Tell me i'm here, chapter 4
So here’s finally the fourth chapter! I must admit I wrote it and rewrote it for the shitload of times and I still don’t like it… however I decided to post it just before I leave the country XD
Anyway, it’s not very long, but I tried my best, seeing as I’ve also been suffering the writer’s block (again)… so, here we ago!
Oh and also, this chapter is rated R - for safe, cause I suck at defining the actual rating…
Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Chapter 4.
Illusions.
Holmes is already starting to lose his ability to count the days he has spent in his room without walking out, all alone.
Well, except for William.
He thinks it’s been a week, but he can easily be mistaken, after all, William could have made him think anything he wants, he likes to play mental games with him. The ones, Holmes doesn’t know the rules of.
The days mix together, his memory is a mess, brought down to the line where he can’t even tell appart what happened half an hour ago and what happened half a week ago. He just lies in bed, drifting off to sleep from time to time; sometimes he eats whatever Mrs. Hudson has left at his door. Sometimes he attempts to read, not actually seeing the words on the page, the lines blurred before his eyes, his thoughts all about Watson, who still hasn’t showed up.
And, of course, William is always by his side.
He gets off from the bed and makes his way to the bathroom, staggering while he does it. William is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn’t dare to get his hopes high; he knows William well enough to know he wouldn’t leave him that easily.
He splashes some cold water on his face and lifts his gaze up, staring back at the mirror, seeing face that he doesn’t recognize. He briefly closes his eyes, unable to see the man reflecting there: gaunt face, at the point of being dreadfully gaunt, hollow cheeks, black circles around his eyes, which shine sickly and seem to be large; his hair stuck up in all possible direction. He refuses to believe it’s actually him, that he has got to that point in his life when he can’t recognize himself in the mirror.
He stares some more, leaning on the sink, and then his reflection smirks and winks at him mockingly and ominously.
He quickly turns away, telling himself it’s just William playing around with him, he has done that a lot already. The most important, he reminds himself, is to keep looking at things clearly and be able to tell the difference between illusion and reality.
Too bad William has almost destroyed that thin line for him.
Holmes collapses in his chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He feels the dull pain in his head which usually precedes the actual headache. And that means William is soon to appear. Even as though he knows it’s absolutely impossible, he tries to mentally prepare himself for the grand arrival.
William doesn’t make him wait long.
“How are you today, my friend?” The voice sounds in Holmes’ ears, but he doesn’t open his eyes to look at the man in the room. He just winces.
“I was very well until you showed up” he responds wearily.
“What, you don’t want to see me?” William inquires innocently as if he doesn’t know the answer already.
As if he doesn’t ask it every time he decides to show up.
“No I don’t, William, like I didn’ yesterday and the day before yesterday and the day before - no, I in no possible way have a slightest bit of desire to hear you or see you, as you are the most loathsome creature I’ve ever had a misfortune to lay my eyes on” He ventures, thinking about what it would be like if William just listened to him and went away.
“My Goodness, wasn’t that just so well-phrased!” William laughs. “But maybe I can do something so it would be more delightful for you to lay your eyes on me? Anything?”
Holmes doesn’t bother to answer him, just sinking deeper in his chair.
“Maybe you’d like to look at me now?” William wonders after almost a minute of blissful silence and Holmes knows he shouldn’t open his eyes, so he keeps them shut. William snorts. “Look at me” Now it sounds more like an order.
Holmes doesn’t, the sudden stubbornness rising in him as if doing the opposite William is telling him to do will make him feel a lot better. He guesses it’s the only way left for him to feel anything near good at all.
“Look at me, Sherlock!” William hisses, and the next moment Holmes head explodes and he opens his eyes in defeat, having no desire to deal with so much pain now.
Watson is standing in front of him, his warm brown eyes fixed on Holmes’ grey ones and Holmes suddenly finds himself unable to move, frozen in his chair and sinking in the depth of those hazel eyes, his mouth agape. He hasn’t seen his friend for so long he can’t even remember, and it’s so good to see him again that for some moments he forgets who it is actually before him.
Until Watson’s lips twist in a dark ominous smirk that has never belonged his friend.
“What about now, Sherlock? Or shall I address to you as Holmes so I am more in-character?”
“You can address to me as Gladstone for all I care, but I’m not ten nor am I so naïf as to fall for your tricks anymore”
But William doesn’t say anything to that, he just… smiles. Not that William-like smirk of his, but a warm Watson-smile that reaches his eyes, and now Holmes really can’t tell the difference.
William slowly approaches him, his gaze fixed on Holmes’, confidence radiating from him in waves.
“You want this, Holmes” Watson - no, William - says, stepping closer and the distance between them now is only few inches; the doctor is really close to him. And it feels good to have Watson so close.
And recently Holmes realized what else would feel good with Watson.
William-Watson leans forward and the next moment he’s sitting on Holmes’ lap, his hot breath at the detective’s ear.
“You want me” Watson whispers in his ear and slowly runs his tongue along the shell. Holmes exhales sharply, letting out the long breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding, and shudders. He’s been craving it for so long that now he’s ready to pretend it’s actually happening.
Watson’s hot lips wander down his neck and Holmes throws back his head, giving better access, his breathing now shallow and fast. The lips go down to his clavicles, to his chest, the warm hands unbuttoning his shirt before finally the wet mouth envelopes his nipple. Holmes shuts his eyes and moans, his pants already too tight.
Immediately, he feels a hand cup his crotch, making the waves of pleasure spread all over his body, his pulse quickens even more if it’s even possible.
“I’ve always wanted you, only you, always loved you…” Watson whispers, planting small kisses all over the detective’s chest. “Never wanted her, need only you…”
“No - don’t… don’t… talk” Holmes pleads, because this way it’s easier to pretend it’s real. He just shuts his mind and opens up to the feelings this imitation of Watson causes in him.
“Open your eyes” Watson says quietly, and when he does he sees they’re no longer in his room on Baker Street but at the flowery field with no ends visible around, all kind of bright colorful flowers and high grass surround them. The cool air blows against his cold skin and Holmes lies on his back, closing his eyes happily and giving in to the blissful state he is led to. No one will disturb them now, no one will take this Watson away, no one will separate them again.
He almost feels Watson smirk as he kisses Holmes’ neck. He doesn’t think about it now.
-----
First thing that Watson sees on entering the house on Baker Street is Mrs. Hudson, who’s cleaning the floor by the staircase. She wears somewhat stony expression on her face, and it looks so odd on her that Watson can’t help asking: “Good day, Mrs. Hudson! How are you today?”
She gives a start and lifts her gaze at him sharply, frightened look on her face. Recognizing him, though, her face takes up an expression of relief.
“Oh, it’s you, Dr Watson! I missed seeing you here, you definitely should visit us more often!” She rambles with an unconvincing smile. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you!”
She says it with a sharp edge, hiding something beneath the light tone, but even as he catches it he doesn’t push the topic. Instead, he wonders: “And how is Holmes doing?”
He knows he hit the spot as the shadow runs across the landlady’s face and her eyes darken. She makes another poor attempt at smiling. The corners of her mouth tremble.
“He’s… well, he’s been a little out of his mind lately” she replies, evasively.
“Whatever do you mean by that?” Watson inquires, frowning and he feels a stab of guilt as he looks upstairs in the direction of Holmes’ room. God, what could possibly have happened with his friend? He hasn’t visited Holmes for about a week now, could he even be referred as ‘friend’ to, after that?
“Oh, you should come and see him yourself” Mrs. Hudson says, stepping aside and gesturing at the Holmes’ door. “He hasn’t come of his room for almost a week now, always talking to someone… or something” her voice drifts off and she shakes her head regretfully.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I shall go to him now” Watson nods as he starts walking up the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest and he realizes he’s actually afraid of entering Holmes’ room to whatever he will find there.
However, John Watson has never considered himself to be a kind of men who run away from the complications, so he exhales sharply and grits his teeth, lifting his fist and knocking firmly.
There’s silence and he knocks again, then again and when there’s no answer he calls: “Holmes! Please, open up! It’s me, Watson!”
The silence continues, but this time not for long as he hears slow steps from the inside of the room and then the door opens to reveal his friend - Watson gapes - skinny, bony even, his eyes large on his narrow face with hollow cheeks, his skin unnaturally pale.
“Christ, Holmes, what have you done to yourself?!” He demands, shocked, as he lets himself in the room. Holmes doesn’t answer but stares at him warily, his eyes boring a hole in Watson. He looks smaller now, Watson notices, even though his back is straight as ever, he looks somewhat shrunk.
“Watson? Is it really you?” he finally rasps disbelievingly, his voice hoarse.
Watson frowns at the question.
“Well, who else do you think I could be?” he says, trying to hide his worry beneath annoyed tone.
Holmes smirks so bitterly at his words that Watson realizes he must be missing something.
The silence falls between them, neither attempting to speak first.
Finally, Watson can bear the uncomfortable silence no longer: “So how have you been?” he asks just for the sake of saying something.
“Fabulous, as you might have already noticed” Holmes snorts, his tone dry. He leans on the wall, crossing his hands on his chest - a defensive gesture that Holmes rarely used before.
“Listen, Holmes, I’m sorry I didn’t show up earlier, I should have come to see you -”
“You don’t have to ‘check on me’, Watson” Holmes interrupts coldly, “I’m perfectly capable of living by myself. And you certainly don’t need to come over here every time you have a squabble with your wife. Or when you’re angry at her, for that matter”
Watson flares up “I didn’t have a -”
“You’re not wearing your wedding ring. Your clothes are rumpled in a way I can assume you’ve been wearing them several days already, and that is because of the fact you don’t want to put on anything that was washed by your wife”
Watson stares, his moth opening and closing, at a loss of words. He surely had expected a more friendly welcome.
“So, what are you here for?” Holmes inquires in the same cold tone that is getting on Watson’s nerves already.
“I guess I wanted to apologize for my behavior during our last meeting. I’m sorry I overreacted. But we need to talk about your condition, Holmes”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Watson” the detective cuts him off “Your medical services are not required.”
“‘My medical services’?! I worry about you and I care about you! We shall talk about your physical condition right now, Holmes, and that is out of question!” Watson raises his voice to prove his point.
“Out of question is that you moved out of here and now have no right to come over and claim whatever you think is necessary.” Holmes snaps, narrowing his eyes at him. Then, he looks down at his feet, annoyed expression on his face. “And take that goddamn dog off me, Watson!”
Watson stops dead in his tracks, confused. “Excuse me?”
“Gladstone is drooling all over my feet again!” Holmes exclaims, wincing. “Why have you brought him here at the first place?!” And he bends and waves his hands at the dog he must be seeing there.
Watson just stares at his friend silently, aching feeling appears in his stomach along with the feeling of falling down sharply. There’s a lump in his throat and suddenly, he feels like shrinking in a ball and crying. He shuts his stinging eyes with a painful expression, breathing deeply, and he doesn’t want to believe in what he sees. He refuses to believe something is wrong with Holmes. Please, God, not this, please.
But he can’t lie to himself anymore. Holmes is sick and he has to admit it, no matter what he wants. Holmes is most likely mentally sick.
And he must assume some measures about it.
Holmes must have noticed his sharp change of expression because he eyes him tentatively now, all masks aside.
“Watson? What’s wrong?”
He clears his throat, wishing to postpone oncoming moment for as long as he can.
“I haven’t brought Gladstone here, Holmes. He’s at home with Mary now” He finally says, his voice cracking.
“What? But I- oh…” Holmes shuts his eyes as the realization downs on him mercifully. “He’s not here” He states, his voice higher than usual. “For all I know, you may not be here as well”
“No, Holmes, no, I am here, god…” he rambles, unable to think of what to say or do to help the situation. He moves closer to put a hand on Holmes’ shoulder. The man gives a start before relaxing a bit and almost leaning into the touch. “We do need to talk”
Holmes is looking vulnerable now and even smaller than before and Watson wants nothing more than to embrace his friend and tell him everything will be alright.
Too bad they both know it won’t.
“I’ve been seeing things that are not there” Holmes suddenly confesses, avoiding Watson’s gaze.
“I’ve figured so far”
Holmes finally looks at him, his eyes pained and weary, looking exhausted altogether, making Watson give in to impulse and hug him closely to his chest, his arms going around and bringing him even closer. He feels Holmes’ back tense and then relax as Holmes let his head fall on Watson’s shoulder. They stay like this for a while, sharing warmth and closeness they both have been missing, relishing the moment of finally being together again.
And then Holmes begins to talk.
-----
From his corner of the room William watches the pair, frowning. He glares at Watson as the doctor lets his hands wander around Holmes’ back while he listens to the detective.
William is angry. He is mad. Not only has Holmes told someone about him, but he also lets this Watson get all over him. He hates the doctor. No one dares, ever, cross the line between him and Holmes because Holmes is his, William’s. He has always been.
But Holmes seems to have forgotten who has been there for him from the beginning, who has been lighting up the day for him and been keeping him company. He has seemingly forgotten who protected him from all evil, entertained him, taught him languages and supported him every time something was wrong. Who had kept him from his suicidal attempt and dealt with the consequences. It certainly wasn’t Watson to whom Holmes is currently whining about him. It was William who has always been there and never left Holmes like that doctor did.
Holmes must have forgotten all about that.
William smirks.
He just needs a reminder.
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Please, guys, tell me what you think of it! Unfortunately, I won’t be able to answer the reviews cuz I’m taking a vacation and going to Sri-Lanka in the morning :D (Yaaay!!) But I’ll reply to all of the comments as soon as I come back!