FIC: HOLMES/WATSON (5 of 12)
Title: Uncharted
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Warning: Fluffy smut.
Beta: anoncomment7
Summary: The thought of loving a man more than startles Watson. Holmes leads the way.
Previous: Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4
Chapter Five:
-Thirty-two hours later-
Bookshelf.
Window.
Bookshelf.
Window.
Holmes paced steadily back and forth between the two, trying to focus on anything other than the unalterable fact that evening light was spilling into his room and Watson had yet to arrive. Normally he would have occupied his thoughts with the case he’d recently assigned himself, but that enigma was at a stand still until the coroner’s results returned with a concrete cause of death.
With no other topic strong enough to draw his attention, his thoughts turned to the events of yesterday. The fact that Watson permitted, and even initiated, the motions that caused their lips to meet meant that this entire predicament might not be quite as irrevocably hopeless as he had once assumed. However, the unmistakable look of abject confusion that had been painted on Watson’s face only moments afterward was reason enough to give way to a cynical conclusion. Unless, of course, the expression was merely brought on by the sudden realization that he was going to have to leave a good woman stranded and he was lamenting causing an innocent person emotional discomfort. On the other hand-
Turning to head back towards the bookshelf and his eye caught the lean human frame standing in his doorway. There stood Watson, in his usual coat and hat ensemble, leaning on his cane and observing the detective with an austere, reluctantly curious expression.
Holmes only broke his stride for a moment before continuing on his path to the bookshelf. “Watson, what preferable timing,” he said, snatching up the first book he could get his hands on. “I was just about to settle into some more research for the case.”
“What sort of research?” Watson asked from the doorway, his flat tone suggesting that he was humoring him under protest.
Holmes glanced at the book’s title before humbly replying, “Leaves of Grass.”
They shared eye contact for a moment. Watson was not remotely convinced, and Holmes soon looked away, slipping the book back into its place as if the action wouldn’t be noticed.
“Once more I failed to hear you arrive,” Holmes quipped without thinking, “Are you sincerely positive that you’ve chosen the correct profession? You would excel at espionage.”
“Holmes,” Watson said, his tone severe.
That was all the detective needed to hear to understand his winsome attitude was not appreciated, but he wasn’t entirely sure if his nerves would permit him to accommodate Watson’s request for a more pensive atmosphere.
Holmes motioned to the two chairs behind him. “Will you be staying long?”
“I’m not sitting,” Watson insisted, “I have questions.”
Instead of replying, Holmes had a seat in his favorite chair and politely waited for his friend to continue.
Watson took a few steps into the room. “Why wasn’t this place in an upheaval yesterday? If you go more than a few days with no case you start climbing the walls.”
“If you returned,” Holmes replied, “I didn’t want you to think my mental state had deteriorated due to your absence.”
“Why?”
“Because it had.”
Watson took a moment to let the answer sink in, nodding slightly in acknowledgement as he removed his hat, tossing it onto a nearby table. “I must admit, I’m at a loss for how to phrase the rest.”
“If words come from you,” Holmes assured him, “I will comprehend their meaning.”
The doctor’s reaction to that statement was wholly peculiar. A smile tugged at his mouth, only to be straightened out an instant later by a self-imposed return to a sober attitude. Holmes got the distinct impression that he had just told Watson something he already knew. He only wished the moment had lasted long enough for him to properly enjoy it.
Holmes’ remark had at least convinced Watson to speak further. “I haven’t been able to focus on even the simplest tasks. I’ve been convinced that everyone I encounter can see into my head.” He laughed at his own absurdity. “Am I really so far gone as an individual? For god’s sake, when I passed the bakery on the way here and the owner greeted me, I was certain he knew.”
“Naturally,” Holmes chirped, “he was the first person I told.”
“That’s not funny, Holmes.”
“Your smile implies otherwise.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“Well, if I’m not funny and you’re not smiling, then we really must be in bad sorts.”
Watson let his grin expand to a full smile in spite of himself, this time lasting a precious few seconds longer than the last. Holmes let out a miniscule exhale of satisfaction.
“I apologize,” the detective said, fondness in his eyes, “I confess that my motive for betraying the weight of this conversation was entirely self-serving.”
Watson looked up at him through his eyebrows with sheer disbelief. “How do you remain unaffected by all of this?”
In a rare occurrence, the detective was caught completely off guard. “That question does not come with a rudimentary explanation.”
“I need to know,” Watson said with simple earnest. “If I am to say anything more I need you to answer me, because one of things I can’t bear is seeing you at ease over something this detestable.”
It was Holmes who glanced away this time, his nerves giving way to an eerie stillness, a sort of tranquil sense of fear. Apprehension to disclose the truth was not the issue. On the contrary, he greatly wished to respond. He just hadn’t been expecting this inquiry to present itself quite so soon, and it took a few moments to gather the wherewithal to answer.
When he was as prepared as he ever would be, Holmes turned to speak, determined to maintain eye contact. “When I was but a youth of sixteen years I noticed, with my already advanced powers of observation, that I lacked the drive to desire physical intimacy with another. For almost a decade I was positive that some sort of physical condition was the culprit, a hormone deficiency or a disease that would cause such an effect, but I came to realize my initial theory had been flawed. To my great discomfort, I began to discover that my hormonal reactions were firmly intact, they simply lacked any inclination towards the female variety. I instead gravitated towards men.” He let that sentiment sink in and, as Watson looked away, his voice involuntarily dropped in volume. “I was thoroughly disturbed, even sickened, by this revelation. I refused to accept it as an unchangeable certainty and paid women of loose moral fiber to satiate my desires. They would never succeed, but I kept returning to them with the hope that one night I would be miraculously cured.
“As my situation went on without remedy, my self-loathing reached a low that has not since been matched. I sought out every conceivable way of mistreating myself, be it with alcohol, starvation, or knives to my skin. I never once considered approaching a psychiatric professional. I knew that if I told anyone, even someone I entirely trusted, I would be beaten, locked away, or worse. At the end of a year I was strongly considering the noose as a viable option.” He shifted his weight as he noted Watson’s discomfort at such language. “Then, on an evening that was otherwise unremarkable, I had just arrived at a whore house on the east side when I happened to catch the eye of a customer who was taking his leave. At first I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me, but when I looked at him for a second time the reality was ultimately confirmed. I saw in his face the identical emotion which I had become accustomed to experiencing when I was exiting such a place. Now that I look back on the instance, he must have seen the expression of dreadful anticipation he no doubt had felt only an hour previous.”
Watson’s stare shifted back to the detective as his brow furrowed slightly, the story having taken an unexpected turn.
Caught up in the memory, Holmes pressed on. “We didn’t speak a word. Never before in my existence had so much been communicated without requiring use of my extensive vocabulary. We acknowledged each other and, compelled by a force which I did not grasp in the slightest, I followed him out of the establishment. We walked together down the streets of London in a most peculiar silence until we happened upon an alley even the rats had deemed unworthy. It was there I had my first experience with buggery.”
Watson flinched at the word as it rang through the air. Holmes paused for a moment to catch his breath and regain his equilibrium. He pushed himself into a stance, walking quietly over to the crystal decanter of scotch he always kept on hand. Pouring himself a shallow glass, he tossed the harsh liquid to the back of his throat and set the glass next to the fashionable container. Stable for the time being, he turned to Watson. The doctor had been listening with rapt, wholehearted attention, and such disciplined focus had yet to outwardly falter.
Holmes continued bravely from where he stood. “That night brought about my salvation. I had seen I was not a singular exception to the rule. That, however implausible it may seem, men can seek the affections of other men.” Holmes carefully slid his shaking hands into his pockets. “That is why, my dear Watson, this situation between us has not seemed to affect me in the way it has you. That is also why the speed with which we travel, if we travel at all, is entirely in your hands. I hold no right to make demands of you.”
Holmes, his speech now complete, bowed his head and accepted the long silence that followed.
It was not common for him to lapse into such long diatribes about his history and, point of fact he had never shared this aspect of his past with another living soul for the sake of his safety. A strange sort of relief took hold of him, and his shoulders eased in a way that suggested he had been holding tension in places he hadn’t realized for a very long time.
Stealing a brief glance in Watson’s direction, the calm in his body moved aside to make way for the nervous tension he had grown accustomed to hosting over these past two weeks. The doctor had taken to staring at the floor, unmoving, and deep in thought. Holmes didn’t dare take any kind of action to rouse Watson from his meditations, so he remained where and how he was until called upon him to do otherwise. To his surprise, Holmes found this sort purgatory of great comfort.
In limbo you have yet to be judged.
After what seemed like hours, but in reality was a handful of minutes, Watson stepped forward. Holmes almost couldn’t bear to see such conflict written on a face he cared so deeply for, but didn’t voice such a concern. He had spoken enough.
Watson was unsteady to the point of trembling as he looked into Holmes’ eyes. “I don’t have words,” he began, searching for what to say next, “At least that’s why my mind would have me believe.” He took a moment to rub the space between his eyebrows. “I have committed an act that would see me hang for it, and you describe similar acts as bringing about your salvation. I should report you, turn you in. I should turn myself in.” Holmes clenched his jaw at the thought, watching as Watson struggled to control himself. “The acts we have been driven to defy God, law, and country. What would you have me do? You say you make no demands but there you stand waiting for your answer and I’m not even entirely sure what the bloody question is. You say you’ve committed buggery. If our regard for each other is of the same breed, then why does just the thought of such an act turn my stomach?” Watson’s voice was rising without him realizing it. “I’ll make no game about it - you are the single most substantial individual in my life, which is exactly what could be causing all this confusion in the first place. Is my emotional attachment to you of such vital importance that it could confuse my physiology? Is that all this is?” Watson slammed the butt of his cane to the floor in frustration. “I’m going back and forth between two realities that are making less and less sense the more I try to sort them out, and what’s causing the most confusion is the one certainty I keep coming back to!”
The question was flying out of Holmes’ mouth before he had a chance to stop it. “May I inquire as to what that certainty is?”
A second passed, then two more.
When Watson’s didn’t acknowledge the question, Holmes spoke again. “Did you-”
“Yes, I heard you,” Watson interrupted evenly. “I can hear.”
As Holmes watched his long time friend and companion work up the will to answer, he was summoning the courage to receive it. They hung in this heightened balance for a few short, harrowing moments. At last, Watson brought his eyes to meet Holmes’.
“My one certainty,” he began, his voice low and constricted, “is that I want the opportunity of last afternoon to present itself again.”
Holmes’ eyes softened as he felt his chest surge with frenetic energy. Watson looked away; it was clear that he was not going to move from his place. The detective took a few cautious steps forward, tilting his head to the side to try and gently regain the eye contact that had been lost. He finally succeeded as he came to a stop in front of Watson and, for the moment, all was still.
Watson’s expression was grave, pensive. Holmes could plainly see that the conflict was still alive and strong within the doctor, that even though the words had been uttered, his resolve was not absolute.
Holmes moved to back away, and Watson immediately took a half step forward.
Watson hadn’t actually reached to stop Holmes from retreating, but the urge had sparked in his eyes. Yet when Holmes then went to step forward, Watson was seized by the opposite compulsion. Now the detective felt a strong, familiar impulse of his own.
“Should I lie in wait for you in the shadows until your guard is down so I might take you by surprise?” Holmes asked with a straight face.
Watson, in awe of what had just been said, let out the breath he had been holding with pure exasperation. “Your endless capacity for levity at the most inappropriate times is not one of your attractive qualities.”
“And yet,” Holmes said with mock thoughtfulness, “it’s one of your favorites.”
“Are you trying to push me into a psychological breakdown?”
“I’m certainly headed for one at this point, and I do enjoy company.”
Watson’s glare was brutal. “Now is not the time.”
“Then perhaps we should revisit my previous suggestion of an ambush.”
“Holmes, kiss me!”
Both men jumped, startled by the boldness of his words. Watson straightened his posture to try and regain some decorum, but it was too late. Holmes made the final step, took hold of Watson’s coat lapels, and pressed their mouths together.
Neither man moved for the first few seconds. Be it from fear, insecurity, or excitement, they remained perfectly still. By honest chance, Holmes’ lips moved first, relaxing and then puckering again to settle into a new position. Watson awoke at the movement, and tentatively began to mimic his counterpart. The doctor was highly cautious, but an eagerness to explore was making its way to the surface, and the intoxicating combination caused Holmes’ knees weaken considerably. He let his grip on the coat drift down, leaning forward just enough so that their chests slid against each other. Holmes felt Watson’s breath hitch as the cane fell to the floor, forgotten before it hit the ground.
Almost delirious as their steady movements held their course, Holmes yearned to reach up, to hold the face of the man that had meant so much for so long. But even now, especially now, he couldn’t risk pushing too quickly. To restrain himself from pursuing such a desire, he indulged in the feel of Watson’s delicate, probing kiss and the fire in his stomach that was finally daring to spark.
Then, just as Holmes’ need was starting to subside, he felt two slender, capable hands brace themselves against the sides of his face.
Holmes’ mouth quivered against Watson’s as tears filled his eyes. Letting go of the coat, he wrapped his arms around his companion, pressing their bodies together and deepening the kiss. He delighted at the feel of Watson’s mustache scratching gently against him as the fervor was steadily returned.
Their mouths were open and pushing, burning with heat. Struck by an inexplicable surge of bravery, Holmes let his tongue press forward to graze Watson’s.
Watson jerked at the contact, moving his hands to Holmes’ shoulders to try and push him away, his breathing ragged from the fevered kiss. In the middle of the struggle, their tongues collided again in an explosion of delicious friction, and Watson let out a deep, guttural moan into Holmes’ mouth.
Snapping back from the moment of freedom, Watson desperately shoved himself away from the detective. Before Holmes could protest, they were on opposite sides of the room.
Holmes paid no mind to his oxygen-deprived lungs as they cried out for air, and he ignored his racing heart’s plea for peace. All his attention, mental or otherwise, was on Watson, who had leant his back up against the closest wall he could find and was now resting his head, staring up at the ceiling. When the doctor’s eyes finally drifted down and met Holmes’, the understanding was clear.
It was no longer a question of confused physiology.
Rating: NC-17 (for later chapters)
Warning: Fluffy smut.
Beta: anoncomment7
Summary: The thought of loving a man more than startles Watson. Holmes leads the way.
Previous: Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4
Chapter Five:
-Thirty-two hours later-
Bookshelf.
Window.
Bookshelf.
Window.
Holmes paced steadily back and forth between the two, trying to focus on anything other than the unalterable fact that evening light was spilling into his room and Watson had yet to arrive. Normally he would have occupied his thoughts with the case he’d recently assigned himself, but that enigma was at a stand still until the coroner’s results returned with a concrete cause of death.
With no other topic strong enough to draw his attention, his thoughts turned to the events of yesterday. The fact that Watson permitted, and even initiated, the motions that caused their lips to meet meant that this entire predicament might not be quite as irrevocably hopeless as he had once assumed. However, the unmistakable look of abject confusion that had been painted on Watson’s face only moments afterward was reason enough to give way to a cynical conclusion. Unless, of course, the expression was merely brought on by the sudden realization that he was going to have to leave a good woman stranded and he was lamenting causing an innocent person emotional discomfort. On the other hand-
Turning to head back towards the bookshelf and his eye caught the lean human frame standing in his doorway. There stood Watson, in his usual coat and hat ensemble, leaning on his cane and observing the detective with an austere, reluctantly curious expression.
Holmes only broke his stride for a moment before continuing on his path to the bookshelf. “Watson, what preferable timing,” he said, snatching up the first book he could get his hands on. “I was just about to settle into some more research for the case.”
“What sort of research?” Watson asked from the doorway, his flat tone suggesting that he was humoring him under protest.
Holmes glanced at the book’s title before humbly replying, “Leaves of Grass.”
They shared eye contact for a moment. Watson was not remotely convinced, and Holmes soon looked away, slipping the book back into its place as if the action wouldn’t be noticed.
“Once more I failed to hear you arrive,” Holmes quipped without thinking, “Are you sincerely positive that you’ve chosen the correct profession? You would excel at espionage.”
“Holmes,” Watson said, his tone severe.
That was all the detective needed to hear to understand his winsome attitude was not appreciated, but he wasn’t entirely sure if his nerves would permit him to accommodate Watson’s request for a more pensive atmosphere.
Holmes motioned to the two chairs behind him. “Will you be staying long?”
“I’m not sitting,” Watson insisted, “I have questions.”
Instead of replying, Holmes had a seat in his favorite chair and politely waited for his friend to continue.
Watson took a few steps into the room. “Why wasn’t this place in an upheaval yesterday? If you go more than a few days with no case you start climbing the walls.”
“If you returned,” Holmes replied, “I didn’t want you to think my mental state had deteriorated due to your absence.”
“Why?”
“Because it had.”
Watson took a moment to let the answer sink in, nodding slightly in acknowledgement as he removed his hat, tossing it onto a nearby table. “I must admit, I’m at a loss for how to phrase the rest.”
“If words come from you,” Holmes assured him, “I will comprehend their meaning.”
The doctor’s reaction to that statement was wholly peculiar. A smile tugged at his mouth, only to be straightened out an instant later by a self-imposed return to a sober attitude. Holmes got the distinct impression that he had just told Watson something he already knew. He only wished the moment had lasted long enough for him to properly enjoy it.
Holmes’ remark had at least convinced Watson to speak further. “I haven’t been able to focus on even the simplest tasks. I’ve been convinced that everyone I encounter can see into my head.” He laughed at his own absurdity. “Am I really so far gone as an individual? For god’s sake, when I passed the bakery on the way here and the owner greeted me, I was certain he knew.”
“Naturally,” Holmes chirped, “he was the first person I told.”
“That’s not funny, Holmes.”
“Your smile implies otherwise.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“Well, if I’m not funny and you’re not smiling, then we really must be in bad sorts.”
Watson let his grin expand to a full smile in spite of himself, this time lasting a precious few seconds longer than the last. Holmes let out a miniscule exhale of satisfaction.
“I apologize,” the detective said, fondness in his eyes, “I confess that my motive for betraying the weight of this conversation was entirely self-serving.”
Watson looked up at him through his eyebrows with sheer disbelief. “How do you remain unaffected by all of this?”
In a rare occurrence, the detective was caught completely off guard. “That question does not come with a rudimentary explanation.”
“I need to know,” Watson said with simple earnest. “If I am to say anything more I need you to answer me, because one of things I can’t bear is seeing you at ease over something this detestable.”
It was Holmes who glanced away this time, his nerves giving way to an eerie stillness, a sort of tranquil sense of fear. Apprehension to disclose the truth was not the issue. On the contrary, he greatly wished to respond. He just hadn’t been expecting this inquiry to present itself quite so soon, and it took a few moments to gather the wherewithal to answer.
When he was as prepared as he ever would be, Holmes turned to speak, determined to maintain eye contact. “When I was but a youth of sixteen years I noticed, with my already advanced powers of observation, that I lacked the drive to desire physical intimacy with another. For almost a decade I was positive that some sort of physical condition was the culprit, a hormone deficiency or a disease that would cause such an effect, but I came to realize my initial theory had been flawed. To my great discomfort, I began to discover that my hormonal reactions were firmly intact, they simply lacked any inclination towards the female variety. I instead gravitated towards men.” He let that sentiment sink in and, as Watson looked away, his voice involuntarily dropped in volume. “I was thoroughly disturbed, even sickened, by this revelation. I refused to accept it as an unchangeable certainty and paid women of loose moral fiber to satiate my desires. They would never succeed, but I kept returning to them with the hope that one night I would be miraculously cured.
“As my situation went on without remedy, my self-loathing reached a low that has not since been matched. I sought out every conceivable way of mistreating myself, be it with alcohol, starvation, or knives to my skin. I never once considered approaching a psychiatric professional. I knew that if I told anyone, even someone I entirely trusted, I would be beaten, locked away, or worse. At the end of a year I was strongly considering the noose as a viable option.” He shifted his weight as he noted Watson’s discomfort at such language. “Then, on an evening that was otherwise unremarkable, I had just arrived at a whore house on the east side when I happened to catch the eye of a customer who was taking his leave. At first I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me, but when I looked at him for a second time the reality was ultimately confirmed. I saw in his face the identical emotion which I had become accustomed to experiencing when I was exiting such a place. Now that I look back on the instance, he must have seen the expression of dreadful anticipation he no doubt had felt only an hour previous.”
Watson’s stare shifted back to the detective as his brow furrowed slightly, the story having taken an unexpected turn.
Caught up in the memory, Holmes pressed on. “We didn’t speak a word. Never before in my existence had so much been communicated without requiring use of my extensive vocabulary. We acknowledged each other and, compelled by a force which I did not grasp in the slightest, I followed him out of the establishment. We walked together down the streets of London in a most peculiar silence until we happened upon an alley even the rats had deemed unworthy. It was there I had my first experience with buggery.”
Watson flinched at the word as it rang through the air. Holmes paused for a moment to catch his breath and regain his equilibrium. He pushed himself into a stance, walking quietly over to the crystal decanter of scotch he always kept on hand. Pouring himself a shallow glass, he tossed the harsh liquid to the back of his throat and set the glass next to the fashionable container. Stable for the time being, he turned to Watson. The doctor had been listening with rapt, wholehearted attention, and such disciplined focus had yet to outwardly falter.
Holmes continued bravely from where he stood. “That night brought about my salvation. I had seen I was not a singular exception to the rule. That, however implausible it may seem, men can seek the affections of other men.” Holmes carefully slid his shaking hands into his pockets. “That is why, my dear Watson, this situation between us has not seemed to affect me in the way it has you. That is also why the speed with which we travel, if we travel at all, is entirely in your hands. I hold no right to make demands of you.”
Holmes, his speech now complete, bowed his head and accepted the long silence that followed.
It was not common for him to lapse into such long diatribes about his history and, point of fact he had never shared this aspect of his past with another living soul for the sake of his safety. A strange sort of relief took hold of him, and his shoulders eased in a way that suggested he had been holding tension in places he hadn’t realized for a very long time.
Stealing a brief glance in Watson’s direction, the calm in his body moved aside to make way for the nervous tension he had grown accustomed to hosting over these past two weeks. The doctor had taken to staring at the floor, unmoving, and deep in thought. Holmes didn’t dare take any kind of action to rouse Watson from his meditations, so he remained where and how he was until called upon him to do otherwise. To his surprise, Holmes found this sort purgatory of great comfort.
In limbo you have yet to be judged.
After what seemed like hours, but in reality was a handful of minutes, Watson stepped forward. Holmes almost couldn’t bear to see such conflict written on a face he cared so deeply for, but didn’t voice such a concern. He had spoken enough.
Watson was unsteady to the point of trembling as he looked into Holmes’ eyes. “I don’t have words,” he began, searching for what to say next, “At least that’s why my mind would have me believe.” He took a moment to rub the space between his eyebrows. “I have committed an act that would see me hang for it, and you describe similar acts as bringing about your salvation. I should report you, turn you in. I should turn myself in.” Holmes clenched his jaw at the thought, watching as Watson struggled to control himself. “The acts we have been driven to defy God, law, and country. What would you have me do? You say you make no demands but there you stand waiting for your answer and I’m not even entirely sure what the bloody question is. You say you’ve committed buggery. If our regard for each other is of the same breed, then why does just the thought of such an act turn my stomach?” Watson’s voice was rising without him realizing it. “I’ll make no game about it - you are the single most substantial individual in my life, which is exactly what could be causing all this confusion in the first place. Is my emotional attachment to you of such vital importance that it could confuse my physiology? Is that all this is?” Watson slammed the butt of his cane to the floor in frustration. “I’m going back and forth between two realities that are making less and less sense the more I try to sort them out, and what’s causing the most confusion is the one certainty I keep coming back to!”
The question was flying out of Holmes’ mouth before he had a chance to stop it. “May I inquire as to what that certainty is?”
A second passed, then two more.
When Watson’s didn’t acknowledge the question, Holmes spoke again. “Did you-”
“Yes, I heard you,” Watson interrupted evenly. “I can hear.”
As Holmes watched his long time friend and companion work up the will to answer, he was summoning the courage to receive it. They hung in this heightened balance for a few short, harrowing moments. At last, Watson brought his eyes to meet Holmes’.
“My one certainty,” he began, his voice low and constricted, “is that I want the opportunity of last afternoon to present itself again.”
Holmes’ eyes softened as he felt his chest surge with frenetic energy. Watson looked away; it was clear that he was not going to move from his place. The detective took a few cautious steps forward, tilting his head to the side to try and gently regain the eye contact that had been lost. He finally succeeded as he came to a stop in front of Watson and, for the moment, all was still.
Watson’s expression was grave, pensive. Holmes could plainly see that the conflict was still alive and strong within the doctor, that even though the words had been uttered, his resolve was not absolute.
Holmes moved to back away, and Watson immediately took a half step forward.
Watson hadn’t actually reached to stop Holmes from retreating, but the urge had sparked in his eyes. Yet when Holmes then went to step forward, Watson was seized by the opposite compulsion. Now the detective felt a strong, familiar impulse of his own.
“Should I lie in wait for you in the shadows until your guard is down so I might take you by surprise?” Holmes asked with a straight face.
Watson, in awe of what had just been said, let out the breath he had been holding with pure exasperation. “Your endless capacity for levity at the most inappropriate times is not one of your attractive qualities.”
“And yet,” Holmes said with mock thoughtfulness, “it’s one of your favorites.”
“Are you trying to push me into a psychological breakdown?”
“I’m certainly headed for one at this point, and I do enjoy company.”
Watson’s glare was brutal. “Now is not the time.”
“Then perhaps we should revisit my previous suggestion of an ambush.”
“Holmes, kiss me!”
Both men jumped, startled by the boldness of his words. Watson straightened his posture to try and regain some decorum, but it was too late. Holmes made the final step, took hold of Watson’s coat lapels, and pressed their mouths together.
Neither man moved for the first few seconds. Be it from fear, insecurity, or excitement, they remained perfectly still. By honest chance, Holmes’ lips moved first, relaxing and then puckering again to settle into a new position. Watson awoke at the movement, and tentatively began to mimic his counterpart. The doctor was highly cautious, but an eagerness to explore was making its way to the surface, and the intoxicating combination caused Holmes’ knees weaken considerably. He let his grip on the coat drift down, leaning forward just enough so that their chests slid against each other. Holmes felt Watson’s breath hitch as the cane fell to the floor, forgotten before it hit the ground.
Almost delirious as their steady movements held their course, Holmes yearned to reach up, to hold the face of the man that had meant so much for so long. But even now, especially now, he couldn’t risk pushing too quickly. To restrain himself from pursuing such a desire, he indulged in the feel of Watson’s delicate, probing kiss and the fire in his stomach that was finally daring to spark.
Then, just as Holmes’ need was starting to subside, he felt two slender, capable hands brace themselves against the sides of his face.
Holmes’ mouth quivered against Watson’s as tears filled his eyes. Letting go of the coat, he wrapped his arms around his companion, pressing their bodies together and deepening the kiss. He delighted at the feel of Watson’s mustache scratching gently against him as the fervor was steadily returned.
Their mouths were open and pushing, burning with heat. Struck by an inexplicable surge of bravery, Holmes let his tongue press forward to graze Watson’s.
Watson jerked at the contact, moving his hands to Holmes’ shoulders to try and push him away, his breathing ragged from the fevered kiss. In the middle of the struggle, their tongues collided again in an explosion of delicious friction, and Watson let out a deep, guttural moan into Holmes’ mouth.
Snapping back from the moment of freedom, Watson desperately shoved himself away from the detective. Before Holmes could protest, they were on opposite sides of the room.
Holmes paid no mind to his oxygen-deprived lungs as they cried out for air, and he ignored his racing heart’s plea for peace. All his attention, mental or otherwise, was on Watson, who had leant his back up against the closest wall he could find and was now resting his head, staring up at the ceiling. When the doctor’s eyes finally drifted down and met Holmes’, the understanding was clear.
It was no longer a question of confused physiology.