To Be Touched
Sherlock Holmes knew John Watson absolutely. Like a precious novel, so love worn the words are rubbed illegible, but felt sightless like a reverberating mantra bouncing off his bones. As common place as his name or the address of their home but devoutly kept. Holmes had memorized the doctor as one returns to that book that burrowed somewhere in their spine and whispers desperate truth into a vaguely conscious existence. Watson was all the romance Holmes indulged in. Like a dear obsession, all at once a comfort and a passion. He knew the man better than himself, all kind smiles, fierce loyalty, pinched eyes and gentle hands.
He knew for example that before the doctor opened his eyes his hands moved as if grasping hold of the world before waking to it. Holmes knew this as his arms, his legs, hands, hair were often gently held as leverage to pull Watson into the waking world. And then cradled as if his reason for waking. He knew that the man loved most especially Holmes’ own hands. Often running his thumb over his palm, tracing the numerous scars. The callused hard-working doctor’s hands, a soldiers hands, would hold his own as gently as the thin shell of a robin’s egg.
John Watson was all touches. He craved contact as one craves silence, peace. He felt his whole worth in an embrace, his very necessity in the grazing of skin. Holmes knew this though he never felt the same. Touching required trust. An open hearted belief in the goodness of another human being. John saw goodness everywhere. Sherlock saw goodness in John. And as he was bound always to be the exception to every self proclaimed rule, Holmes found he didn’t mind at all lavishing touches on Watson. He made an art of his subtlety, finding ways to touch him constantly. Be it a graze of hands as the doctor walked by the settee, or a draping of legs as the other man read his books. It could be as innocent as a hand on a shoulder, or sitting closely so their arms would touch. Holmes had adapted to the man perfectly, delighting in fitting to him, in knowing him.
That knowledge proved nothing now as he escorted the doctor into their flat not daring an attempt to take his hand again. He had rescued his precious tome from the hands of illiterates who’s eyes could not comprehend the very worth written there and who had abused him beyond recognition. His own eyes searched him again, desperately trying to read familiarity in what was now torn, smudged and in a foreign tongue. The story was all wrong, the characters had all turned bitter and the innocence was lost. Watson was no stranger to the cruelty of men but there was only so much the human heart could take and still look kindly on the world. Sherlock had lost the ability at six. He had believed John never would.
Now he had to catch himself before he grasped the arm as it passed by. The touches that had once breathed an affirming life into Watson were now intrusive and unwelcome. Holmes would too often forget reaching his hand out to touch the tanned wrist as it wrested on the back of the chair, only for it to be wrenched from under his fingers. Panic jolting through familiar shoulders and held for an agonizingly long moment before settling again, a little stiffer and always followed by Watson’s apologetic eyes. It made Holmes furious.
Watson withered away in his isolation. Stripped of his very comforts he hung, floating above the ground incapable of accepting Holmes’ hand to root him. He grew paler by the day and his shoulders seemed to droop stripping him even of the air of the soldier which had once rested at the base of his neck. He looked utterly exhausted. Holmes felt constantly on alert watching the tired sway of the man expecting him to drop at any moment and afraid the act of catching him would push him further away.
And yet Watson still slept in Holmes’ bed, unwilling to admit his discomforts, afraid they would grow if left to fester, spreading their poison to settle irremovably in the tips of his fingers until he could never bear to touch Holmes again. Though a wall of pillows was silently constructed between them to prevent the accidental touching of skin. And regardless Watson barely slept any sleep that wasn’t plagued with dreams and Holmes slept even less with every restless roll of his companion jarring him into sad reality. So it was one night their plush barricade was torn down by Watson’s desperate thrashing. A fist swung to slam painfully into Holmes’ ribs, nearly knocking him off the bed. Holmes had not been present for the original act but he had seen the abuse of John Watson every night since. Had heard his cries as his companion struggled to remove an invisible weight from himself, desperately tried to wrench his hands free, pleaded to be let go. And Holmes was helpless. Unable to murder the man still alive in Watson’s mind. Unable to touch Watson himself knowing the physical stimuli would serve only to viscously back horrifying memory. This was not Afghanistan. Holmes knew how to fight the war by wrapping his body around the man, dragging him back to their reality by kissing his hair, his face, his lips, his neck. Here he was powerless, hands hovering over his lover but never landing. Instead he dropped to his side, tangling his arms in the sheets to avoid reaching out to him and whispered with chocked breath in his ear.
“Watson you are dreaming. It is over. Come back to me now . . .” And he is surprised by the anger in his own voice nurtured by frustration in seeing Watson stolen from him every night and being forced to watch, useless. His words continue in pathetic puffs, a monologue that spirals into gibberish that ends with sobbed apologies. “I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry.” Until Watson stills and eyes still clenched closed he reaches around him desperately until he grasps Holmes’ arm and clings to it for dear life. His gentle hands now digging bruises into the soft flesh and Holmes welcomes the pain like a long awaited kiss because Watson is touching him. And with a shuddering gasp Watson opens his eyes and follows the direction of his arm until he sees Holmes clutched in his hand. And with a cry of remorse, like a deep rooted absence he lunges at the detective, limbs wrapping around the thin man, face pressed into his neck. He sobs.
Holmes clings to Watson. His hands move in circles on his back, trace the indent of his spine, smooth back his sweat soaked hair, and caress the lines of his face. His fingers desperate to have hold of the man again, they move to make claim over every available inch of him finally resting in his hair, holding Watson to him. He feels a knot release at the back of his skull like a slowly unraveling spool as relief washed through his limbs leaving his hands tingling supersensitive and shaking.
And maybe he has to admit that despite his claims that this touching is all for John perhaps John’s not the only one who needs it.
He knew for example that before the doctor opened his eyes his hands moved as if grasping hold of the world before waking to it. Holmes knew this as his arms, his legs, hands, hair were often gently held as leverage to pull Watson into the waking world. And then cradled as if his reason for waking. He knew that the man loved most especially Holmes’ own hands. Often running his thumb over his palm, tracing the numerous scars. The callused hard-working doctor’s hands, a soldiers hands, would hold his own as gently as the thin shell of a robin’s egg.
John Watson was all touches. He craved contact as one craves silence, peace. He felt his whole worth in an embrace, his very necessity in the grazing of skin. Holmes knew this though he never felt the same. Touching required trust. An open hearted belief in the goodness of another human being. John saw goodness everywhere. Sherlock saw goodness in John. And as he was bound always to be the exception to every self proclaimed rule, Holmes found he didn’t mind at all lavishing touches on Watson. He made an art of his subtlety, finding ways to touch him constantly. Be it a graze of hands as the doctor walked by the settee, or a draping of legs as the other man read his books. It could be as innocent as a hand on a shoulder, or sitting closely so their arms would touch. Holmes had adapted to the man perfectly, delighting in fitting to him, in knowing him.
That knowledge proved nothing now as he escorted the doctor into their flat not daring an attempt to take his hand again. He had rescued his precious tome from the hands of illiterates who’s eyes could not comprehend the very worth written there and who had abused him beyond recognition. His own eyes searched him again, desperately trying to read familiarity in what was now torn, smudged and in a foreign tongue. The story was all wrong, the characters had all turned bitter and the innocence was lost. Watson was no stranger to the cruelty of men but there was only so much the human heart could take and still look kindly on the world. Sherlock had lost the ability at six. He had believed John never would.
Now he had to catch himself before he grasped the arm as it passed by. The touches that had once breathed an affirming life into Watson were now intrusive and unwelcome. Holmes would too often forget reaching his hand out to touch the tanned wrist as it wrested on the back of the chair, only for it to be wrenched from under his fingers. Panic jolting through familiar shoulders and held for an agonizingly long moment before settling again, a little stiffer and always followed by Watson’s apologetic eyes. It made Holmes furious.
Watson withered away in his isolation. Stripped of his very comforts he hung, floating above the ground incapable of accepting Holmes’ hand to root him. He grew paler by the day and his shoulders seemed to droop stripping him even of the air of the soldier which had once rested at the base of his neck. He looked utterly exhausted. Holmes felt constantly on alert watching the tired sway of the man expecting him to drop at any moment and afraid the act of catching him would push him further away.
And yet Watson still slept in Holmes’ bed, unwilling to admit his discomforts, afraid they would grow if left to fester, spreading their poison to settle irremovably in the tips of his fingers until he could never bear to touch Holmes again. Though a wall of pillows was silently constructed between them to prevent the accidental touching of skin. And regardless Watson barely slept any sleep that wasn’t plagued with dreams and Holmes slept even less with every restless roll of his companion jarring him into sad reality. So it was one night their plush barricade was torn down by Watson’s desperate thrashing. A fist swung to slam painfully into Holmes’ ribs, nearly knocking him off the bed. Holmes had not been present for the original act but he had seen the abuse of John Watson every night since. Had heard his cries as his companion struggled to remove an invisible weight from himself, desperately tried to wrench his hands free, pleaded to be let go. And Holmes was helpless. Unable to murder the man still alive in Watson’s mind. Unable to touch Watson himself knowing the physical stimuli would serve only to viscously back horrifying memory. This was not Afghanistan. Holmes knew how to fight the war by wrapping his body around the man, dragging him back to their reality by kissing his hair, his face, his lips, his neck. Here he was powerless, hands hovering over his lover but never landing. Instead he dropped to his side, tangling his arms in the sheets to avoid reaching out to him and whispered with chocked breath in his ear.
“Watson you are dreaming. It is over. Come back to me now . . .” And he is surprised by the anger in his own voice nurtured by frustration in seeing Watson stolen from him every night and being forced to watch, useless. His words continue in pathetic puffs, a monologue that spirals into gibberish that ends with sobbed apologies. “I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry.” Until Watson stills and eyes still clenched closed he reaches around him desperately until he grasps Holmes’ arm and clings to it for dear life. His gentle hands now digging bruises into the soft flesh and Holmes welcomes the pain like a long awaited kiss because Watson is touching him. And with a shuddering gasp Watson opens his eyes and follows the direction of his arm until he sees Holmes clutched in his hand. And with a cry of remorse, like a deep rooted absence he lunges at the detective, limbs wrapping around the thin man, face pressed into his neck. He sobs.
Holmes clings to Watson. His hands move in circles on his back, trace the indent of his spine, smooth back his sweat soaked hair, and caress the lines of his face. His fingers desperate to have hold of the man again, they move to make claim over every available inch of him finally resting in his hair, holding Watson to him. He feels a knot release at the back of his skull like a slowly unraveling spool as relief washed through his limbs leaving his hands tingling supersensitive and shaking.
And maybe he has to admit that despite his claims that this touching is all for John perhaps John’s not the only one who needs it.