Don't Fall So Far (Next Time) - Sherlock Holmes - Holmes/Watson
Title: Don't Fall So Far (Next Time)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 9758
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Prostitution, gambling
A/N: Written with a prompt for 10_per_genre. AU pre-movie.
Summary: After Watson loses their rent money while gambling, Holmes observes that he has turned to dubious methods to earn it back.
There is something odd going on in the doctor's surgery.
Holmes knows this because he has kept an absent eye on the comings and goings of Watson's patients. The majority have carried on as normal. The time-scale of an average appointment is kept to, and Holmes is aware enough of Watson's regulars that he can make the subtle adjustments in his calculations that would be required for each of their individual ailments.
Yet, occasionally, he takes over-long appointments. Meetings that ought to last ten minutes stretch to double that at least. Watson is an efficient doctor; Holmes knows this, as he has often had the pleasure of requiring medical assistance from his capable hands. He would take no longer to perform a medical procedure than was necessary.
Something is going on - and Holmes is determined to find out exactly what it is.
*
He is not reading a newspaper.
The paper from several days ago is spread open in his lap and held up so that it covers his face. He is unaware of the headlines (reporting more political incompetence) or of the photo that stares at him (a man who is entirely irrelevant to Holmes's current problem is scowling at the camera), because his other senses are taking up far too much of his attention for him to be able to focus on sight as well.
Downstairs, he can hear the sound of Watson greeting a patient.
This patient, Holmes knows, is Alan Bowden. He is a military man like Watson himself, who has troubles with the injuries that the war left upon his body. The smell of strong tobacco - the second-cheapest brand, Holmes would deduce from the faintest scent that has climbed the stairs ahead of him - follows him constantly, and it is this distinct aroma that allows Holmes to identify him.
The fact that he had taken a sly look at Watson's book of appointments while his dear doctor slept last night may also assist him in this deduction.
Bowden walks with an even heaviness, and the creak of the stairs as he climbs them, louder than usual, implies that he has allowed himself to gain some weight since leaving his military service in his past; either muscle or fat. If Holmes had Watson's betting tendencies, he would wager his money upon the muscle. The memories of war caused many to prepare themselves to fight the ghosts of the long since dead.
He can hear their light, bland conversation as they pass by the door of his bedroom; they are discussing the weather, of all things. It is terribly British, to the point that Holmes ought to be disappointed. He is well aware that Watson's brilliant mind is capable of far more dazzling pieces than, 'It really is awful for this time of year, you're right'.
Two paces later, they reach Watson's office. Holmes closes his eyes, but the words become intolerably muffled once Watson closes the door of his surgery.
There is one sound, however, that slices like a knife at Holmes's ear drums. The turning of a key in the lock.
His hands tighten and the useless newspaper in his hand crumples. Watson has locked the door.
There are, of course, several perfectly acceptable reasons why Watson would do such a thing. He is a doctor and, if a patient has a delicate medical issue then it would be logical to take precautions to ensure that they are not interrupted - and yet, he has never made his room quite so secure before. He has relied merely on his kind words to Mrs Hudson and his stern glares to Holmes to ensure that nobody barges in while he is working. It has been an effective system.
Holmes tries to remember whether there have been any other instances of door-locking since he noticed the beginning of these over-long and over-frequent appointments, but he had failed to take notice of it. He only catalogues the minor details that are of importance, and since Watson's other job has very little bearing on the investigation of crime (although, admittedly, he does not even currently have a case to focus on) he has failed to pay attention. This is not a mistake he will make in the future.
He closes his paper and stands up, looking around the mess of his room in irritation. His life would be considerably easier if everything was in the proper place for once.
His mouth turns unhappily. He doesn't like it when Watson's woes begin to invade his thoughts. It is most disturbing.
After a frantic search through the assorted collection of objects that have piled up on his shelves, he finds what he seeks and charges towards the door. Half-way there, he remembers himself and switches his pace from a charge to a creep. Mrs Hudson is nowhere to be seen, thankfully, as she would no doubt see reason to interrupt his very, very important actions.
He takes the ear pieces of the stethoscope that he had managed to locate in his office and places them into his ears. The instrument had once resided in Watson's office, but Holmes had made sure that it was lost and migrated to his own rooms months ago. It had been for the best, really. Watson had been in need of a new one.
He crouches down and presses the drum against the door, holding his breath as he listens for greater clarity. There is no dialogue inside the room, none of the standard script that ought to take place between a doctor and his patient.
There are other sounds instead. Unpleasant ones.
None of them are the sort of thing that ought to be taking place in that room, not with Watson and someone else inside.
Holmes presses down hard against the door and listens to the guttural sounds of a man groaning. Judging from the tone and timbre, it isn't Watson himself. It sounds too deep for that, and there is a faintly unpleasant tinge to it that leaves Holmes certain that such a noise would not have come from the mouth of his own dear friend.
Yet, other than the sounds of a stranger, no further sounds progress from the room. Watson might as well be absent, and yet Holmes knows perfectly well that he had led his patient indoors. Unless Watson has decided to take a jaunt out of the window (a highly unlikely option, considering the rough scoldings that Holmes himself acquires whenever he takes such lines of action) then it is logical to assume that he is still in the room, merely silent. This means that he is either sitting watching his groaning patient, or he is otherwise occupied.
The gears and cogs of Holmes's brain spin prettily. He is not sure if he is quite happy with the conclusions that they wish to reach.
The moans have progressed logically by now to a gasping spluttering of creative curses and blasphemy. Holmes wets his lips, and-
And he gets to his feet with extraordinary speed when he hears the sound of a step upon the bottom stair. Mrs Hudson, the busy-body, come to see if she can rouse him. He would swear that that woman has an unnatural ability to get in his way when he is on the brink of solving something extraordinary.
He drops the stethoscope into his pocket and takes a leaping side-step back into his room. There is a split-second where he moves at speed, leaping over obstacles.
By the time Mrs Hudson hesitantly knocks on his door, he is slumped on the floor in his dressing gown, and to all appearances he seems to be attempting to recover from a hangover.
He groans at her when she enters with a tray of tea. "Blasted woman," he murmurs.
Her response, it must be said, shows no hint of compassion.
Holmes has long suspected that she may indeed be evil. He remains lying on the ground and makes no attempt to get up when she leaves the tray behind. His eyes close, and he thinks. His mind chokes and churns with the sounds that he had heard through the door and the images that such noises bring into his mind. He prefers to rely on reason, not imagination, yet all the same he finds it impossible to stop wicked thoughts encroaching.
There is a burn in his chest and his hand forms a fist.
Whatever is going on in that doctor's surgery, he doesn't like it. Not one bit.
*
He allows this to go on for a week, taking mental notes about Watson's habits and filing every single detail away in his mind in case it might be important. Letters flow in as they usually do, sent by desperate potential clients, but the promise of intricate robberies, missing persons and bizarre bodies is not enough to heighten his interest, not now. All his mind, all his thoughts, are taken up with the sole topic of what exactly his companion has got himself into.
They live in the underbelly, both of them, although he has the impression that Watson's life had once been mercifully free of the black macabre that is Holmes's stock in trade. He had been to war and he had returned marked and scarred, but it had been his association with Holmes that had truly dragged him down.
Holmes supposes that he ought to feel guilty for that.
He doesn't. Not one bit. This is where a man like Watson can thrive; he has too great an intellect and too sharp a mouth to spend all his days tending for ordinary patients. No, Watson belongs with him, looking into the darkest shadows of London and flushing out the monsters that rest within.
Watson is in a good mood tonight, Holmes observes as they take dinner together. He does not have to lean on his cane with his usual weight, showing that the pain is not bothering him today. He complimented Mrs Hudson's cooking three times while she was in the room, and now that she has left he is still smiling to himself. He came home late last night, smelling like cheap tobacco and male sweat. Holmes doesn't like this. Not one bit.
"Tell me, is Mr Bowden terribly ill?" Holmes asks between forkfuls. The faint smile on Watson's face fades fast, and his moustache twitches in displeasure. "He has had more appointments in the last few weeks than in the last year. You must understand that I am incredibly concerned for his health."
"You have never even met Mr Bowdon," Watson answers irritably.
Holmes can tell that this is not going to be an easy conversation. "I am in fact very well acquainted with him," he protests.
"You are an awful liar, Holmes," Watson tells him.
"I am a wonderful liar," Holmes answers. "You, however, are attempting to dodge my questions. If you won't tell me what is wrong with my good, dear friend, I will have to deduce it for myself."
"Holmes..." Watson warns.
He always hates it when Holmes uses his professional skills in a personal capacity. Usually, Holmes obeys Watson's requests and he reins himself and his mind in, but in this case he feels that he has good reason to unleash his skills.
"His skin tone remains quite healthy and he, clearly, is far from bed-ridden as you have had no cause to resort to house-visits yet. His breathing is even and his voice shows no hoarse signs of pain. Other than the old war wounds that he carries, the same as you, he does not appear to have come to any physical harm that would require the attentions of a doctor such as yourself." Holmes watches Watson as he speaks, absorbing every muscle twitch and glare. He looks down suddenly at his cooling plate of dinner, and makes an ill attempt at appearing casual. "With no obvious symptoms, I became worried. I wanted to check that the world was not in danger of losing such a fine gentleman all too soon."
"His ailment is nothing to concern you," Watson says sternly. "It will pass."
"Ah," Holmes says. "Splendid." They return to eating with an angry silence from Watson's side of the table. It is a sign that he ought to leave it be, and if it were anyone other than Watson then perhaps Holmes would be capable of doing so. He clears his throat. "And what of Corporeal McLaren? I hope he hasn't been afflicted by the same mysterious ailment. It would appear there is quite the epidemic going on."
"Holmes," Watson says sternly. "I am not one of your cases. Please, if you wouldn't mind, turn your deductive gaze elsewhere."
It does cause Holmes to pause for at least a single moment: there is a warning there, a line waiting to be crossed. A sane person would know to back away now. Pressing this point will lead to nothing good, and yet he doesn't know how to walk away. It has never been his way. Once his teeth have sank into the flesh of a case, he finds it impossible to let go - so it really is not his own fault that he is unable to turn his attention to more pressing manners.
"I am a detective, my good man. It is important for me to investigate all kinds of crime, don't you agree?"
Delicately, Watson places his cutlery down and pushes his chair back. "You have no idea when to stop, do you?" Holmes can't tell whether it is anger or disappointment in Watson's voice, and yet he knows his friend well enough to imagine that it is an equal mixture of both. "If you see Mrs Hudson, please let her know I will be taking my meals in my rooms for the foreseeable future."
Holmes responds with little more than a curt grunt. He ought to make a sweeping apology, but the ebb and flow of Watson's moods is something that has become quite common day for him. They bicker and fall out so regularly that it is difficult to take it seriously any more - even when he knows that, indeed, this situation is of a different tenor to their usual sparring matches.
Watson takes his plate with him and Holmes listens closely as he ascends the stairs to his room. He collects this morning's paper and reads it while he eats alone, pretending that the empty silence doesn't affect him at all.
*
Watson, for all his bluster, has a remarkable talent for avoiding people when he truly wishes to do so. For several days, Holmes finds it nearly impossible to get a lock onto him. He fears that he may have taught Watson far too many of the tricks of his trade, for he seems to be an expert at throwing him off.
When he accuses him of such after finally managing to catch him in his room (and, it must be said, Holmes is rather out of breath from the effort), Watson makes an attempt at feigning innocence. "Holmes, I'm a busy man. Despite what you may believe, my every action does not revolve around you."
"Perhaps not every action, but certainly this one," Holmes argues. He's right; he knows that in this instance he is right.
Watson is avoiding him because of what he knows, because of what he thinks he knows.
"You are afraid that I am going to condemn you for your actions, and fear is a powerful motivation, Watson. I find that it pushes men to do very extraordinary things." He watches Watson, carefully cataloguing every single reaction that he observes before him. Watson is staring at a set of papers on his desk, but he is not reading them. His eyes aren't moving back and forth over the words. His shoulders are tense and Holmes wishes he knew how to chase that stress away. He doesn't mean to upset his friend; he only wishes to pursue the truth. Secrets are ugly things. He would like to believe that they are beyond them. "For example, we can look at the depths that fear has caused you to stoop to: fear, shall we say, that I would discover the losses you have taken?"
"Holmes-"
"I have found a tidy collection of betting stubs in your waste bin; you've always been a gambler and now I imagine that unsavoury habit has grown out of control. Am I correct?" Watson bristles at the question, but he makes no attempt to contradict him. Holmes would have been incredibly surprised if he had. "With such an expensive habit, you need ways to fund it. Our rent money must have come in extremely useful."
"I'm going to get it back," Watson says.
His poor face is flushed red with a mixture of emotions, most of which Holmes has only rarely experienced himself. He doesn't think that he has ever allowed the heat of shame to flash through his veins. It looks like a terribly uncomfortable emotion and it is one that he is happy to miss out on, truth be told.
"Yes, I imagine you are working incredibly hard on that," Holmes says. The red tinge on Watson's face brightens. He ought to retreat, but he already feels the same adrenaline rush that he always does when he comes to the apex of a case. He feels the same satisfaction that rushes through him when he pin-points a murderer. "These over-long appointments with perfectly healthy patients... They aren't of a medical nature, are they?"
Watson holds his gaze now, the very image of pride itself. Holmes thinks that he looks glorious like this, so wonderfully stubborn.
He answers with a single word: "No."
"I thought as much." He clears his throat. He knows the facts of the matter now, but confirmation is always a beautiful thing. It needs only to be as delicate as possible. "Sexual?"
Watson nods his head; it is jerky and uncertain. "Yes."
"Ah." It feels like something of an anticlimax to have his suspicions confirmed. He always feels this way after a case, completion reached, but it is far different this time. There is aching disappointment in his chest and a hollow sense of pity. There is also the way his hand twitches as if it longs to form a fist at the thought of these so-called patients taking advantage in such a way.
Certainly, it is illegal. He is perfectly within his rights to be disgusted, yet it is not from such a place that his tangled emotions come.
"Now that that's in the open, we can go about getting our money back, hm?" Holmes straightens himself up, head raised high. There are a thousand questions in Watson's eyes and he doesn't care to answer any of them: all he wants is to get his friend out of this uncomfortable predicament (he doesn't stop to examine the mess of ugly emotions at the thought of these other, inferior men touching Watson; such things don't need to be considered when they come so naturally. Undue examination would warrant no new discoveries.) "You bet at the Punch Bowl, correct?"
"How do you-" Watson cuts himself off before he bothers to ask how Holmes had come to such a conclusion: Holmes allows himself a special smile to hear him splutter away his questions in such a way. Finally, it seems, Watson is gaining a healthy sense of faith in his unparalleled abilities. It is no surprise that Holmes's ego takes a happy boost: he has no small amount of confidence in his own abilities, and yet it is always pleasant to have someone recognise them as well, especially someone who is held as highly in Holmes's regard as Watson himself. "Yes, the Punch Bowl. Well done."
"Thank you. From the distinctive smell you carried home with you every night, it wasn't difficult to narrow the location of your nightly travels down to a single possible location." The scent still clings to him now, faintly, and it is a far cry from the clean, neutral smell that Holmes is used to from Watson. It is something wicked and pleasantly dangerous; it has been so long since he took part in a good fight. "I'd like to come along with you tonight."
"Holmes-"
"I'm going to fight." Holmes lets a filthy smile take hold of his face, the sort of smile that he knows full-well that Watson hates. "You're going to bet on me. We'll both end the night feeling very triumphant."
"That is a ridiculous suggestion, Holmes. You'll end the night needing a good deal of medical care and I will end the night very sorely out of pocket and more in debt than I already am."
"You wound me," Holmes tells him with a hand upon his heart. Watson appears to be entirely unmoved by his plight. "I am a more than capable boxer, Watson. You know this. Allow me to assist you."
Watson's jaw clenches, but Holmes know that he will relent - Watson always does, for him. It's the kind of power that could soon become intoxicating, and they are therefore lucky that Watson is stubborn enough often enough to stop him from becoming complacent. The one thing that Holmes will always be able to say in Watson's favour, regardless of the moral depths he may plunge, is that he is never predictable.
It can be a boon and a curse, that much is certain.
"Tonight, then," he says when Watson offers no objections other than a fairly grumpy-sounding splutter.
Holmes smiles like a fox: he is looking forward to getting blood on his knuckles.
*
His heart pounds and his lip bleeds red down onto his chin. His hands are still curled into automatic fists, even with his opponent groaning on the ground as his feet. The groans are akin to a child calling for its mother, something helpless and broken beyond repair. Holmes considers that, perhaps, he may have been a little too rough on the poor man - but it is hard, so hard, to feel ashamed when he can see Watson in the crowd, watching him with a perfectly neutral expression.
Holmes wipes the sweat away from his eyes and forehead with his palm, the resulting feeling damp and unpleasant. The crowd is loud, too loud, and he tries his best to ignore it; he is far from successful.
When his poor competitor fails to climb back to his feet, even after multiple attempts, Holmes steps straight over him without another glance. He can feel the heat of triumph running through his veins: it is better than even the purest of drugs that he has ever taken. The pleasure is akin to nothing that he cares to describe to simple on-lookers.
He reaches Watson out of breath and grinning, and rests a hand against his shoulder. He is smearing blood onto his friend's clothes, but given the circumstances he really thinks that he deserves the privilege of doing so.
"You'd best collect your winnings, old boy," he pants. He is more out of shape than he had realised; perhaps further outings to this place are required. If such an intense fight ever breaks out during one of his cases, he wants to be able to hold his own with no worries for his lung capacity.
"Of course; thank you," Watson says. His voice sounds distracted and his eyes skim over Holmes's shirtless body, no doubt hunting with a doctor's gaze for wounds. He will find them easily, an endless catalogue of cuts and bruises. Holmes can't feel any of them, not right now. They are nothing but minor annoyances that will come back to haunt him all too soon. In the morning, it will be difficult to stir from bed while the aching in his limbs will remind him forcefully of his own stupidity.
Watson's gaze slips past him while another set of fighters enter the ring. Holmes doesn't fight for his attention. Rather, he takes the opportunity to observe Watson without being noticed, to observe the smile and the flush of triumph on his companion's face: it is something that gives him a far greater sense of pride than even the win itself had done. Through the power of his fists he has brought such an expression to his friend. It feels as good as cracking a case has ever done.
"Meet me upstairs in two minutes," Watson says, gesturing towards the shadow-shrouded staircase in the corner. It looks dusty and abandoned, exactly the kind of place that Holmes favours most. It is tucked away from the sight and notice of most ordinary patrons. Eyes skim past it, too focused on the bets and fights taking place.
Watson slips away from him in order to collect his winnings, and Holmes pushes his way through the crowd of men shooting glares at him. No doubt he has caused a great deal of money to be lost tonight; yet, with fresh winnings in Watson's pocket, he finds it difficult to give a damn. They have achieved their objective for the night even if the other strangers in the room have not. He is allowed to feel triumphant.
The room upstairs is dingy and sparsely furnished. There is a heavily-laden table along the far wall with heavy piles of junk upon it, and there are a few rickety stools upon which to sit. Everything is coated in a thick layer of dust: the decaying footprints upon the floor tell stories of other meetings carried out up here, of scuffed fights and pacing arguments. Holmes moves tenderly towards the closest stool and it is with a certain stiffness in his limbs that he sits down upon it: adrenaline fading, the abuse his body has taken is beginning to catch up with him.
There is a telltale creak of the stairs and then Watson appears, grinning. "Your winnings," he says, holding them out for him.
"Our winnings," Holmes corrects.
They have their rent back. This should be enough and he should not be considering leaping back in the ring again for another go. It is utterly illogical to put himself at risk for no sound reason, yet it is tempting enough that he finds it almost impossible to resist.
Watson walks towards him, learning heavily upon his cane as he does so. "Thank you, Holmes," he says, and it is so heart-felt that Holmes wants to turn away. The depth of their feeling for each other is no secret, yet it is not always so near the surface. They bicker and they fight and sometimes Watson infuriates Holmes so much that he thinks he never wants to see his face again; he knows that the frustration is more than mutual. Below that, beyond it, there is this: a love purer than he knows how to handle at times. It is not an emotion that he has a great deal of experience with, and it makes him itch. Such interdependence should not be tolerated. It isn't safe for either party.
He is brave enough to hold Watson's gaze, unwavering, although the movement of Watson's hands breaks their eye contact. Holmes looks down to watch at they travel towards his trousers: he has the chance to feel the soft brush of Watson's knuckles against the bare skin of his stomach before he reaches down to grab hold of Watson's wrists. His grip is stronger than any metal: he can feel the muscle and bone trapped docilely within his grip. Watson doesn't try to move.
"What are you doing?" he asks, but he already knows.
He doesn't resist when Watson turns his wrist to slip out of his grasp. He allows it to happen: he allows this to happen, willingly.
"You won an extraordinary amount of money tonight," Watson says as he slips to the ground at Holmes's feet. Despite the stiffness of his injured leg, he moves into the position with a far too practised ease. It should make Holmes far more comfortable than it does: he is used to lingering among the shadows, but he is not used to his dear friend being one of them. "I only wish to thank you."
Holmes recalls saying something in response to that, but the words themselves fail to register in either his mind or his ears. All his thoughts and senses are on Watson alone, now. The rest of the world fails to register.
With careful hands, as if he is making sure not to spook him, Watson eases his clothes away until his prick is nude. The cold air touches his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of Watson's palm when he takes him in hand. Holmes is half-hard from the mere thought of this, and the sight of Watson as he tends to him is more than enough to speed the process along.
This is...
This is not- This is not the kind of thing that men do. They are not supposed to think like this or want like this, yet here they are in a dingy room with the sound of fighting coming from downstairs. Watson looks exquisite before him, eyes focused upon his member. Holmes can almost convince himself that Watson belongs in such a position, that this is right and glorious.
It's wrong. It is a perversion, but when Watson's grip covers the base of his cock he no longer feels so convinced. When he feels the first flutter of Watson's lips against the tip his doubts grow stronger, and by the time Watson takes him inside of his heated mouth he cannot believe that this is sinful at all. It is no more of a wrong-doing than his weakness for narcotics; frowned on by society at large, yes, but wrongly so.
The circle of Watson's lips is tight and talented, and the firm press of his tongue along the underside of Holmes's cock is nothing short of exquisite. His head moves, bobbing up and down with professional ease. Holmes's hand cling to the arm-rests of his seat, holding on so tightly that he feels he could fracture the wood into painful splinters. He breathes through his nose, panting. His chest feels tight.
His gaze never wavers from watching Watson, from staring with disbelief as this happens. When Watson pulls his hand away from the base of his shaft and takes him deeper, he can see the way that his moustache brushes against his public hair, obscuring his obscenely pink lips from view. His balls tingle with anticipation and the skin of his entire body begins to feel too tight, too constricting. Watson pulls up again, a flush to his cheeks now, and Holmes is treated to the sensation of Watson's tongue lavishing attention upon the heavy tip of his cock.
Inside his shoes, his toes curl in a poor attempt to make this last just a little while longer. "Watson," he chokes. He can barely form the word at all.
Watson looks up at him, gaze framed with soft eyelashes that Holmes has ever noticed before. He doesn't pull back, keeping his mouth wrapped around Holmes's cock.
He's letting me finish in his mouth, Holmes thinks, a belated realisation, before his self-control falters altogether. His hips jerk upwards in an instinctual attempt to bury himself deeper, and his eyes screw closed of their own accord. His entire body jerks when he comes (it's been so very, very long), and Watson lets it. Watson's mouth stays on him, swallowing, and Holmes tries not to think of how many other men he has done this to: numbers are not important. He has no true claim upon his friend and cannot allow himself to believe otherwise.
When he is finished, Watson pulls back. He draws a white handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to dab at his mouth while Holmes struggles to pull himself together. He feels as if his entire body has come apart; it is a surprise to find that all of his limbs are still attached. He flexes his fingers and, when it is confirmed that he is able to move, he reaches to clothe himself again, hiding bare skin and softening cock from view.
Watson climbs to his feet, leaving his cane to take more weight than usual. It is only a slight difference, but enough for Holmes to take note of.
He coughs and lets out a bluster of air. "Thank you," he says with a clear of his throat. "That was very..." His vocabulary offers nothing of use, so he merely clears his throat again. "Yes."
"My pleasure," Watson says, and Holmes restrains a rogue shiver at the way those two words sound. He feels that this latest exchange between them may have future repercussions upon their friendship if he finds it difficult to listen to Watson's voice any more. "Shall we go home? I have no wish to gamble further, not tonight."
Not tonight.
Holmes has known many addicts in his time, and on his clear-minded days he will admit that he is one too. He knows that this will not be the last time that Watson is drawn here by the thrill of gambling and the rush of adrenaline. It will draw him closer, perhaps not this week but certainly soon. When it happens next, he intends to be there once more. He may be unable to get Watson to turn away from this place, but he can certainly ensure he no longer loses money here. It's far from the best solution, but - for him - it is the easiest one.
*
It is a rush, he can't deny it, whenever he steps out of the ring after a victory. The endorphins flood through his blood-stream and Watson will meet him upstairs after collecting their modest winnings (never too much; it wouldn't do to be barred). As an informal thank you, Watson will always slip to his knees in the dust; privately, Holmes can confess to himself that he is no better, now, than the patients Watson used to see behind locked doors.
He reassures himself that this is better. There are no more over-long appointments, and for the majority of the time Watson is no more than a regular doctor and his trusted advisor. It is only here at the Punch Bowl that that changes. Holmes thinks that it ought to be an indication to himself that he ought to stay away, but he doesn't. He has always had a talent for observing the vices of others, and a complete disability to fight his own.
It would be easy to say 'no', after all. He could place a hand upon Watson's shoulder, squeeze for a moment, and tell him that he doesn't need this. He isn't like the other men that Watson has seen. He does not do this as a dirty form of payment for the pleasure Watson can bring. He would fight without any incentive to do so, and when he first volunteered to put himself on the line he did not have any idea of the reward that would wait for him afterwards.
Now he knows, however. From the first touch of Watson's hands against his bare flesh he was lost, completely. There is no turning back for him, not now.
He keeps winning. Whenever he witnesses the restless twitching in Watson's hands - one a week, sometimes less - he will suggest that a trip is in order. He will strip out of his shirt and enter the ring to face a man twice his size. Bruises and cuts will scatter his body by the time his opponent is flat on the floor; he's got to make it look good, after all. He never feels the wounds until the next day.
He wins the fights and Watson wins his bets and afterwards, together, they fall into sin. Watson's mouth is the closest analogue to heaven on earth. It works. They work -
Until he loses.
He isn't on form that night. His brain is filled with the details of a new case, and the confusion from their arrangement, the anticipation of what will come after this fight, it stops him from being as fast as he should be. He can't focus. His mind is busy, allowing his body to fend for itself.
He's not doing a good job of it.
His head jerks to the side when the brute's fist slams into his cheekbone. He hears something crack; it might be in his imagination. The pain shatters through him, searing. His vision blurs, and another hit comes; his attempt to block it is sloppy. It hammers his rib cage.
It all moves too fast and his mind can't keep up. Defense strategies are one step behind, laughing in his face as he takes blows he could have blocked any other day. From the sidelines, he can hear heckling and name-calling. They'd like to see him fall. They're waiting for it.
He stumbles back, trying to gain the room his mind needs to get on top of the situation, but his opponent won't allow it. Smart man. He follows him, a slab of masculine muscle, and crowds him in against the side of the ring. He's hemmed in now. He should have known better.
Another hit to the ribs knocks the air out of him and white spots spark across his vision. He blocks too late; an open hand hits his throat this time. Breathing is impossible. He can feel the bruises forming, blooming over and colouring his skin. His throat will be a mural tomorrow. It will be difficult to hide and impossible to look respectable.
Respectable... He'd laugh if he had the air to do so.
As it is, he cannot even manage a smirk.
Another blow rocks his body and he makes an attempt at fighting back, swinging with badly aimed fists. Panic is setting in, his body taking over without allowing his mind to think. Logic can win any fight; instinct rarely allows it, with other men.
Blood is wet on his face, spilling from a split lip, and his vision blurs when there is a punch to the side of his head. He thinks he can feel his brain wobbling inside of his skull.
"That's enough," comes an interruption.
Someone has entered the ring. Watson, no doubt. Holmes has difficulty focusing on him at all, but he knows that voice.
"I think we'll count this a win for you, sir," Watson says to his opponent, who backs off. Holmes slumps back against the railing, arms spread wide (it isn't to show off his arrogance, but rather because he isn't convinced that he can remain standing without support). "Let's get you home."
The wall is replaced by his good, sweet doctor when Watson presses against his side, an arm around his back to allow him to support him. Holmes's arm flails over his shoulder and together they limp out of the ring. They will have lost money tonight, of that there is no doubt. Holmes doesn't want to think about it now.
They leave the building and step immediately into cold, fresh air. The stench of sweat is left behind them, although Holmes has no doubt that they carry it with them, staining their skin and their hair. They take a ride back to Baker Street, and for that Holmes is grateful. He would have held his tongue, but he has little doubt that he wouldn't have been able to make the journey without a great deal of pain for his trouble. Thankfully, Watson's medical skills always have his best interests at heart.
They also allow him to patch Holmes up once they get home, and he cleans away blood from Holmes's skin with a gentleness that he knows that any other doctor or nurse would be unable to even aspire to.
Any other medical professional, however, would not feel that they were in the position to scold him quite so thoroughly on his behaviour. It is an uncomfortable trade.
"You shouldn't fight when you have a case," Watson says, examining the extensive collection of bruises upon Holmes's chest. If he is checking for broken ribs, there is little point. Even if he finds them there will be nothing they can do.
"It helps me think," Holmes insists.
He isn't sure if that is true or not. He wants it to be true, however, just so that he can prove Watson wrong.
"It does no such thing," Watson tells him irritably. "How are you supposed to go dashing around London in this condition? You are slowing yourself down."
Watson is trying to appeal to his sense of loyalty to the case. It is an intelligent strategy: he is an intelligent man.
Holmes presses his lips tightly together for a long moment. "You shouldn't gamble when I have a case, then," Holmes says. It makes sense. If Watson doesn't gamble, then he isn't drawn to the Punch Bowl after him. He doesn't feel the foolish need to put himself in danger to protect their rent money (and Watson's soul, the tarnished thing).
He can see from the way that Watson's jaw clenches that he has said the wrong thing.
He doesn't apologise.
They linger in angry silence for far too long as Watson diligently works on fixing Holmes's body as best as he is able. It isn't a perfect job; there are injuries here that time alone will heal, but having a doctor's attention upon him does wonders for the mind if nothing else.
Holmes stares at the far wall of Watson's office. This place could do with re-painting, really. He would wager that it had been many years since this place had been decorated, and the grime of the paint testified to that.
"You may put your shirt back on," Watson says, stepping back finally. He sighs in disappointment. "I've done all I can. I can give you some medication for the pain."
"I think I can provide my own," Holmes says. He gives a wry grin. "It's bound to be stronger than anything you will give me."
Watson's disapproval is something he has always enjoyed. "That stuff will be the death of you," he says, disappointed.
"I very much doubt that." His life is far too dangerous for it to be something as petty as a medication to be the end of him. No, when the time comes for him it will be something far more exciting.
Watson shakes his head in warm disapproval. He holds his arm out. "I'll help you to bed," he offers. Holmes thinks that he would probably have been capable of making the journey himself, but he is relieved that he doesn't have to. Watson is there to offer support, always, even when Holmes does not know how to make himself ask.
He thinks, sometimes, that he does not deserve this. In rare moments of clarity, he thinks that it would be best on them both if he kept his distance and allowed Watson to cultivate a life far away from him and his madness.
Yet now, perhaps, he is not the only one who is mad: without him, indeed, where would Watson be?
They make it through to his bedroom at a shambling, awkward pace, and they have to go through the door side-ways. His bed is unmade and his floor is untidy. It is difficult to pick their way through and Watson stumbles over a few important items along the way: it makes them both struggle to restrain smiles.
Holmes slumps down onto his bed with a relaxed, wheezing sigh. His body has started to feel the battering that it has taken: it isn't happy, that much is certain. Tomorrow will be painful.
Watson stays standing. He looks over his shoulder at the door, still open.
Holmes knows that Watson has to retreat to his own bedroom now. He lost the fight, and lost more of their money than he cares to think about yet: Watson owes him nothing, even if he privately yearns for some sort of comfort or release. It makes him glad that he has no currency readily available in his rooms: he would thrust it into Watson's hand, a greedy attempt to make him stay with him. Wrong, he knows he is wrong. His thoughts alone are wicked, broken things. Best not to allow them to turn into actions.
"Well," he says, before his mind stalls completely. "Good night."
What he receives in return is not a curt nod and a quick absence. Watson gives an affectionate roll of his eyes, before he bends over to become level with Holmes where he sits on the bed. Watson's right hand cups the side of his face and Holmes feels his heart beating, far faster than it had done even in the ring. "You are a very strange little man," Watson says.
Before Holmes can try to object to such a openly slanderous accusation, he is cut off and distracted by the dry press of Watson's lips against his own. They haven't kissed before, not ever. It feels more intimate to have Watson touch him like this than it had felt when Watson fell to his knees at Holmes's feet. It makes his heart ache sweetly in his chest.
Watson pulls back, his hand slipping away from Holmes's face, and it takes an impressive display of self-restraint not to follow him.
"I lost the fight tonight," he says. "I made us lose our money."
I have no payment for you, he means to say, but he is glad that the words won't form. It feels too vulgar.
Watson reaches out to stroke two fingers along the stubble of his jaw. It is something light, something mournful. He smiles and nods: Holmes feels that he has done something wrong. He doesn't know what it is.
"I know," Watson says. He pauses, long and awkward in a way that their silence never usually is. "I should go to bed. You need your rest."
This is certainly true. Holmes can feel the weariness that pulls at his bones, threatening to drag him down into the empty bliss of sleep. He longs to escape the infringement of pain for a while longer yet, to pull down the shutters and hide from the world as best as he is able.
He doesn't allow it; he reaches to wrap his hand around Watson's wrist. It fits easily.
"Stay," he urges. At the first sign of hesitance, he nods towards the arm-chair that sits in his room. "Please."
There is no pressure for anything to happen here, and he thinks that it would be best for the preservation of their friendship if the evening stays chaste. Yet he needs him here; he needs his companionship, an unspoken promise that they will be able to find their balance. The wobble must only be temporary.
Watson nods after a moment. He slips out of Holmes's grasp and goes to take a seat in the chair. Its poorly used springs squeal unhappily under his weight.
"Tell me," Holmes murmurs, lying on his side. It hurts to do so, but it would hurt far more to lie in any other position. He is stuck like this.
"Tell you what, Holmes?" Watson asks.
He thinks he must already know the answer, but he humours him anyway. He shifts his head on the pillow until he finds a position that doesn't press against any of his bruises. "Tell me how it started," he asks. He will be more specific if Watson wishes him to be, although he has the impression that this is something that Watson would rather be left unsaid. When did you first turn to prostitution to fund your gambling problem? is rather clunky and unpleasant.
Watson clears his throat. Holmes thinks that the odds are 50-50 that Watson will answer him at all.
"It was during the war," Watson says. "Before my injury. I was playing a game of cards with a friend and we ran out of money."
"So the stakes were upped?" Holmes suggests when it appears that Watson is unwilling to complete the story.
A small smile is offered. "Yes, I suppose they were. I lost, of course. I've always had terrible luck. After the first time, it didn't seem like such a bad option any more. It was- Well, easy."
Holmes closes his eyes for a moment: he wishes he could send his mind fully into the past. He wants to see it all happening, in the blind hope that it might help him to understand. He feels that Watson is always so far out of his reach. No matter how many puzzle pieces he receives, it is never enough.
"You are quite a mystery to me, Watson," he says.
The smile on Watson's face widens. It is an expression that Holmes would be happy to lose himself in. "You should know that I consider that an accomplishment," he says.
"I have no doubt that you do. You take such pleasure in confusing me," Holmes says. He doesn't even think that Watson does it on purpose. If there was more distance between them, he would find Watson far easier to read. It is the closeness that blurs matters. It fogs his vision; he would say that it weakens him, but he finds it difficult to view this as a weakness at all.
He gives a long sigh. It hurts his chest terribly when he does so, like being beaten all over again. His breath stalls and Watson jerks in his chair, moving forward as if he wants to help but is unsure how to do so.
"If you'd like to spend the night, Watson, there is more than enough room here in the bed," Holmes offers.
Their clothes remain on; hands remain by their sides; no inappropriate touching takes place.
No touching at all, in fact.
Yet Watson lying beside him, and the rhythmical sound of his breathing, is more relaxing to Holmes than anything more physical or medicinal could be. He falls asleep to the soothing sound of Watson's heavy breathing - and he thinks, stupidly, that he could become all too used to this with very little effort.
It's a dangerous thing, this friendship of theirs.
As he drifts away to comfortable sleep, he can't make himself regret it. Not for a single moment.
*
He wakes the following morning with every inch of his body aching, his muscles burning in disapproval of last night's activities. Watson is already gone; the bed is empty, and Holmes finds that he mourns the loss.
Yet today is a new day and he will not linger upon the mistakes of yesterday. It takes him an hour to gather the willpower to get out of bed. By the time he makes it downstairs to their kitchen, he finds a cold breakfast waiting for him and a note from Watson to inform him that he has been called away to see a patient in prison. An irrational paranoia strikes him for a moment, wondering whether this is true, but he brushes it away. Watson has no reason to lie to him, now.
Despite telling himself this, his mind still wonders. He sits down at the table to eat cold eggs, and his thoughts travel across London to find Watson. They lost too much money last night; it worries him that Watson might turn back to extreme measures in order to negate their losses.
He could visit the prison himself to find out. He does have an on-going case, although it must be said that it has failed to capture his full attention; it could easily be used as an excuse to run into Watson in such a place.
He could even don a disguise for the purpose. It is a tempting option, but he knows that with his current injuries active movement will be far more difficult than would be convenient.
It leaves him forced to remain at Baker Street for most of the day, a forced confinement that leaves his mind aching for stimulation. It wanders without him, taking its own journeys into the far-away regions of the city; his imagination follows Watson down dark passageways and it watches as he drops down to pleasure another man. Ever the professional, Watson will always have a charming smile upon his face.
It is nothing like the reluctant smirk that is reserved for Holmes. That expression belongs to him alone, the one part of Watson that he can lay claim to.
He makes little progress on his own case, and the daylight is dimming by the time that he hears the front door open and shut downstairs. He refuses to move to greet him, sinking down further into his chair and making a very good go at appearing absorbed in his newspaper.
The stairs creak and he counts them as Watson ascends, listening as he pauses at the window to look out of the glass as he always does. The view never changes.
The door opens silently and Holmes forces himself to stare at the paper as if the article he is reading is incredibly interesting. It is not. He feels no desire to read yet another simpering article praising the investigative skills of their police force.
"You've been out a long time," he observes. His voice is far too stiff. It appears that it is difficult to appear casual in front of Watson: Watson alone confounds his acting abilities.
"The state of the prisons in this country is truly appalling," Watson sighs. He sounds tired; to hear him so weary makes Holmes relax, even if it is only a little. It is evidence of his genuine work-day. "It's as if they want them to die in there."
Holmes would confess that he feels very little sympathy for many of the men who reside within the prison walls, especially those who he puts there himself - but, equally, he feels no great disgust for them either.
"They are lucky to have a physician such as yourself willing to attend on them," he says.
He has found that a little flattery is enough to take a man places.
With Watson, of course, matters are a little more complicated. All he receives is a tired roll of his eyes. "They could do with a lot more luck than merely myself," he says. He wanders over to Holmes's desk in order to rifle through the day's post. Holmes doesn't object. "I can't attend to them all. There are wounds there beyond my expertise. I'm no surgeon."
Holmes has nothing he can add on the matter; he finds that he has exceptional faith in Watson's abilities, far more than Watson has himself. If anyone can single-handedly cure a gaggle of prisoners, he would put his money on Watson.
"So you had no private patients today, then?" he asks.
It doesn't come out casual, not at all, and he can see the way that Watson's back stiffens when the words register. Internally, Holmes curses at the sight, but he does not back-track. He has never had a well-honed sense of self-preservation.
"No," Watson answers, the single word so sharp and tense that it could break the air itself. "Although, considering the state of our finances, perhaps I should have."
Holmes struggles very hard not to scowl. He has never been any good at it. "I would rather you didn't," he says, too stiff. Emotions have always hardened his voice and constricted his throat. Life is far simpler when emotions are not involved at all. They muddy the water and make logic useless.
Watson stares at him for far too long, for creeping moments that leave Holmes feeling under examination. He is not used to having a critical gaze upon him; usually he is the one that hides behind the magnifying glass.
Eventually, Watson nods. "I would rather I didn't too," he confesses quietly. "How are you feeling today?"
"Fine enough," Holmes answers, although he feels as if he is on fire every time he dares to move a muscle. It's rather inconvenient. "It will heal quickly, no doubt. I am never off my feet for long."
Watson nods. He seems distracted.
"This should never have happened, you know," he says. "You should never have been involved."
Perhaps it is true; Holmes doesn't care to think of what should or should not have happened. Such conjecture is pointless: they should work the facts, always. "You are my dear friend," he says. "I was already involved."
He doesn't know if such a statement satisfies Watson or not, and he longs for a greater ability to read the man's thoughts. Watson is too distant from him at the best of times.
"As I said," Watson murmurs, "it would be better if you were not."
"I would argue against that," Holmes says. Their voices are dropping by the word, becoming quieter and quieter. Emotions should never be spoken at great volume; it's far too difficult to confess it aloud at all. He swallows, fully aware that out of the pair of them he is the one that should always take the plunge. "If I were to ask you to kiss me again, would you consent?"
He watches as Watson's lips narrow, pressed together in thoughtful surprise. "Perhaps," Watson answers.
It is far from encouraging, but not a total refusal. "There will be no payment. I have nothing to offer you," Holmes clarifies. He has no money until he has solved his current case, and in his injured state he will not be boxing for a good while. There is nothing about him that Watson could want, nothing but himself.
Watson takes an ambling step forward. "In that case, yes. I will." Watson closes the distance between them and leans down in order to hesitantly press their lips together. It is a clumsy, uncertain kiss, that much is certain. Both of them barely touch each other, connected only at the mouths, as if they are afraid that the slightest wrong move will make the entire pretense tumble around them.
And Watson's lips are far softer than they appear, and infinitely more yielding. When he kisses, the snarky bite disappears and leaves behind something that is giving and responsive. He kisses like a doctor looking after his patient's best interests. Holmes plans to break that down, one day; he wants to pierce through that self-sacrificing veneer so that he may provide for Watson instead.
He raises his hand to press against the back of Watson's neck, and he keeps it there even when their lips part. "I will take more cases," he promises, quietly. He will take on the boring ones that he could solve from the letters alone. It will be easy money.
Watson's mouth twitches into a smile. "I will take on more patients," he says. He is more perceptive than he appears, because he bows his head in understanding. "Legitimate ones, I assure you."
"And the Punch Bowl?"
"I'll never go again," Watson says, with all the self-denial of an addict.
It is a lie. Holmes fancies that they both can hear it - but it's alright. It may be a lie, but it's a pretty one - and when it breaks, Holmes will be there to make sure that they do not fall half so far, next time.
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 9758
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Prostitution, gambling
A/N: Written with a prompt for 10_per_genre. AU pre-movie.
Summary: After Watson loses their rent money while gambling, Holmes observes that he has turned to dubious methods to earn it back.
There is something odd going on in the doctor's surgery.
Holmes knows this because he has kept an absent eye on the comings and goings of Watson's patients. The majority have carried on as normal. The time-scale of an average appointment is kept to, and Holmes is aware enough of Watson's regulars that he can make the subtle adjustments in his calculations that would be required for each of their individual ailments.
Yet, occasionally, he takes over-long appointments. Meetings that ought to last ten minutes stretch to double that at least. Watson is an efficient doctor; Holmes knows this, as he has often had the pleasure of requiring medical assistance from his capable hands. He would take no longer to perform a medical procedure than was necessary.
Something is going on - and Holmes is determined to find out exactly what it is.
*
He is not reading a newspaper.
The paper from several days ago is spread open in his lap and held up so that it covers his face. He is unaware of the headlines (reporting more political incompetence) or of the photo that stares at him (a man who is entirely irrelevant to Holmes's current problem is scowling at the camera), because his other senses are taking up far too much of his attention for him to be able to focus on sight as well.
Downstairs, he can hear the sound of Watson greeting a patient.
This patient, Holmes knows, is Alan Bowden. He is a military man like Watson himself, who has troubles with the injuries that the war left upon his body. The smell of strong tobacco - the second-cheapest brand, Holmes would deduce from the faintest scent that has climbed the stairs ahead of him - follows him constantly, and it is this distinct aroma that allows Holmes to identify him.
The fact that he had taken a sly look at Watson's book of appointments while his dear doctor slept last night may also assist him in this deduction.
Bowden walks with an even heaviness, and the creak of the stairs as he climbs them, louder than usual, implies that he has allowed himself to gain some weight since leaving his military service in his past; either muscle or fat. If Holmes had Watson's betting tendencies, he would wager his money upon the muscle. The memories of war caused many to prepare themselves to fight the ghosts of the long since dead.
He can hear their light, bland conversation as they pass by the door of his bedroom; they are discussing the weather, of all things. It is terribly British, to the point that Holmes ought to be disappointed. He is well aware that Watson's brilliant mind is capable of far more dazzling pieces than, 'It really is awful for this time of year, you're right'.
Two paces later, they reach Watson's office. Holmes closes his eyes, but the words become intolerably muffled once Watson closes the door of his surgery.
There is one sound, however, that slices like a knife at Holmes's ear drums. The turning of a key in the lock.
His hands tighten and the useless newspaper in his hand crumples. Watson has locked the door.
There are, of course, several perfectly acceptable reasons why Watson would do such a thing. He is a doctor and, if a patient has a delicate medical issue then it would be logical to take precautions to ensure that they are not interrupted - and yet, he has never made his room quite so secure before. He has relied merely on his kind words to Mrs Hudson and his stern glares to Holmes to ensure that nobody barges in while he is working. It has been an effective system.
Holmes tries to remember whether there have been any other instances of door-locking since he noticed the beginning of these over-long and over-frequent appointments, but he had failed to take notice of it. He only catalogues the minor details that are of importance, and since Watson's other job has very little bearing on the investigation of crime (although, admittedly, he does not even currently have a case to focus on) he has failed to pay attention. This is not a mistake he will make in the future.
He closes his paper and stands up, looking around the mess of his room in irritation. His life would be considerably easier if everything was in the proper place for once.
His mouth turns unhappily. He doesn't like it when Watson's woes begin to invade his thoughts. It is most disturbing.
After a frantic search through the assorted collection of objects that have piled up on his shelves, he finds what he seeks and charges towards the door. Half-way there, he remembers himself and switches his pace from a charge to a creep. Mrs Hudson is nowhere to be seen, thankfully, as she would no doubt see reason to interrupt his very, very important actions.
He takes the ear pieces of the stethoscope that he had managed to locate in his office and places them into his ears. The instrument had once resided in Watson's office, but Holmes had made sure that it was lost and migrated to his own rooms months ago. It had been for the best, really. Watson had been in need of a new one.
He crouches down and presses the drum against the door, holding his breath as he listens for greater clarity. There is no dialogue inside the room, none of the standard script that ought to take place between a doctor and his patient.
There are other sounds instead. Unpleasant ones.
None of them are the sort of thing that ought to be taking place in that room, not with Watson and someone else inside.
Holmes presses down hard against the door and listens to the guttural sounds of a man groaning. Judging from the tone and timbre, it isn't Watson himself. It sounds too deep for that, and there is a faintly unpleasant tinge to it that leaves Holmes certain that such a noise would not have come from the mouth of his own dear friend.
Yet, other than the sounds of a stranger, no further sounds progress from the room. Watson might as well be absent, and yet Holmes knows perfectly well that he had led his patient indoors. Unless Watson has decided to take a jaunt out of the window (a highly unlikely option, considering the rough scoldings that Holmes himself acquires whenever he takes such lines of action) then it is logical to assume that he is still in the room, merely silent. This means that he is either sitting watching his groaning patient, or he is otherwise occupied.
The gears and cogs of Holmes's brain spin prettily. He is not sure if he is quite happy with the conclusions that they wish to reach.
The moans have progressed logically by now to a gasping spluttering of creative curses and blasphemy. Holmes wets his lips, and-
And he gets to his feet with extraordinary speed when he hears the sound of a step upon the bottom stair. Mrs Hudson, the busy-body, come to see if she can rouse him. He would swear that that woman has an unnatural ability to get in his way when he is on the brink of solving something extraordinary.
He drops the stethoscope into his pocket and takes a leaping side-step back into his room. There is a split-second where he moves at speed, leaping over obstacles.
By the time Mrs Hudson hesitantly knocks on his door, he is slumped on the floor in his dressing gown, and to all appearances he seems to be attempting to recover from a hangover.
He groans at her when she enters with a tray of tea. "Blasted woman," he murmurs.
Her response, it must be said, shows no hint of compassion.
Holmes has long suspected that she may indeed be evil. He remains lying on the ground and makes no attempt to get up when she leaves the tray behind. His eyes close, and he thinks. His mind chokes and churns with the sounds that he had heard through the door and the images that such noises bring into his mind. He prefers to rely on reason, not imagination, yet all the same he finds it impossible to stop wicked thoughts encroaching.
There is a burn in his chest and his hand forms a fist.
Whatever is going on in that doctor's surgery, he doesn't like it. Not one bit.
*
He allows this to go on for a week, taking mental notes about Watson's habits and filing every single detail away in his mind in case it might be important. Letters flow in as they usually do, sent by desperate potential clients, but the promise of intricate robberies, missing persons and bizarre bodies is not enough to heighten his interest, not now. All his mind, all his thoughts, are taken up with the sole topic of what exactly his companion has got himself into.
They live in the underbelly, both of them, although he has the impression that Watson's life had once been mercifully free of the black macabre that is Holmes's stock in trade. He had been to war and he had returned marked and scarred, but it had been his association with Holmes that had truly dragged him down.
Holmes supposes that he ought to feel guilty for that.
He doesn't. Not one bit. This is where a man like Watson can thrive; he has too great an intellect and too sharp a mouth to spend all his days tending for ordinary patients. No, Watson belongs with him, looking into the darkest shadows of London and flushing out the monsters that rest within.
Watson is in a good mood tonight, Holmes observes as they take dinner together. He does not have to lean on his cane with his usual weight, showing that the pain is not bothering him today. He complimented Mrs Hudson's cooking three times while she was in the room, and now that she has left he is still smiling to himself. He came home late last night, smelling like cheap tobacco and male sweat. Holmes doesn't like this. Not one bit.
"Tell me, is Mr Bowden terribly ill?" Holmes asks between forkfuls. The faint smile on Watson's face fades fast, and his moustache twitches in displeasure. "He has had more appointments in the last few weeks than in the last year. You must understand that I am incredibly concerned for his health."
"You have never even met Mr Bowdon," Watson answers irritably.
Holmes can tell that this is not going to be an easy conversation. "I am in fact very well acquainted with him," he protests.
"You are an awful liar, Holmes," Watson tells him.
"I am a wonderful liar," Holmes answers. "You, however, are attempting to dodge my questions. If you won't tell me what is wrong with my good, dear friend, I will have to deduce it for myself."
"Holmes..." Watson warns.
He always hates it when Holmes uses his professional skills in a personal capacity. Usually, Holmes obeys Watson's requests and he reins himself and his mind in, but in this case he feels that he has good reason to unleash his skills.
"His skin tone remains quite healthy and he, clearly, is far from bed-ridden as you have had no cause to resort to house-visits yet. His breathing is even and his voice shows no hoarse signs of pain. Other than the old war wounds that he carries, the same as you, he does not appear to have come to any physical harm that would require the attentions of a doctor such as yourself." Holmes watches Watson as he speaks, absorbing every muscle twitch and glare. He looks down suddenly at his cooling plate of dinner, and makes an ill attempt at appearing casual. "With no obvious symptoms, I became worried. I wanted to check that the world was not in danger of losing such a fine gentleman all too soon."
"His ailment is nothing to concern you," Watson says sternly. "It will pass."
"Ah," Holmes says. "Splendid." They return to eating with an angry silence from Watson's side of the table. It is a sign that he ought to leave it be, and if it were anyone other than Watson then perhaps Holmes would be capable of doing so. He clears his throat. "And what of Corporeal McLaren? I hope he hasn't been afflicted by the same mysterious ailment. It would appear there is quite the epidemic going on."
"Holmes," Watson says sternly. "I am not one of your cases. Please, if you wouldn't mind, turn your deductive gaze elsewhere."
It does cause Holmes to pause for at least a single moment: there is a warning there, a line waiting to be crossed. A sane person would know to back away now. Pressing this point will lead to nothing good, and yet he doesn't know how to walk away. It has never been his way. Once his teeth have sank into the flesh of a case, he finds it impossible to let go - so it really is not his own fault that he is unable to turn his attention to more pressing manners.
"I am a detective, my good man. It is important for me to investigate all kinds of crime, don't you agree?"
Delicately, Watson places his cutlery down and pushes his chair back. "You have no idea when to stop, do you?" Holmes can't tell whether it is anger or disappointment in Watson's voice, and yet he knows his friend well enough to imagine that it is an equal mixture of both. "If you see Mrs Hudson, please let her know I will be taking my meals in my rooms for the foreseeable future."
Holmes responds with little more than a curt grunt. He ought to make a sweeping apology, but the ebb and flow of Watson's moods is something that has become quite common day for him. They bicker and fall out so regularly that it is difficult to take it seriously any more - even when he knows that, indeed, this situation is of a different tenor to their usual sparring matches.
Watson takes his plate with him and Holmes listens closely as he ascends the stairs to his room. He collects this morning's paper and reads it while he eats alone, pretending that the empty silence doesn't affect him at all.
*
Watson, for all his bluster, has a remarkable talent for avoiding people when he truly wishes to do so. For several days, Holmes finds it nearly impossible to get a lock onto him. He fears that he may have taught Watson far too many of the tricks of his trade, for he seems to be an expert at throwing him off.
When he accuses him of such after finally managing to catch him in his room (and, it must be said, Holmes is rather out of breath from the effort), Watson makes an attempt at feigning innocence. "Holmes, I'm a busy man. Despite what you may believe, my every action does not revolve around you."
"Perhaps not every action, but certainly this one," Holmes argues. He's right; he knows that in this instance he is right.
Watson is avoiding him because of what he knows, because of what he thinks he knows.
"You are afraid that I am going to condemn you for your actions, and fear is a powerful motivation, Watson. I find that it pushes men to do very extraordinary things." He watches Watson, carefully cataloguing every single reaction that he observes before him. Watson is staring at a set of papers on his desk, but he is not reading them. His eyes aren't moving back and forth over the words. His shoulders are tense and Holmes wishes he knew how to chase that stress away. He doesn't mean to upset his friend; he only wishes to pursue the truth. Secrets are ugly things. He would like to believe that they are beyond them. "For example, we can look at the depths that fear has caused you to stoop to: fear, shall we say, that I would discover the losses you have taken?"
"Holmes-"
"I have found a tidy collection of betting stubs in your waste bin; you've always been a gambler and now I imagine that unsavoury habit has grown out of control. Am I correct?" Watson bristles at the question, but he makes no attempt to contradict him. Holmes would have been incredibly surprised if he had. "With such an expensive habit, you need ways to fund it. Our rent money must have come in extremely useful."
"I'm going to get it back," Watson says.
His poor face is flushed red with a mixture of emotions, most of which Holmes has only rarely experienced himself. He doesn't think that he has ever allowed the heat of shame to flash through his veins. It looks like a terribly uncomfortable emotion and it is one that he is happy to miss out on, truth be told.
"Yes, I imagine you are working incredibly hard on that," Holmes says. The red tinge on Watson's face brightens. He ought to retreat, but he already feels the same adrenaline rush that he always does when he comes to the apex of a case. He feels the same satisfaction that rushes through him when he pin-points a murderer. "These over-long appointments with perfectly healthy patients... They aren't of a medical nature, are they?"
Watson holds his gaze now, the very image of pride itself. Holmes thinks that he looks glorious like this, so wonderfully stubborn.
He answers with a single word: "No."
"I thought as much." He clears his throat. He knows the facts of the matter now, but confirmation is always a beautiful thing. It needs only to be as delicate as possible. "Sexual?"
Watson nods his head; it is jerky and uncertain. "Yes."
"Ah." It feels like something of an anticlimax to have his suspicions confirmed. He always feels this way after a case, completion reached, but it is far different this time. There is aching disappointment in his chest and a hollow sense of pity. There is also the way his hand twitches as if it longs to form a fist at the thought of these so-called patients taking advantage in such a way.
Certainly, it is illegal. He is perfectly within his rights to be disgusted, yet it is not from such a place that his tangled emotions come.
"Now that that's in the open, we can go about getting our money back, hm?" Holmes straightens himself up, head raised high. There are a thousand questions in Watson's eyes and he doesn't care to answer any of them: all he wants is to get his friend out of this uncomfortable predicament (he doesn't stop to examine the mess of ugly emotions at the thought of these other, inferior men touching Watson; such things don't need to be considered when they come so naturally. Undue examination would warrant no new discoveries.) "You bet at the Punch Bowl, correct?"
"How do you-" Watson cuts himself off before he bothers to ask how Holmes had come to such a conclusion: Holmes allows himself a special smile to hear him splutter away his questions in such a way. Finally, it seems, Watson is gaining a healthy sense of faith in his unparalleled abilities. It is no surprise that Holmes's ego takes a happy boost: he has no small amount of confidence in his own abilities, and yet it is always pleasant to have someone recognise them as well, especially someone who is held as highly in Holmes's regard as Watson himself. "Yes, the Punch Bowl. Well done."
"Thank you. From the distinctive smell you carried home with you every night, it wasn't difficult to narrow the location of your nightly travels down to a single possible location." The scent still clings to him now, faintly, and it is a far cry from the clean, neutral smell that Holmes is used to from Watson. It is something wicked and pleasantly dangerous; it has been so long since he took part in a good fight. "I'd like to come along with you tonight."
"Holmes-"
"I'm going to fight." Holmes lets a filthy smile take hold of his face, the sort of smile that he knows full-well that Watson hates. "You're going to bet on me. We'll both end the night feeling very triumphant."
"That is a ridiculous suggestion, Holmes. You'll end the night needing a good deal of medical care and I will end the night very sorely out of pocket and more in debt than I already am."
"You wound me," Holmes tells him with a hand upon his heart. Watson appears to be entirely unmoved by his plight. "I am a more than capable boxer, Watson. You know this. Allow me to assist you."
Watson's jaw clenches, but Holmes know that he will relent - Watson always does, for him. It's the kind of power that could soon become intoxicating, and they are therefore lucky that Watson is stubborn enough often enough to stop him from becoming complacent. The one thing that Holmes will always be able to say in Watson's favour, regardless of the moral depths he may plunge, is that he is never predictable.
It can be a boon and a curse, that much is certain.
"Tonight, then," he says when Watson offers no objections other than a fairly grumpy-sounding splutter.
Holmes smiles like a fox: he is looking forward to getting blood on his knuckles.
*
His heart pounds and his lip bleeds red down onto his chin. His hands are still curled into automatic fists, even with his opponent groaning on the ground as his feet. The groans are akin to a child calling for its mother, something helpless and broken beyond repair. Holmes considers that, perhaps, he may have been a little too rough on the poor man - but it is hard, so hard, to feel ashamed when he can see Watson in the crowd, watching him with a perfectly neutral expression.
Holmes wipes the sweat away from his eyes and forehead with his palm, the resulting feeling damp and unpleasant. The crowd is loud, too loud, and he tries his best to ignore it; he is far from successful.
When his poor competitor fails to climb back to his feet, even after multiple attempts, Holmes steps straight over him without another glance. He can feel the heat of triumph running through his veins: it is better than even the purest of drugs that he has ever taken. The pleasure is akin to nothing that he cares to describe to simple on-lookers.
He reaches Watson out of breath and grinning, and rests a hand against his shoulder. He is smearing blood onto his friend's clothes, but given the circumstances he really thinks that he deserves the privilege of doing so.
"You'd best collect your winnings, old boy," he pants. He is more out of shape than he had realised; perhaps further outings to this place are required. If such an intense fight ever breaks out during one of his cases, he wants to be able to hold his own with no worries for his lung capacity.
"Of course; thank you," Watson says. His voice sounds distracted and his eyes skim over Holmes's shirtless body, no doubt hunting with a doctor's gaze for wounds. He will find them easily, an endless catalogue of cuts and bruises. Holmes can't feel any of them, not right now. They are nothing but minor annoyances that will come back to haunt him all too soon. In the morning, it will be difficult to stir from bed while the aching in his limbs will remind him forcefully of his own stupidity.
Watson's gaze slips past him while another set of fighters enter the ring. Holmes doesn't fight for his attention. Rather, he takes the opportunity to observe Watson without being noticed, to observe the smile and the flush of triumph on his companion's face: it is something that gives him a far greater sense of pride than even the win itself had done. Through the power of his fists he has brought such an expression to his friend. It feels as good as cracking a case has ever done.
"Meet me upstairs in two minutes," Watson says, gesturing towards the shadow-shrouded staircase in the corner. It looks dusty and abandoned, exactly the kind of place that Holmes favours most. It is tucked away from the sight and notice of most ordinary patrons. Eyes skim past it, too focused on the bets and fights taking place.
Watson slips away from him in order to collect his winnings, and Holmes pushes his way through the crowd of men shooting glares at him. No doubt he has caused a great deal of money to be lost tonight; yet, with fresh winnings in Watson's pocket, he finds it difficult to give a damn. They have achieved their objective for the night even if the other strangers in the room have not. He is allowed to feel triumphant.
The room upstairs is dingy and sparsely furnished. There is a heavily-laden table along the far wall with heavy piles of junk upon it, and there are a few rickety stools upon which to sit. Everything is coated in a thick layer of dust: the decaying footprints upon the floor tell stories of other meetings carried out up here, of scuffed fights and pacing arguments. Holmes moves tenderly towards the closest stool and it is with a certain stiffness in his limbs that he sits down upon it: adrenaline fading, the abuse his body has taken is beginning to catch up with him.
There is a telltale creak of the stairs and then Watson appears, grinning. "Your winnings," he says, holding them out for him.
"Our winnings," Holmes corrects.
They have their rent back. This should be enough and he should not be considering leaping back in the ring again for another go. It is utterly illogical to put himself at risk for no sound reason, yet it is tempting enough that he finds it almost impossible to resist.
Watson walks towards him, learning heavily upon his cane as he does so. "Thank you, Holmes," he says, and it is so heart-felt that Holmes wants to turn away. The depth of their feeling for each other is no secret, yet it is not always so near the surface. They bicker and they fight and sometimes Watson infuriates Holmes so much that he thinks he never wants to see his face again; he knows that the frustration is more than mutual. Below that, beyond it, there is this: a love purer than he knows how to handle at times. It is not an emotion that he has a great deal of experience with, and it makes him itch. Such interdependence should not be tolerated. It isn't safe for either party.
He is brave enough to hold Watson's gaze, unwavering, although the movement of Watson's hands breaks their eye contact. Holmes looks down to watch at they travel towards his trousers: he has the chance to feel the soft brush of Watson's knuckles against the bare skin of his stomach before he reaches down to grab hold of Watson's wrists. His grip is stronger than any metal: he can feel the muscle and bone trapped docilely within his grip. Watson doesn't try to move.
"What are you doing?" he asks, but he already knows.
He doesn't resist when Watson turns his wrist to slip out of his grasp. He allows it to happen: he allows this to happen, willingly.
"You won an extraordinary amount of money tonight," Watson says as he slips to the ground at Holmes's feet. Despite the stiffness of his injured leg, he moves into the position with a far too practised ease. It should make Holmes far more comfortable than it does: he is used to lingering among the shadows, but he is not used to his dear friend being one of them. "I only wish to thank you."
Holmes recalls saying something in response to that, but the words themselves fail to register in either his mind or his ears. All his thoughts and senses are on Watson alone, now. The rest of the world fails to register.
With careful hands, as if he is making sure not to spook him, Watson eases his clothes away until his prick is nude. The cold air touches his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of Watson's palm when he takes him in hand. Holmes is half-hard from the mere thought of this, and the sight of Watson as he tends to him is more than enough to speed the process along.
This is...
This is not- This is not the kind of thing that men do. They are not supposed to think like this or want like this, yet here they are in a dingy room with the sound of fighting coming from downstairs. Watson looks exquisite before him, eyes focused upon his member. Holmes can almost convince himself that Watson belongs in such a position, that this is right and glorious.
It's wrong. It is a perversion, but when Watson's grip covers the base of his cock he no longer feels so convinced. When he feels the first flutter of Watson's lips against the tip his doubts grow stronger, and by the time Watson takes him inside of his heated mouth he cannot believe that this is sinful at all. It is no more of a wrong-doing than his weakness for narcotics; frowned on by society at large, yes, but wrongly so.
The circle of Watson's lips is tight and talented, and the firm press of his tongue along the underside of Holmes's cock is nothing short of exquisite. His head moves, bobbing up and down with professional ease. Holmes's hand cling to the arm-rests of his seat, holding on so tightly that he feels he could fracture the wood into painful splinters. He breathes through his nose, panting. His chest feels tight.
His gaze never wavers from watching Watson, from staring with disbelief as this happens. When Watson pulls his hand away from the base of his shaft and takes him deeper, he can see the way that his moustache brushes against his public hair, obscuring his obscenely pink lips from view. His balls tingle with anticipation and the skin of his entire body begins to feel too tight, too constricting. Watson pulls up again, a flush to his cheeks now, and Holmes is treated to the sensation of Watson's tongue lavishing attention upon the heavy tip of his cock.
Inside his shoes, his toes curl in a poor attempt to make this last just a little while longer. "Watson," he chokes. He can barely form the word at all.
Watson looks up at him, gaze framed with soft eyelashes that Holmes has ever noticed before. He doesn't pull back, keeping his mouth wrapped around Holmes's cock.
He's letting me finish in his mouth, Holmes thinks, a belated realisation, before his self-control falters altogether. His hips jerk upwards in an instinctual attempt to bury himself deeper, and his eyes screw closed of their own accord. His entire body jerks when he comes (it's been so very, very long), and Watson lets it. Watson's mouth stays on him, swallowing, and Holmes tries not to think of how many other men he has done this to: numbers are not important. He has no true claim upon his friend and cannot allow himself to believe otherwise.
When he is finished, Watson pulls back. He draws a white handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to dab at his mouth while Holmes struggles to pull himself together. He feels as if his entire body has come apart; it is a surprise to find that all of his limbs are still attached. He flexes his fingers and, when it is confirmed that he is able to move, he reaches to clothe himself again, hiding bare skin and softening cock from view.
Watson climbs to his feet, leaving his cane to take more weight than usual. It is only a slight difference, but enough for Holmes to take note of.
He coughs and lets out a bluster of air. "Thank you," he says with a clear of his throat. "That was very..." His vocabulary offers nothing of use, so he merely clears his throat again. "Yes."
"My pleasure," Watson says, and Holmes restrains a rogue shiver at the way those two words sound. He feels that this latest exchange between them may have future repercussions upon their friendship if he finds it difficult to listen to Watson's voice any more. "Shall we go home? I have no wish to gamble further, not tonight."
Not tonight.
Holmes has known many addicts in his time, and on his clear-minded days he will admit that he is one too. He knows that this will not be the last time that Watson is drawn here by the thrill of gambling and the rush of adrenaline. It will draw him closer, perhaps not this week but certainly soon. When it happens next, he intends to be there once more. He may be unable to get Watson to turn away from this place, but he can certainly ensure he no longer loses money here. It's far from the best solution, but - for him - it is the easiest one.
*
It is a rush, he can't deny it, whenever he steps out of the ring after a victory. The endorphins flood through his blood-stream and Watson will meet him upstairs after collecting their modest winnings (never too much; it wouldn't do to be barred). As an informal thank you, Watson will always slip to his knees in the dust; privately, Holmes can confess to himself that he is no better, now, than the patients Watson used to see behind locked doors.
He reassures himself that this is better. There are no more over-long appointments, and for the majority of the time Watson is no more than a regular doctor and his trusted advisor. It is only here at the Punch Bowl that that changes. Holmes thinks that it ought to be an indication to himself that he ought to stay away, but he doesn't. He has always had a talent for observing the vices of others, and a complete disability to fight his own.
It would be easy to say 'no', after all. He could place a hand upon Watson's shoulder, squeeze for a moment, and tell him that he doesn't need this. He isn't like the other men that Watson has seen. He does not do this as a dirty form of payment for the pleasure Watson can bring. He would fight without any incentive to do so, and when he first volunteered to put himself on the line he did not have any idea of the reward that would wait for him afterwards.
Now he knows, however. From the first touch of Watson's hands against his bare flesh he was lost, completely. There is no turning back for him, not now.
He keeps winning. Whenever he witnesses the restless twitching in Watson's hands - one a week, sometimes less - he will suggest that a trip is in order. He will strip out of his shirt and enter the ring to face a man twice his size. Bruises and cuts will scatter his body by the time his opponent is flat on the floor; he's got to make it look good, after all. He never feels the wounds until the next day.
He wins the fights and Watson wins his bets and afterwards, together, they fall into sin. Watson's mouth is the closest analogue to heaven on earth. It works. They work -
Until he loses.
He isn't on form that night. His brain is filled with the details of a new case, and the confusion from their arrangement, the anticipation of what will come after this fight, it stops him from being as fast as he should be. He can't focus. His mind is busy, allowing his body to fend for itself.
He's not doing a good job of it.
His head jerks to the side when the brute's fist slams into his cheekbone. He hears something crack; it might be in his imagination. The pain shatters through him, searing. His vision blurs, and another hit comes; his attempt to block it is sloppy. It hammers his rib cage.
It all moves too fast and his mind can't keep up. Defense strategies are one step behind, laughing in his face as he takes blows he could have blocked any other day. From the sidelines, he can hear heckling and name-calling. They'd like to see him fall. They're waiting for it.
He stumbles back, trying to gain the room his mind needs to get on top of the situation, but his opponent won't allow it. Smart man. He follows him, a slab of masculine muscle, and crowds him in against the side of the ring. He's hemmed in now. He should have known better.
Another hit to the ribs knocks the air out of him and white spots spark across his vision. He blocks too late; an open hand hits his throat this time. Breathing is impossible. He can feel the bruises forming, blooming over and colouring his skin. His throat will be a mural tomorrow. It will be difficult to hide and impossible to look respectable.
Respectable... He'd laugh if he had the air to do so.
As it is, he cannot even manage a smirk.
Another blow rocks his body and he makes an attempt at fighting back, swinging with badly aimed fists. Panic is setting in, his body taking over without allowing his mind to think. Logic can win any fight; instinct rarely allows it, with other men.
Blood is wet on his face, spilling from a split lip, and his vision blurs when there is a punch to the side of his head. He thinks he can feel his brain wobbling inside of his skull.
"That's enough," comes an interruption.
Someone has entered the ring. Watson, no doubt. Holmes has difficulty focusing on him at all, but he knows that voice.
"I think we'll count this a win for you, sir," Watson says to his opponent, who backs off. Holmes slumps back against the railing, arms spread wide (it isn't to show off his arrogance, but rather because he isn't convinced that he can remain standing without support). "Let's get you home."
The wall is replaced by his good, sweet doctor when Watson presses against his side, an arm around his back to allow him to support him. Holmes's arm flails over his shoulder and together they limp out of the ring. They will have lost money tonight, of that there is no doubt. Holmes doesn't want to think about it now.
They leave the building and step immediately into cold, fresh air. The stench of sweat is left behind them, although Holmes has no doubt that they carry it with them, staining their skin and their hair. They take a ride back to Baker Street, and for that Holmes is grateful. He would have held his tongue, but he has little doubt that he wouldn't have been able to make the journey without a great deal of pain for his trouble. Thankfully, Watson's medical skills always have his best interests at heart.
They also allow him to patch Holmes up once they get home, and he cleans away blood from Holmes's skin with a gentleness that he knows that any other doctor or nurse would be unable to even aspire to.
Any other medical professional, however, would not feel that they were in the position to scold him quite so thoroughly on his behaviour. It is an uncomfortable trade.
"You shouldn't fight when you have a case," Watson says, examining the extensive collection of bruises upon Holmes's chest. If he is checking for broken ribs, there is little point. Even if he finds them there will be nothing they can do.
"It helps me think," Holmes insists.
He isn't sure if that is true or not. He wants it to be true, however, just so that he can prove Watson wrong.
"It does no such thing," Watson tells him irritably. "How are you supposed to go dashing around London in this condition? You are slowing yourself down."
Watson is trying to appeal to his sense of loyalty to the case. It is an intelligent strategy: he is an intelligent man.
Holmes presses his lips tightly together for a long moment. "You shouldn't gamble when I have a case, then," Holmes says. It makes sense. If Watson doesn't gamble, then he isn't drawn to the Punch Bowl after him. He doesn't feel the foolish need to put himself in danger to protect their rent money (and Watson's soul, the tarnished thing).
He can see from the way that Watson's jaw clenches that he has said the wrong thing.
He doesn't apologise.
They linger in angry silence for far too long as Watson diligently works on fixing Holmes's body as best as he is able. It isn't a perfect job; there are injuries here that time alone will heal, but having a doctor's attention upon him does wonders for the mind if nothing else.
Holmes stares at the far wall of Watson's office. This place could do with re-painting, really. He would wager that it had been many years since this place had been decorated, and the grime of the paint testified to that.
"You may put your shirt back on," Watson says, stepping back finally. He sighs in disappointment. "I've done all I can. I can give you some medication for the pain."
"I think I can provide my own," Holmes says. He gives a wry grin. "It's bound to be stronger than anything you will give me."
Watson's disapproval is something he has always enjoyed. "That stuff will be the death of you," he says, disappointed.
"I very much doubt that." His life is far too dangerous for it to be something as petty as a medication to be the end of him. No, when the time comes for him it will be something far more exciting.
Watson shakes his head in warm disapproval. He holds his arm out. "I'll help you to bed," he offers. Holmes thinks that he would probably have been capable of making the journey himself, but he is relieved that he doesn't have to. Watson is there to offer support, always, even when Holmes does not know how to make himself ask.
He thinks, sometimes, that he does not deserve this. In rare moments of clarity, he thinks that it would be best on them both if he kept his distance and allowed Watson to cultivate a life far away from him and his madness.
Yet now, perhaps, he is not the only one who is mad: without him, indeed, where would Watson be?
They make it through to his bedroom at a shambling, awkward pace, and they have to go through the door side-ways. His bed is unmade and his floor is untidy. It is difficult to pick their way through and Watson stumbles over a few important items along the way: it makes them both struggle to restrain smiles.
Holmes slumps down onto his bed with a relaxed, wheezing sigh. His body has started to feel the battering that it has taken: it isn't happy, that much is certain. Tomorrow will be painful.
Watson stays standing. He looks over his shoulder at the door, still open.
Holmes knows that Watson has to retreat to his own bedroom now. He lost the fight, and lost more of their money than he cares to think about yet: Watson owes him nothing, even if he privately yearns for some sort of comfort or release. It makes him glad that he has no currency readily available in his rooms: he would thrust it into Watson's hand, a greedy attempt to make him stay with him. Wrong, he knows he is wrong. His thoughts alone are wicked, broken things. Best not to allow them to turn into actions.
"Well," he says, before his mind stalls completely. "Good night."
What he receives in return is not a curt nod and a quick absence. Watson gives an affectionate roll of his eyes, before he bends over to become level with Holmes where he sits on the bed. Watson's right hand cups the side of his face and Holmes feels his heart beating, far faster than it had done even in the ring. "You are a very strange little man," Watson says.
Before Holmes can try to object to such a openly slanderous accusation, he is cut off and distracted by the dry press of Watson's lips against his own. They haven't kissed before, not ever. It feels more intimate to have Watson touch him like this than it had felt when Watson fell to his knees at Holmes's feet. It makes his heart ache sweetly in his chest.
Watson pulls back, his hand slipping away from Holmes's face, and it takes an impressive display of self-restraint not to follow him.
"I lost the fight tonight," he says. "I made us lose our money."
I have no payment for you, he means to say, but he is glad that the words won't form. It feels too vulgar.
Watson reaches out to stroke two fingers along the stubble of his jaw. It is something light, something mournful. He smiles and nods: Holmes feels that he has done something wrong. He doesn't know what it is.
"I know," Watson says. He pauses, long and awkward in a way that their silence never usually is. "I should go to bed. You need your rest."
This is certainly true. Holmes can feel the weariness that pulls at his bones, threatening to drag him down into the empty bliss of sleep. He longs to escape the infringement of pain for a while longer yet, to pull down the shutters and hide from the world as best as he is able.
He doesn't allow it; he reaches to wrap his hand around Watson's wrist. It fits easily.
"Stay," he urges. At the first sign of hesitance, he nods towards the arm-chair that sits in his room. "Please."
There is no pressure for anything to happen here, and he thinks that it would be best for the preservation of their friendship if the evening stays chaste. Yet he needs him here; he needs his companionship, an unspoken promise that they will be able to find their balance. The wobble must only be temporary.
Watson nods after a moment. He slips out of Holmes's grasp and goes to take a seat in the chair. Its poorly used springs squeal unhappily under his weight.
"Tell me," Holmes murmurs, lying on his side. It hurts to do so, but it would hurt far more to lie in any other position. He is stuck like this.
"Tell you what, Holmes?" Watson asks.
He thinks he must already know the answer, but he humours him anyway. He shifts his head on the pillow until he finds a position that doesn't press against any of his bruises. "Tell me how it started," he asks. He will be more specific if Watson wishes him to be, although he has the impression that this is something that Watson would rather be left unsaid. When did you first turn to prostitution to fund your gambling problem? is rather clunky and unpleasant.
Watson clears his throat. Holmes thinks that the odds are 50-50 that Watson will answer him at all.
"It was during the war," Watson says. "Before my injury. I was playing a game of cards with a friend and we ran out of money."
"So the stakes were upped?" Holmes suggests when it appears that Watson is unwilling to complete the story.
A small smile is offered. "Yes, I suppose they were. I lost, of course. I've always had terrible luck. After the first time, it didn't seem like such a bad option any more. It was- Well, easy."
Holmes closes his eyes for a moment: he wishes he could send his mind fully into the past. He wants to see it all happening, in the blind hope that it might help him to understand. He feels that Watson is always so far out of his reach. No matter how many puzzle pieces he receives, it is never enough.
"You are quite a mystery to me, Watson," he says.
The smile on Watson's face widens. It is an expression that Holmes would be happy to lose himself in. "You should know that I consider that an accomplishment," he says.
"I have no doubt that you do. You take such pleasure in confusing me," Holmes says. He doesn't even think that Watson does it on purpose. If there was more distance between them, he would find Watson far easier to read. It is the closeness that blurs matters. It fogs his vision; he would say that it weakens him, but he finds it difficult to view this as a weakness at all.
He gives a long sigh. It hurts his chest terribly when he does so, like being beaten all over again. His breath stalls and Watson jerks in his chair, moving forward as if he wants to help but is unsure how to do so.
"If you'd like to spend the night, Watson, there is more than enough room here in the bed," Holmes offers.
Their clothes remain on; hands remain by their sides; no inappropriate touching takes place.
No touching at all, in fact.
Yet Watson lying beside him, and the rhythmical sound of his breathing, is more relaxing to Holmes than anything more physical or medicinal could be. He falls asleep to the soothing sound of Watson's heavy breathing - and he thinks, stupidly, that he could become all too used to this with very little effort.
It's a dangerous thing, this friendship of theirs.
As he drifts away to comfortable sleep, he can't make himself regret it. Not for a single moment.
*
He wakes the following morning with every inch of his body aching, his muscles burning in disapproval of last night's activities. Watson is already gone; the bed is empty, and Holmes finds that he mourns the loss.
Yet today is a new day and he will not linger upon the mistakes of yesterday. It takes him an hour to gather the willpower to get out of bed. By the time he makes it downstairs to their kitchen, he finds a cold breakfast waiting for him and a note from Watson to inform him that he has been called away to see a patient in prison. An irrational paranoia strikes him for a moment, wondering whether this is true, but he brushes it away. Watson has no reason to lie to him, now.
Despite telling himself this, his mind still wonders. He sits down at the table to eat cold eggs, and his thoughts travel across London to find Watson. They lost too much money last night; it worries him that Watson might turn back to extreme measures in order to negate their losses.
He could visit the prison himself to find out. He does have an on-going case, although it must be said that it has failed to capture his full attention; it could easily be used as an excuse to run into Watson in such a place.
He could even don a disguise for the purpose. It is a tempting option, but he knows that with his current injuries active movement will be far more difficult than would be convenient.
It leaves him forced to remain at Baker Street for most of the day, a forced confinement that leaves his mind aching for stimulation. It wanders without him, taking its own journeys into the far-away regions of the city; his imagination follows Watson down dark passageways and it watches as he drops down to pleasure another man. Ever the professional, Watson will always have a charming smile upon his face.
It is nothing like the reluctant smirk that is reserved for Holmes. That expression belongs to him alone, the one part of Watson that he can lay claim to.
He makes little progress on his own case, and the daylight is dimming by the time that he hears the front door open and shut downstairs. He refuses to move to greet him, sinking down further into his chair and making a very good go at appearing absorbed in his newspaper.
The stairs creak and he counts them as Watson ascends, listening as he pauses at the window to look out of the glass as he always does. The view never changes.
The door opens silently and Holmes forces himself to stare at the paper as if the article he is reading is incredibly interesting. It is not. He feels no desire to read yet another simpering article praising the investigative skills of their police force.
"You've been out a long time," he observes. His voice is far too stiff. It appears that it is difficult to appear casual in front of Watson: Watson alone confounds his acting abilities.
"The state of the prisons in this country is truly appalling," Watson sighs. He sounds tired; to hear him so weary makes Holmes relax, even if it is only a little. It is evidence of his genuine work-day. "It's as if they want them to die in there."
Holmes would confess that he feels very little sympathy for many of the men who reside within the prison walls, especially those who he puts there himself - but, equally, he feels no great disgust for them either.
"They are lucky to have a physician such as yourself willing to attend on them," he says.
He has found that a little flattery is enough to take a man places.
With Watson, of course, matters are a little more complicated. All he receives is a tired roll of his eyes. "They could do with a lot more luck than merely myself," he says. He wanders over to Holmes's desk in order to rifle through the day's post. Holmes doesn't object. "I can't attend to them all. There are wounds there beyond my expertise. I'm no surgeon."
Holmes has nothing he can add on the matter; he finds that he has exceptional faith in Watson's abilities, far more than Watson has himself. If anyone can single-handedly cure a gaggle of prisoners, he would put his money on Watson.
"So you had no private patients today, then?" he asks.
It doesn't come out casual, not at all, and he can see the way that Watson's back stiffens when the words register. Internally, Holmes curses at the sight, but he does not back-track. He has never had a well-honed sense of self-preservation.
"No," Watson answers, the single word so sharp and tense that it could break the air itself. "Although, considering the state of our finances, perhaps I should have."
Holmes struggles very hard not to scowl. He has never been any good at it. "I would rather you didn't," he says, too stiff. Emotions have always hardened his voice and constricted his throat. Life is far simpler when emotions are not involved at all. They muddy the water and make logic useless.
Watson stares at him for far too long, for creeping moments that leave Holmes feeling under examination. He is not used to having a critical gaze upon him; usually he is the one that hides behind the magnifying glass.
Eventually, Watson nods. "I would rather I didn't too," he confesses quietly. "How are you feeling today?"
"Fine enough," Holmes answers, although he feels as if he is on fire every time he dares to move a muscle. It's rather inconvenient. "It will heal quickly, no doubt. I am never off my feet for long."
Watson nods. He seems distracted.
"This should never have happened, you know," he says. "You should never have been involved."
Perhaps it is true; Holmes doesn't care to think of what should or should not have happened. Such conjecture is pointless: they should work the facts, always. "You are my dear friend," he says. "I was already involved."
He doesn't know if such a statement satisfies Watson or not, and he longs for a greater ability to read the man's thoughts. Watson is too distant from him at the best of times.
"As I said," Watson murmurs, "it would be better if you were not."
"I would argue against that," Holmes says. Their voices are dropping by the word, becoming quieter and quieter. Emotions should never be spoken at great volume; it's far too difficult to confess it aloud at all. He swallows, fully aware that out of the pair of them he is the one that should always take the plunge. "If I were to ask you to kiss me again, would you consent?"
He watches as Watson's lips narrow, pressed together in thoughtful surprise. "Perhaps," Watson answers.
It is far from encouraging, but not a total refusal. "There will be no payment. I have nothing to offer you," Holmes clarifies. He has no money until he has solved his current case, and in his injured state he will not be boxing for a good while. There is nothing about him that Watson could want, nothing but himself.
Watson takes an ambling step forward. "In that case, yes. I will." Watson closes the distance between them and leans down in order to hesitantly press their lips together. It is a clumsy, uncertain kiss, that much is certain. Both of them barely touch each other, connected only at the mouths, as if they are afraid that the slightest wrong move will make the entire pretense tumble around them.
And Watson's lips are far softer than they appear, and infinitely more yielding. When he kisses, the snarky bite disappears and leaves behind something that is giving and responsive. He kisses like a doctor looking after his patient's best interests. Holmes plans to break that down, one day; he wants to pierce through that self-sacrificing veneer so that he may provide for Watson instead.
He raises his hand to press against the back of Watson's neck, and he keeps it there even when their lips part. "I will take more cases," he promises, quietly. He will take on the boring ones that he could solve from the letters alone. It will be easy money.
Watson's mouth twitches into a smile. "I will take on more patients," he says. He is more perceptive than he appears, because he bows his head in understanding. "Legitimate ones, I assure you."
"And the Punch Bowl?"
"I'll never go again," Watson says, with all the self-denial of an addict.
It is a lie. Holmes fancies that they both can hear it - but it's alright. It may be a lie, but it's a pretty one - and when it breaks, Holmes will be there to make sure that they do not fall half so far, next time.