson’s hips arched, and he whimpered in such a way that Holmes knew the sound would have liked to be a scream.
“Holmes…”
The breathless whisper, fraught with desire and heat, jerked Holmes back to his senses at once, and he pulled away, horror and loathing filling him. Dear lord, what was wrong with him? The man had a wife, their marriage barely a week old-never mind the fact that Watson was far too inebriated to know what he was doing. To follow through with this act of debauchery would be a terrible betrayal.
Watson dragged himself to his feet when Holmes stood.
“You are no longer a free man,” Holmes said tightly. “Mary trusts you. She believes you are steadfast; faithful. I will not allow her to be crushed over a foolish, tawdry affair such as this.”
Holmes’ heart was breaking, yet he forced himself to speak the last few words, putting as much disgust and hatred into his tone as he could. Watson deserved better than to be associated with such a vile fiend as he.
“Do not for an instant entertain the thought that I care for you, Watson. Truth be told, you mean very little to me.”
Tears rose now in Watson’s eyes, brimming over in a moment’s time. Turning away swiftly lest he shatter, Holmes ended the conversation coldly.
“I no longer require your services as a detective. Our business partnership has ended.”
Holmes remained rooted to the spot until he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Watson had returned to the Gypsy tents. In the deepening twilight, the silence grew, until the only sound became that of Holmes’ quiet weeping.
~*~
Holmes had suspected since Moriarty’s game had begun that there was a price to be paid, and when they reached Switzerland, he knew what that price must be. Nothing remained to determine; there was no cause-and-effect left to deduce.
Only one element mattered anymore.
Holmes knew the ball would be the focal point of those in attendance, and therefore it would be difficult to draw their attention away for any reason until the appointed time. He had but one chance.
Watson’s gaze was devoid of feeling when Holmes touched his arm, drawing him into a private room.
“What is it that you require?” he said coolly.
To see the visible pain on Holmes’ face stunned Watson, but he was unable to ask what the other man was planning before Holmes turned, and his eyes met Watson’s own.
And Watson knew.
“No,” he demanded. “There must be another way.”
Holmes’ sad smile was the only reply he received, and hot anguish filled Watson’s soul. He looked away, but Holmes’ gentle hand upon his cheek redirected his gaze. In that one look was everything that would never be able to be voiced.
Holmes’ lips came to rest upon his forehead in a gentle kiss, and then, in the space of a moment, he was gone.
Watson felt the tears upon his cheek, and knew that not all of them were his own.
~*~
Holmes heard the vicious kick to the door an instant before Watson appeared on the balcony. Their gazes locked, and Watson’s filled with a terrible, haunting sense of grief and loss.
When Holmes let himself fall, he did not open his eyes. Perhaps in that way, if only for a brief, fleeting moment, he would find peace.