Tea with Holmes
"My goodness, Doctor, what a surprise!" Mrs. Hudson cried out happily upon opening the door and her thundering face almost magically changed into delight as she spotted the late, but welcomed visitor. “Do come in, before you freeze!” She invited him following his every move with tender eyes. Finally, she smiled approvingly, "My dear Doctor, I can tell you, marriage is very becoming you."
“You are too kind, I will make sure to tell Mary," Doctor Watson replied with a gracious smile as he put away his cloak.
"I insist that you do. Mrs. Watson is such a charming lady.” She turned slightly towards the sitting room and remarked in a much stronger voice. “Unlike Mr. Holmes, I have to say," then she turned back to him and whispered. "He is in one of his moods. Again.” She sighed, “He has been having them a lot since you've been gone."
Watson smiled, although his stomach suddenly shrunk into the size of a nut. "Then we must rectify the situation immediately," he said congenially, though his throat felt suddenly somewhat constricted. But Mrs. Hudson didn’t notice it; she seemed to be encouraged merely by his presence. "He's in the sitting room, I will bring you a cup of tea, if you’d like,” she chirped, gesturing for him to go in.
“That would be most welcome,” Watson smiled at her again, thankful for the homely feel. He set out into the sitting room and with every step resonating on the floors his face grew sterner; it seemed like there was no sound in the house at all: no violin, no gunshots, no bubbling of indescribable chemical substances. Everything seemed very normal. When he entered the sitting room, it was the picture of normal as well.
Holmes was there, sitting in his favourite chair and staring into a lit fire, but his eyes, though wide-opened, were unseeing - a look Watson had become to hate on him. Holmes didn't move a muscle, although Watson was quite sure, his presence was noted.
He limped over to Holmes, whose eyes fluttered a little, but still showed no sign of awareness.
“It’s been a long time…I thought I might see you," Watson started feebly, disheartened by the reception; when no response came fort, he almost turned to leave, but Holmes’ surprisingly clear voice stopped him.
“Is your charming wife out of the house?”
“Her name is Mary and you shall pay her respect, she is my wife,” Watson rebuked him immediately, much harsher than he even intended, but Holmes seemed unaffected:
“Of course,” he muttered through half-opened lips, his face remaining quite placid.
Watson sighed, eased his grasp on his walking stick and lowered himself into an armchair next to Holmes’. "The weather this winter is really settling into my bones," he complained conversationally and reached out to pour himself some whiskey. “Want some?” he asked, not caring to think what other substances were already coursing in the sleuth’s stream.
Finally, Holmes’ eyes left the fire for a moment to glance at the amber liquid dancing in the bottle and he nodded solemnly.
They both settled with their drinks; Holmes downed his hurriedly, while Watson swirled the alcohol around a little.
"I see you have no case...” Watson tried to open the conversation casually, but was met with silence disrupted only by the fire cracking and the sound of Holmes' fingers madly drumming on the hand-rest. Watson shifted awkwardly and downed his own whiskey in a gulp. The taste almost burnt his throat and to his embarrassment he needed to cough a little to clear it; in the silence it sounded like cannon-fire to his ears and he swallowed again.
He almost jerked in his seat, when Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared at his side and interrupted the terrible moment. "Doctor Watson, I brought you some tea and biscuits." She put down the kettle on a service table near by and as she arranged the cups, she addressed Holmes: "I've brought some for you as well, though you don't deserve any, treating poor Doctor like this." Then she turned back to Watson. “I’m sure you have a lot to talk about and it's getting late, I will retire, if you don’t mind. Shall I prepare your old rooms in case you decided to spend the night, Doctor?” She smiled at him gently and somewhere in the back of his strung mind Watson realized that Holmes’ fingers stopped their cannonading.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I intend to return home before midnight."
It must have been only his nerves playing with his senses, he realized, because there he heard it again, the drumming in mad staccato.
"Oh,” she covered her surprise, and he fancied to say even disappointment, quickly. “You can decide otherwise anytime, my good man. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, good night, Mrs. Hudson.”
Watson followed the retreating landlady with his eyes and with each her step he felt unease squeeze his lungs as they filled with silence settled back between them with vengeance. The only sound were making Holmes' fingers, which really must have been drilling through the hand-rest by now, Watson thought as he shifted tensely. He huffed, this was ridiculous. He refused to be bullied like this! He straightened in his chair and swiftly reached out for his tea. With the corner of an eye he noticed that Holmes' gaze followed his movement sharply, but he ignored it and started talking casually.
“I’ve opened a new practice near my house." If Holmes refused to speak, then he would be listening, whether he liked it or not. "It's not going bad considering I’ve just started. Most of my patients are veterans and military men, it does seem to be doing me good, that I was in the army.”
With crawling skin he felt Holmes' gaze settle on him unwaveringly - calculating, assessing; to escape it, he watched the tea swirling in his cup. "Last week I paid our first rent. It feels really nice. You should have seen Mary's face, she is…really happy.” The drumming of fingers faltered a little, but then paced up again.
“She says she wants to share some of her bliss, so she decided to join some charity work. I have nothing against it, naturally. It is good, if the doctor's wife is helping out in charity and she is very skilled at organizing." Watson took a sip of his hot tea, scalding his tongue a little; he dared a glance at Holmes to find his glittering eyes fixed at him expectantly.
His fingers closed around the delicate china cup reflexively - certainly this hadn't escaped the watchful eye! Yet, he continued lightly. “She catches all these helpful small details in the newspaper, while I usually read only about the crimes…” he halted quickly, his eyes shot up to Holmes’ cocky smirk and victorious eyes.
Watson put down his cup so quickly, that it clattered on the small plate spilling hot liquid in small droplets; to Watson’s ears it sounded almost accusing -another hint at the state of his mind. “She is the best thing. And I love her,” he argued.
Holmes’ face contorted into a dark smile as if mocking his words, while his dark eyes sparkled alive with unholy fire.
“I love her, Holmes,” Watson insisted firmly, trying to freeze the inferno blazing in the glaring depths, but with little success. With weak arms he pushed himself out of the armchair. "I should go now," he muttered hastily. He knew that he should leave, just quickly leave, yet he found himself rooted in front of Holmes, drawn hypnotically to his face instead.
“You should. But we both know why you came,” Holmes stated contemplatively, but firmly. Watson felt his knees weaken and he fell back into the armchair. “It can’t happen, Holmes. Ever. I am a married man now,” he protested desperately.
Holmes leaned forward deliberately, studying him intently and it flashed through Watson’s mind that maybe Holmes was giving him time to escape; yet he was still there, not moving a bit, starting at Holmes, who smiled a bit sadly and stated finally. “It will happen." At the steady words Watson felt his reality crack. A wave of terrible horror and relief welled up in his chest travelling up to his throat choking him. Suddenly everything seemed so crystal clear and he was so foolish to ever hope, it could be different.
With a sharp intake of breath he shot up from his armchair reaching for Holmes’ lean body grateful that equally eager hands met him half-way. Holmes’ lips immediately sought out his, his tongue coaxing him to open up almost soothingly, tasting of tea and promises - the flavour made Watson dizzy with vertigo. Holmes’ possessive lock on his lips eased a little and he smiled into the kiss. Watson broke away staring into Holmes’ darkened sparkling eyes imploringly. "What?” he asked a bit breathless.
“I don’t know what you were thinking either," Holmes' said and his eyes wrinkled around the edges. Watson felt his breath catch: It was going to happen, not only this night, but many to come and he had no will to escape it.
He always drank his tea hot and bitter. And he always thought of Holmes. He tried to sweeten it up, but it didn’t work, because he liked it hot and bitter. And he never quit thinking of Holmes.