Sherlock Holmes Fic: A Measure of Honesty (Holmes/Watson, R)
I AM SORRY FOR POSTING SO MUCH TODAY, YOU GUYS. I swear I'm done now.
Also, ahahaha. This is the fic I started to get myself into the Holmes fandom, and then NEVER FINISHED. But now it's done, a month later. Oops?
ETA: What the hell, LJ? Apologies for the wonky layout issues, my code appears to be down.
Title:A Measure of Honesty (Or, Four Times Holmes Almost Lied to Watson and One Time He Told The Truth)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Summary: Honesty, as it happens, is all relative.
1.
"I hardly think it was necessary to hit him," Watson murmured, pushing Holmes into the armchair. He sank into it with a thud, letting the breath escape his lips. Watson quirked a smile at him; it was just like Holmes, he thought, to refuse to admit he was winded.
"That is because you hardly think," Holmes returned, his voice admirably even. "Surely if you'd spent even a moment considering the problem, you'd recall that we're slated to interview Rothschild in the morning."
"Obviously," Watson sighed, "that's reason enough to hit a stranger in a pub."
"It is, in fact, though I sense you are merely being sarcastic. I must say, I find your doubt in my reasoning both hurtful and remarkably ill-considered."
Watson rolled his eyes; a knock came at the door, and he took the bowl of cold water Mrs. Hudson presented to him with a quick thanks. "Enlighten me," he said to Holmes, who lit his pipe, wincing at the heat from the match so near his freshly blackened eye.
"If I must," he said. "We are, as I mentioned, seeing Sir Rothschild tomorrow. We met him at the opera last month, yes?"
"You met him at the opera last month, more like," Watson said. He dug a clean towel out from underneath a pile of chemistry diagrams and dropped it into the water basin. "Seemed rather more interested in talking to you than to me, if I recall correctly."
"So you do!" Holmes cried. He puffed his pipe again. "This is because Rothschild is of that breed of man who sets rather more store by reputation than by reality. I, being the notorious Sherlock Holmes, naturally piqued his interest more than a perfectly ordinary doctor."
"Perfectly ordinary, am I?"
"Not to the well-trained eye," Holmes said, and his smile went soft for a fraction of a second. Then, brusquely, he continued. "In any case, I can't meet with the man as myself, he won't dare be honest with me. Luckily, a man so stupid is easily manipulated."
Watson knew now where this was going, but Holmes was, despite his best efforts to hide it, clearly in rather a lot of pain. He bit back a smile and humored his companion. "You don't honestly believe that a black eye will disguise you?"
"Of course not," Holmes quipped. "And even with a wig and a few minutes of makeup, I wouldn't be able to conceal myself--he knows my face, no disguise would hold up to scrutiny for long. But he is not likely to look closely at a manservant, and if I send you in my stead and trail behind...."
"Ah," Watson murmured, "brilliant, as ever."
Holmes smiled, self-satisfaction etched in the lines of his face. Then he shifted and winced, and Watson sighed and pulled the cloth out of the water. He wrung it out quickly and knotted it in his hand.
"Tilt your head back," he said. Holmes made a face. "You'll still be plenty bruised in the morning, I swear it; there's no reason for you to torture yourself."
"I do some of my best work tortured," Holmes protested, but he rested his head against the back of the chair. Watson settled down on the table and pressed the cool, knotted cloth to Holmes' swollen eye.
A very small sigh--one, clearly, of relief--slipped out of Holmes's mouth. His one visible eye narrowed and his mouth twisted; a recrimination, Watson supposed, for the loss of self control. Never one to press a point, Watson resisted the urge to tease and slipped a hand behind Holmes' neck instead.
Holmes tensed, but Watson cut him off before he could argue. "I am a doctor, you know," he muttered, "and I heard that vertebrae pop across the pub. Allow me to realign it. Save me the trouble of hearing you whinge, I beg you."
"You are--" Holmes started, but he was cut off by the need to swear violently as Watson pressed down and then up on his spine. "Insufferable," he finished, once he'd concluded his diatribe. "I can't imagine why I keep you about, except for the free medical care."
Watson, adept in the art of recognizing hidden compliments and fully aware of which of the two of them was the more insufferable, withdraw his hand. He pressed down slightly on the compress and smiled when Holmes didn't bother to wipe the water dripping down his cheek.
"I make a mean slumpie," he offered. Holmes smiled, a little thing, playing around his lips so delicately as to be almost non-existent.
"That you do, old boy. That you do."
They sat there like that, Watson holding the compress to Holmes' face, for a few long minutes. Eventually Watson lifted the cloth to check on the bruise; he tutted, dipped the compress back in the water, and replaced it at once.
"You know," he muttered, "it wouldn't have taken but a minute to black your eye with makeup."
"Less convincing," Holmes said, sounding supremely unconcerned.
"I'm sure," Watson returned dryly. "And how, may I ask, did you decide to prey upon that particular bloke? He had a good two stone on you."
Holmes growled. "He looked the type," he said. "Close-set eyes, utterly pissed, scars on the knuckles of his right hand. No one with him; either looking to meet a woman, impress someone, or both. And clearly stupid, which was a necessity. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would have gone for the ribs before the face."
"He did go for the ribs before the face," Watson reminded him. Holmes scowled, glared with his uncovered eye, and almost instinctively splayed five long fingers across his stomach when the man had hit him.
"A slight miscalculation," Holmes snapped. "He went for the face immediately afterwards, didn't he? My theory stands."
Watson smiled fondly. Even with a bruised ribcage and a wicked shiner, it had only taken Holmes three minutes to beat the brute into the ground. Impressive, really.
"So," he said, dipping the cloth for a third time and returning it to Holmes' face, "just to confirm: your choice in target had nothing to do with the fact that he tried to trip me up on our way in."
"You really are remarkably self-absorbed sometimes, Watson," Holmes murmured, and Watson smiled.
2.
"I did warn you there was the possibility of--" Holmes hedged. Well, he didn't exactly hedge--this was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He merely stated the facts in his usual measured tone, but Watson knew hedging when he saw it.
Admittedly, he wasn't thinking that clearly, but hang the damn logic. Holmes was hedging and Watson was furious.
"The possibility," he repeated, cutting Holmes off. "The possibility, he says. Do you not recall the conversation?"
"I think it would be best if you'd just--"
"Allow me to remind you," Watson growled. "You said, 'Let's go out, no particular reason, ahahaha,' and I said 'I have a busy day tomorrow, Holmes, I really do not have time for grievous bodily harm,' and you said, 'Don't be alarmist, old boy, I merely wish to go for a stroll. No harm will befall you.' At what point in that exchange did you warn me of the possibility of anything?"
Holmes sniffed. "It hardly qualifies as grievous bodily harm."
"I have NO EYEBROWS, man! Are you blind as well as mad?"
"I am neither," Holmes snapped. "You, on the other hand, are clearly overcome with some ridiculous emotion for which we do not have time. We have a case."
"You have a case," Watson returned. He could feel his fury eating him alive, and wondered vaguely how long it would be before this ridiculous partnership actually gave him an ulcer. "I have a headache, and a burn on my hand, and no sodding eyebrows!"
"Would you like me to purchase you some new ones?" Holmes asked, brightening suddenly. "I could send Cartwright down to the theatres, surely one of the costume departments--"
"Just--" Watson sighed, made a strangled kind of noise, and looked to the heavens in exasperation. "Just stop talking, yes? Stop talking until I grow my eyebrows back."
"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes snapped, "they'll take at least two weeks--"
"Until we get home, then!"
He received two blocks of sweet, blissful silence. Then:
"I actually think you look better without them--"
"Holmes!"
3.
Watson came home the worse for drink and Holmes was arched backwards across his armchair, fiddling with something on the underside of the table.
"My good man," he began, "your return is most apt, for you see I've discovered--"
He stopped and raised his eyebrows. Only, Watson thought, he was upside down--so really he was lowering his eyebrows, gravity being what it was, location being everything. It was amusing either way, the picture he painted, hanging there like that in surprise. He'd've laughed if he felt capable.
"Good god," Holmes said, "what--" and it was then that Watson remembered the blood on his clothing.
"Ah," he returned. "I do apologize, meant to change that, I must have--"
But Holmes was already out of his chair. He grabbed Watson's jacket and tugged; Watson slipped out of it and Holmes stepped away, gripping the soiled garment tightly. Ignoring the blood, he held the lapel to his face and inhaled.
"Gunpowder," he said sharply, his face tight, "and brandy, and sweat. What have you been doing?"
Before Watson could answer, Holmes glanced down. There was a tremor running through Watson's hands, one he had tried and failed to shake on the way home; a bitter reminder of the war, cropping up at inconvenient moments. He saw Holmes see it without bothering to follow the path of his gaze; he watched the worried crease of his forehead vanish briefly in shock and then darken, deepen.
When the man spoke, his tone was just as sharp, but his eyes were softer.
"Take off your shirt," he said. "Mrs. Hudson will have fits if you stain the upholstery."
Watson reached for the first button, but his hands slipped; Holmes swore and took over, undoing them all quickly, his fingers jumping. "Get it off," he snapped, and if Watson knew this was less about the as-of-yet untouched upholstery and more about the sight of him covered in blood, he wasn't going to say so.
When he had the shirt off his shoulders, Holmes took it from him and threw it into the fire. It caught at once, crackling in the flame.
"I liked that shirt," Watson protested, not putting much effort into it.
"I didn't," Holmes returned brusquely. Then he shrugged out of his smoking jacket and handed it over. "Here."
"I--"
"Put it on," Holmes barked, and Watson did. It was a little small, tight around the shoulders, but he felt remarkably better for being away from the remains of his unfortunate evening.
"Now," Holmes said, "tell me why you thought it would be a good idea to bust up a pub brawl."
"How did you--" Watson started, and Holmes quirked a small, sad smile at him, so he stopped. Holmes knew the same way he always knew; there was no point asking him to lay it all out. He either, maddeningly, would refuse to explain, or worse he would explain and Watson would feel ridiculously stupid for not having pieced it together himself.
"I went for a pint," Watson started, and then the fatigue hit him; he wavered on his feet and Holmes caught him by the collar of the smoking jacket, let his hand linger a half second too long.
"Sit down before you fall down," he said quietly. Watson moved to do so, stepped back toward his chair, and Holmes' face went from relieved to horrified in an instant.
"No!' he cried; Watson stilled at once.
"Ahahaha," Holmes said, pressing a hand to the small of Watson's back and steering him hastily away, "not just there, I shouldn't think."
"I hesitate to even ask why not, but--"
"No reason!" Holmes murmured too quickly. "No reason at all! Just, ah, perhaps not the best of spots in which to take repose, is all. Uncomfortable, really. Also it would be best to avoid the settee, I think. And that table, if you'd be so kind."
Watson considered arguing the point and then sighed. "Is the floor safe?" he asked, and when Holmes did not reply with a half-cocked panicked outburst he decided to take his chances. He took two long strides and then sank down, leaning back against the wall.
"You're giving me a crick," he said, glancing up at Holmes.
"The shoe is on the other foot now, isn't it," Holmes muttered darkly, but he folded in on himself and hit the floor in a smooth motion. "Now, explain."
"I don't know why I bother," Watson laughed, the edges of his voice a little blurry with drink, "you always seem to know anyway."
"On the contrary, you mystify me," Holmes said. Watson started at the tone he used, glanced over to see Holmes hastily rearranging his face into a wry grin. "Tonight, of course, just tonight."
"Of course," Watson murmured. Still, given the situation, he felt justified in sliding half an inch closer to his friend. "I was at the pub," he started, and stopped.
Holmes butted his shoulder gently. Strangely, that helped. "There--there was an argument. Over a debt, I think. In any case, it was this--this smaller man, and against him three brutes. They were armed and it was clear they planned to kill him when they got him out of the bar. And I'd been talking to him, he'd been a lovely drinking companion until his attackers came in, and I just--"
"Didn't want to leave him to his fate," Holmes murmured. "Of course."
"It was stupid," Watson said, laughing dryly. "Good as I am in a fight, I hadn't a chance against all three of them. But I'd been drinking and my blood was up, and when I'd knocked the first man down I turned my back to find the second and--"
"And the third one shot your friend," Holmes finished. Watson nodded, and leaned his head against the wall heavily.
"I tried to save him," he managed, closing his eyes. Next to him, Holmes tutted and moved half an inch to the right, so that their shoulders were touching. Despite himself, Watson felt the corner of his mouth turn up.
"And now you think it was your fault he died," Holmes sighed, his voice low and irritated. "You imbecile."
"If I hadn't intervened--"
"They'd have dragged him out back and killed him there," Holmes said, "right enough. We'd never have caught them then."
"We're not--"
"Don't be silly," Holmes said, and then he stiffened slightly as Watson allowed his head to droop onto his shoulder. Then his body relaxed, almost forcibly, and when he spoke again his tone was soft.
"I know at least fifteen things about these brutes just from our conversation," Holmes whispered, concern in his tone belied just slightly with the excitement of a new case. Watson didn't blame him for it--a problem was a problem, after all--but the thought of discussing it made his stomach roil.
Then again, Holmes lips were moving against Watson's hair and Watson shuddered at the sensation, at feeling him so close. It was almost enough to make it all right, when he opened his mouth and said "For example, the residue of the gunpowder--"
Almost, of course, being the operative word.
"No!" Watson cried, and then, quieter, "No. I don't--I can't bear it, Holmes, not right now, please--"
"Ah," Holmes returned. "My dear man, I do apologize. I should have know better."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Holmes, remaining uncharacteristically still for once in his life, shifted just enough to bring Watson's head down onto his chest; he had one hand running up and down Watson's back, though admittedly its path is more erratic then comforting.
"I wage not any feud with Death," Holmes said eventually. Watson, caught up in his memories--of the man at the pub, splayed across the warped wooden floor, and of the men at war, splayed across whatever surface would hold them--had opened his mouth to respond to this before he realized Holmes was reciting poetry. It shocked him out of his melancholy for a moment; he recalled a list he'd made a lifetime ago (knowledge of literature--nothing) and almost wanted to laugh.
He listened instead. Holmes did not have a voice that could by any means be called beautiful, but it was a comfort to hear him continue:
For changes wrought on form and face;
No lower life that earth's embrace
May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on,
From state to state the spirit walks;
And these are but the shatter'd stalks,
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare
The use of virtue out of earth:
I know transplanted human worth
Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak
The wrath that garners in my heart;
He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak.
When he was finished his body tensed up again under Watson's--well, let's be honest--embrace, as though he was embarrassed of himself. Unable to muster the kind of energy it would take to convey gratitude to so stubborn a man, Watson hummed contentedly instead.
"All the poems in the world and you chose that one," he said lightly, and Holmes relaxed a fraction of an inch. "You really are abominable at this, old chap."
"I deal in crime, not in imbecilic doctors," Holmes returned, relaxing further. "And it's the only one I know by heart--and don't go on about your list, Watson, I don't find my lack of literary depth nearly so unconscionable as you do."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Watson murmured. He was, hang it all, actually starting to feel better. The man was impossible.
And, well. It couldn't hurt, could it, to press his face a little closer in to Holmes' neck? He'd be asleep soon anyway, it wasn't as thought mattered, and he could always explain it away as shock in the morning. He did, and in response Holmes' arms tightened for a split second around him.
"You wired my chair to explode, didn't you," Watson said, feeling relief slide through him at last.
"I assure you that wasn't my intention." Holmes laughed, a dry, self-deprecating thing, but Watson knew him well enough to know better.
"So you weren't trying to recreate the system that removed my eyebrows Tuesday last? A dashed good impression of it you do, I must say."
"I wouldn't have let you trip it," Holmes murmured, the closest to a confession he'd ever come, but Watson had already closed his eyes.
4.
"You smell foul," Watson said, when Holmes finally arrived at the Yard. "Been swimming in raw sewage for sport? That's less sanitary than you might imagine, I must warn you."
"It's for Lestrade's benefit," Holmes returned, shaking out of his greatcoat and holding it away from him between two fingers. "Dispose of this, will you? In the Inspector's office, for preference."
"I am not touching that," Watson returned, surveying it with distaste, "until you tell me why you reek. And quite probably not even then, I don't think I can bear to have it any closer."
"Then there's no bargain," Holmes sniffed, turning away. "The odds are against me. I'll get rid of it myself."
"Oh, don't get all stroppy."
"Well, if you'd do me a simple favor, Watson, I wouldn't have to--"
"Good god. What bee got into your bonnet?"
"Perhaps the same one that made off with your eyebrows. They're looking particularly patchy this morning, by the by."
"That was your fault--"
"Which one of you lads is stinking up my Yard?" came a third, and rather louder, voice. Lestrade rounded the corner and wrinkled his nose at the two of them. "Oh. Mr. Holmes, I might've known it was you. What is it you want from me now?"
"Two things," Holmes said haughtily, "though Watson has ruined the first, as is his wont. I suppose I shall have to make due with the secondary purpose of my visit, which was to inform you that Sir George Rothschild has murdered his daughter. Do what you will with that."
He turned on his heel and stalked away, reeking greatcoat thrown over his shoulder.
"Evidence, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade bellowed after him; he got a very rude gesture in response, and Watson made apologies for both of them and hurried after him.
"What," he growled, "is wrong with you today? Are you being pithy because the case is over, or is it something even more trivial? Enlighten me."
"You had a visitor at the house this afternoon," Holmes shot back. "A lovely guest by all accounts--"
"Why should my social calls--"
"And then I had a brilliant time extricating from your rooms," Holmes returned. "An old friend of yours from the military, he said--of course, he said rather more when I found him naked in your chambers--"
"Oh god," Watson said, going white. "I--surely not--"
"Alexis Jackson," Holmes hissed, "the very same. Tell me, Watson, when were you planning on telling me of this little deviation, hmm? Mr. Jackson was very explicit, especially after I threatened to dose him with poison."
"You what?"
"Relax," he spat, "I wasn't actually planning on murdering your silly invert. It was a simple sulfur solution in a beaker; I waved it 'round and he suddenly found himself inclined to speak to me. Of course, I'd have preferred not to have spilled it on my coat in agitation, but some things can't be helped."
"Holmes," Watson said. He was still walking, but he wasn't entirely sure how; his legs seemed to drifting forward of their own accord while the rest of him floundered in shock and terror. "Holmes, I am truly sorry--I can't imagine why he'd have--"
"Said it had been too long," Holmes muttered. "Thought he might surprise you. Said you'd be most amenable to the idea."
"Is there any chance I could persuade you to believe--"
"That he was lying?" Holmes barked out a short laugh. "Watson, please. I have made a career out of studying the oddities and ticks of the criminal man; I know when someone is lying to me, and Mr. Jackson was being entirely honest."
Watson started. That last inflection--could he--no. No, the very idea was ridiculous. "I'll clear out tomorrow, then," he said, trying to keep his eyes from stinging.
Holmes stopped and rounded on him, furious. "You'll do no such thing," he hissed, his voice traipsing into a dangerous register.
"Well, I'll hardly force you to live with me, considering the depravity--"
"And why should that make a whit of difference?" Holmes demanded. "I am agitated because you have failed to tell me, despite any number of chances, of this proclivity. I am agitated because I have failed to deduce it to myself. I certainly do not intend to kick you to the curb like a mongrel dog. I am appalled that you would think it of me."
Watson stared. "Holmes," he breathed, "you don't owe me this kindness--"
"I don't wish to discuss this," Holmes snapped. "Ever again, actually. But since you inquired as to the blackness of my mood--"
"Quite," Watson said, reeling. They remained silent for the rest of the walk.
5.
Two nights later, Watson opened the door of his bedroom to find Holmes sitting on the floor, picking at his violin strings absently.
"You have been avoiding me," he said, as Watson sighed and removed his hat. "I wish to inquire as to why."
"You know why," Watson returned. He stood there warily, hat in his hand, and watched Holmes get up. "I didn't want to bother you, not after--"
"You are no bother," Holmes returned stiffly. Watson twirled the brim of his hat on his finger. "I apologize for sending the impression that you were."
"Holmes--" Watson started. For a split second he imagined he saw Holmes' eyes light up, but just as quickly the expression was gone, replaced by a carefully indifferent mask. And Watson suddenly had no idea what he'd been about to say, so he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Was there something you wanted? I am more than happy--"
"No," Holmes said hastily. "No, nothing."
He walked towards the door, the Stradivarius and bow clutched in his left hand. Then, already reaching for the knob, he stopped, turned around.
"Yes," Holmes gasped, sounding all of a sudden like he'd been running, "actually, there was something I wanted."
And then Holmes was kissing him, the stubble on his chin rubbing raw against Watson lower lip. It was uncomfortable; the bow of the violin was poking Watson's thigh and his own hat, usually so trustworthy, was a staunch barrier between them. There was too the fact that Watson had, aside from the obviously misguided case of Alexis Jackson, never spent much time participating in this kissing of men, and Holmes (as far as he knew) had not spent much time participating in the kissing of anyone.
So, yes, it was uncomfortable, and misguided, and incredibly stupid to boot. It was also easily the most brilliant thing Watson had ever done, and he was at a loss when Holmes broke away, breathing heavily.
"Do with that what you will," he said faintly, and turned to go.
Watson acted before he could think about it. He threw his hat aside and grabbed Holmes by the arm and then the waist, hauling him in and slamming their mouths together. He pushed Holmes into the door, grinding into him; Holmes gasped into his mouth, stunned.
"You might have told me," he murmured into Holmes' mouth. "Not all of us are blessed with your incomparable skills of deduction."
"Logic has been of no help at all in this particular arena," Holmes returned, biting Watson's lip and dragging it briefly between his teeth. "Believe me. I threatened to poison a man just the other day--where is the logic in that?"
"I should have torn him limb from limb," Watson growled, "were the situation reversed."
"I'd really prefer if you'd reserve your attentions to my limbs," Holmes managed, arching under Watson's hands and capturing his mouth again.
"That can be arranged," Watson groaned, and at that point their conversation was cut off by the discovery of a myriad of better uses for their mouths.
When they'd finished--when Watson had come in a sticky mess down Holmes' throat, when Holmes had thouroghly soiled the rug with his own spilling, they stretched across Watson's bed, sated.
"How long?" Watson asked, eventually, and Holmes laughed.
"I could not possibly say," he admitted. "Always, perhaps. Certainly I cannot recall a time when it was not there; I went through rather a lot of effort to hide it, truth be told. And you?"
"Just as long," Watson replied, tracing the line of Holmes' collarbone with an absent finger. "Maybe longer. It seems ridiculous, doesn't it? The energy we wasted?"
"Energy is never wasted when it leads to a favorable result," Holmes said after a pause. "But yes, I suppose in retrospect it is all rather silly."
"I shall have to send Alexis Jackson a proper thank you," Watson murmured musingly, and the look of reproach and horror that graced Holmes' features kept them laughing long into the night.
Also, ahahaha. This is the fic I started to get myself into the Holmes fandom, and then NEVER FINISHED. But now it's done, a month later. Oops?
ETA: What the hell, LJ? Apologies for the wonky layout issues, my code appears to be down.
Title:A Measure of Honesty (Or, Four Times Holmes Almost Lied to Watson and One Time He Told The Truth)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Summary: Honesty, as it happens, is all relative.
1.
"I hardly think it was necessary to hit him," Watson murmured, pushing Holmes into the armchair. He sank into it with a thud, letting the breath escape his lips. Watson quirked a smile at him; it was just like Holmes, he thought, to refuse to admit he was winded.
"That is because you hardly think," Holmes returned, his voice admirably even. "Surely if you'd spent even a moment considering the problem, you'd recall that we're slated to interview Rothschild in the morning."
"Obviously," Watson sighed, "that's reason enough to hit a stranger in a pub."
"It is, in fact, though I sense you are merely being sarcastic. I must say, I find your doubt in my reasoning both hurtful and remarkably ill-considered."
Watson rolled his eyes; a knock came at the door, and he took the bowl of cold water Mrs. Hudson presented to him with a quick thanks. "Enlighten me," he said to Holmes, who lit his pipe, wincing at the heat from the match so near his freshly blackened eye.
"If I must," he said. "We are, as I mentioned, seeing Sir Rothschild tomorrow. We met him at the opera last month, yes?"
"You met him at the opera last month, more like," Watson said. He dug a clean towel out from underneath a pile of chemistry diagrams and dropped it into the water basin. "Seemed rather more interested in talking to you than to me, if I recall correctly."
"So you do!" Holmes cried. He puffed his pipe again. "This is because Rothschild is of that breed of man who sets rather more store by reputation than by reality. I, being the notorious Sherlock Holmes, naturally piqued his interest more than a perfectly ordinary doctor."
"Perfectly ordinary, am I?"
"Not to the well-trained eye," Holmes said, and his smile went soft for a fraction of a second. Then, brusquely, he continued. "In any case, I can't meet with the man as myself, he won't dare be honest with me. Luckily, a man so stupid is easily manipulated."
Watson knew now where this was going, but Holmes was, despite his best efforts to hide it, clearly in rather a lot of pain. He bit back a smile and humored his companion. "You don't honestly believe that a black eye will disguise you?"
"Of course not," Holmes quipped. "And even with a wig and a few minutes of makeup, I wouldn't be able to conceal myself--he knows my face, no disguise would hold up to scrutiny for long. But he is not likely to look closely at a manservant, and if I send you in my stead and trail behind...."
"Ah," Watson murmured, "brilliant, as ever."
Holmes smiled, self-satisfaction etched in the lines of his face. Then he shifted and winced, and Watson sighed and pulled the cloth out of the water. He wrung it out quickly and knotted it in his hand.
"Tilt your head back," he said. Holmes made a face. "You'll still be plenty bruised in the morning, I swear it; there's no reason for you to torture yourself."
"I do some of my best work tortured," Holmes protested, but he rested his head against the back of the chair. Watson settled down on the table and pressed the cool, knotted cloth to Holmes' swollen eye.
A very small sigh--one, clearly, of relief--slipped out of Holmes's mouth. His one visible eye narrowed and his mouth twisted; a recrimination, Watson supposed, for the loss of self control. Never one to press a point, Watson resisted the urge to tease and slipped a hand behind Holmes' neck instead.
Holmes tensed, but Watson cut him off before he could argue. "I am a doctor, you know," he muttered, "and I heard that vertebrae pop across the pub. Allow me to realign it. Save me the trouble of hearing you whinge, I beg you."
"You are--" Holmes started, but he was cut off by the need to swear violently as Watson pressed down and then up on his spine. "Insufferable," he finished, once he'd concluded his diatribe. "I can't imagine why I keep you about, except for the free medical care."
Watson, adept in the art of recognizing hidden compliments and fully aware of which of the two of them was the more insufferable, withdraw his hand. He pressed down slightly on the compress and smiled when Holmes didn't bother to wipe the water dripping down his cheek.
"I make a mean slumpie," he offered. Holmes smiled, a little thing, playing around his lips so delicately as to be almost non-existent.
"That you do, old boy. That you do."
They sat there like that, Watson holding the compress to Holmes' face, for a few long minutes. Eventually Watson lifted the cloth to check on the bruise; he tutted, dipped the compress back in the water, and replaced it at once.
"You know," he muttered, "it wouldn't have taken but a minute to black your eye with makeup."
"Less convincing," Holmes said, sounding supremely unconcerned.
"I'm sure," Watson returned dryly. "And how, may I ask, did you decide to prey upon that particular bloke? He had a good two stone on you."
Holmes growled. "He looked the type," he said. "Close-set eyes, utterly pissed, scars on the knuckles of his right hand. No one with him; either looking to meet a woman, impress someone, or both. And clearly stupid, which was a necessity. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence would have gone for the ribs before the face."
"He did go for the ribs before the face," Watson reminded him. Holmes scowled, glared with his uncovered eye, and almost instinctively splayed five long fingers across his stomach when the man had hit him.
"A slight miscalculation," Holmes snapped. "He went for the face immediately afterwards, didn't he? My theory stands."
Watson smiled fondly. Even with a bruised ribcage and a wicked shiner, it had only taken Holmes three minutes to beat the brute into the ground. Impressive, really.
"So," he said, dipping the cloth for a third time and returning it to Holmes' face, "just to confirm: your choice in target had nothing to do with the fact that he tried to trip me up on our way in."
"You really are remarkably self-absorbed sometimes, Watson," Holmes murmured, and Watson smiled.
2.
"I did warn you there was the possibility of--" Holmes hedged. Well, he didn't exactly hedge--this was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He merely stated the facts in his usual measured tone, but Watson knew hedging when he saw it.
Admittedly, he wasn't thinking that clearly, but hang the damn logic. Holmes was hedging and Watson was furious.
"The possibility," he repeated, cutting Holmes off. "The possibility, he says. Do you not recall the conversation?"
"I think it would be best if you'd just--"
"Allow me to remind you," Watson growled. "You said, 'Let's go out, no particular reason, ahahaha,' and I said 'I have a busy day tomorrow, Holmes, I really do not have time for grievous bodily harm,' and you said, 'Don't be alarmist, old boy, I merely wish to go for a stroll. No harm will befall you.' At what point in that exchange did you warn me of the possibility of anything?"
Holmes sniffed. "It hardly qualifies as grievous bodily harm."
"I have NO EYEBROWS, man! Are you blind as well as mad?"
"I am neither," Holmes snapped. "You, on the other hand, are clearly overcome with some ridiculous emotion for which we do not have time. We have a case."
"You have a case," Watson returned. He could feel his fury eating him alive, and wondered vaguely how long it would be before this ridiculous partnership actually gave him an ulcer. "I have a headache, and a burn on my hand, and no sodding eyebrows!"
"Would you like me to purchase you some new ones?" Holmes asked, brightening suddenly. "I could send Cartwright down to the theatres, surely one of the costume departments--"
"Just--" Watson sighed, made a strangled kind of noise, and looked to the heavens in exasperation. "Just stop talking, yes? Stop talking until I grow my eyebrows back."
"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes snapped, "they'll take at least two weeks--"
"Until we get home, then!"
He received two blocks of sweet, blissful silence. Then:
"I actually think you look better without them--"
"Holmes!"
3.
Watson came home the worse for drink and Holmes was arched backwards across his armchair, fiddling with something on the underside of the table.
"My good man," he began, "your return is most apt, for you see I've discovered--"
He stopped and raised his eyebrows. Only, Watson thought, he was upside down--so really he was lowering his eyebrows, gravity being what it was, location being everything. It was amusing either way, the picture he painted, hanging there like that in surprise. He'd've laughed if he felt capable.
"Good god," Holmes said, "what--" and it was then that Watson remembered the blood on his clothing.
"Ah," he returned. "I do apologize, meant to change that, I must have--"
But Holmes was already out of his chair. He grabbed Watson's jacket and tugged; Watson slipped out of it and Holmes stepped away, gripping the soiled garment tightly. Ignoring the blood, he held the lapel to his face and inhaled.
"Gunpowder," he said sharply, his face tight, "and brandy, and sweat. What have you been doing?"
Before Watson could answer, Holmes glanced down. There was a tremor running through Watson's hands, one he had tried and failed to shake on the way home; a bitter reminder of the war, cropping up at inconvenient moments. He saw Holmes see it without bothering to follow the path of his gaze; he watched the worried crease of his forehead vanish briefly in shock and then darken, deepen.
When the man spoke, his tone was just as sharp, but his eyes were softer.
"Take off your shirt," he said. "Mrs. Hudson will have fits if you stain the upholstery."
Watson reached for the first button, but his hands slipped; Holmes swore and took over, undoing them all quickly, his fingers jumping. "Get it off," he snapped, and if Watson knew this was less about the as-of-yet untouched upholstery and more about the sight of him covered in blood, he wasn't going to say so.
When he had the shirt off his shoulders, Holmes took it from him and threw it into the fire. It caught at once, crackling in the flame.
"I liked that shirt," Watson protested, not putting much effort into it.
"I didn't," Holmes returned brusquely. Then he shrugged out of his smoking jacket and handed it over. "Here."
"I--"
"Put it on," Holmes barked, and Watson did. It was a little small, tight around the shoulders, but he felt remarkably better for being away from the remains of his unfortunate evening.
"Now," Holmes said, "tell me why you thought it would be a good idea to bust up a pub brawl."
"How did you--" Watson started, and Holmes quirked a small, sad smile at him, so he stopped. Holmes knew the same way he always knew; there was no point asking him to lay it all out. He either, maddeningly, would refuse to explain, or worse he would explain and Watson would feel ridiculously stupid for not having pieced it together himself.
"I went for a pint," Watson started, and then the fatigue hit him; he wavered on his feet and Holmes caught him by the collar of the smoking jacket, let his hand linger a half second too long.
"Sit down before you fall down," he said quietly. Watson moved to do so, stepped back toward his chair, and Holmes' face went from relieved to horrified in an instant.
"No!' he cried; Watson stilled at once.
"Ahahaha," Holmes said, pressing a hand to the small of Watson's back and steering him hastily away, "not just there, I shouldn't think."
"I hesitate to even ask why not, but--"
"No reason!" Holmes murmured too quickly. "No reason at all! Just, ah, perhaps not the best of spots in which to take repose, is all. Uncomfortable, really. Also it would be best to avoid the settee, I think. And that table, if you'd be so kind."
Watson considered arguing the point and then sighed. "Is the floor safe?" he asked, and when Holmes did not reply with a half-cocked panicked outburst he decided to take his chances. He took two long strides and then sank down, leaning back against the wall.
"You're giving me a crick," he said, glancing up at Holmes.
"The shoe is on the other foot now, isn't it," Holmes muttered darkly, but he folded in on himself and hit the floor in a smooth motion. "Now, explain."
"I don't know why I bother," Watson laughed, the edges of his voice a little blurry with drink, "you always seem to know anyway."
"On the contrary, you mystify me," Holmes said. Watson started at the tone he used, glanced over to see Holmes hastily rearranging his face into a wry grin. "Tonight, of course, just tonight."
"Of course," Watson murmured. Still, given the situation, he felt justified in sliding half an inch closer to his friend. "I was at the pub," he started, and stopped.
Holmes butted his shoulder gently. Strangely, that helped. "There--there was an argument. Over a debt, I think. In any case, it was this--this smaller man, and against him three brutes. They were armed and it was clear they planned to kill him when they got him out of the bar. And I'd been talking to him, he'd been a lovely drinking companion until his attackers came in, and I just--"
"Didn't want to leave him to his fate," Holmes murmured. "Of course."
"It was stupid," Watson said, laughing dryly. "Good as I am in a fight, I hadn't a chance against all three of them. But I'd been drinking and my blood was up, and when I'd knocked the first man down I turned my back to find the second and--"
"And the third one shot your friend," Holmes finished. Watson nodded, and leaned his head against the wall heavily.
"I tried to save him," he managed, closing his eyes. Next to him, Holmes tutted and moved half an inch to the right, so that their shoulders were touching. Despite himself, Watson felt the corner of his mouth turn up.
"And now you think it was your fault he died," Holmes sighed, his voice low and irritated. "You imbecile."
"If I hadn't intervened--"
"They'd have dragged him out back and killed him there," Holmes said, "right enough. We'd never have caught them then."
"We're not--"
"Don't be silly," Holmes said, and then he stiffened slightly as Watson allowed his head to droop onto his shoulder. Then his body relaxed, almost forcibly, and when he spoke again his tone was soft.
"I know at least fifteen things about these brutes just from our conversation," Holmes whispered, concern in his tone belied just slightly with the excitement of a new case. Watson didn't blame him for it--a problem was a problem, after all--but the thought of discussing it made his stomach roil.
Then again, Holmes lips were moving against Watson's hair and Watson shuddered at the sensation, at feeling him so close. It was almost enough to make it all right, when he opened his mouth and said "For example, the residue of the gunpowder--"
Almost, of course, being the operative word.
"No!" Watson cried, and then, quieter, "No. I don't--I can't bear it, Holmes, not right now, please--"
"Ah," Holmes returned. "My dear man, I do apologize. I should have know better."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Holmes, remaining uncharacteristically still for once in his life, shifted just enough to bring Watson's head down onto his chest; he had one hand running up and down Watson's back, though admittedly its path is more erratic then comforting.
"I wage not any feud with Death," Holmes said eventually. Watson, caught up in his memories--of the man at the pub, splayed across the warped wooden floor, and of the men at war, splayed across whatever surface would hold them--had opened his mouth to respond to this before he realized Holmes was reciting poetry. It shocked him out of his melancholy for a moment; he recalled a list he'd made a lifetime ago (knowledge of literature--nothing) and almost wanted to laugh.
He listened instead. Holmes did not have a voice that could by any means be called beautiful, but it was a comfort to hear him continue:
For changes wrought on form and face;
No lower life that earth's embrace
May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on,
From state to state the spirit walks;
And these are but the shatter'd stalks,
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare
The use of virtue out of earth:
I know transplanted human worth
Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak
The wrath that garners in my heart;
He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak.
When he was finished his body tensed up again under Watson's--well, let's be honest--embrace, as though he was embarrassed of himself. Unable to muster the kind of energy it would take to convey gratitude to so stubborn a man, Watson hummed contentedly instead.
"All the poems in the world and you chose that one," he said lightly, and Holmes relaxed a fraction of an inch. "You really are abominable at this, old chap."
"I deal in crime, not in imbecilic doctors," Holmes returned, relaxing further. "And it's the only one I know by heart--and don't go on about your list, Watson, I don't find my lack of literary depth nearly so unconscionable as you do."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Watson murmured. He was, hang it all, actually starting to feel better. The man was impossible.
And, well. It couldn't hurt, could it, to press his face a little closer in to Holmes' neck? He'd be asleep soon anyway, it wasn't as thought mattered, and he could always explain it away as shock in the morning. He did, and in response Holmes' arms tightened for a split second around him.
"You wired my chair to explode, didn't you," Watson said, feeling relief slide through him at last.
"I assure you that wasn't my intention." Holmes laughed, a dry, self-deprecating thing, but Watson knew him well enough to know better.
"So you weren't trying to recreate the system that removed my eyebrows Tuesday last? A dashed good impression of it you do, I must say."
"I wouldn't have let you trip it," Holmes murmured, the closest to a confession he'd ever come, but Watson had already closed his eyes.
4.
"You smell foul," Watson said, when Holmes finally arrived at the Yard. "Been swimming in raw sewage for sport? That's less sanitary than you might imagine, I must warn you."
"It's for Lestrade's benefit," Holmes returned, shaking out of his greatcoat and holding it away from him between two fingers. "Dispose of this, will you? In the Inspector's office, for preference."
"I am not touching that," Watson returned, surveying it with distaste, "until you tell me why you reek. And quite probably not even then, I don't think I can bear to have it any closer."
"Then there's no bargain," Holmes sniffed, turning away. "The odds are against me. I'll get rid of it myself."
"Oh, don't get all stroppy."
"Well, if you'd do me a simple favor, Watson, I wouldn't have to--"
"Good god. What bee got into your bonnet?"
"Perhaps the same one that made off with your eyebrows. They're looking particularly patchy this morning, by the by."
"That was your fault--"
"Which one of you lads is stinking up my Yard?" came a third, and rather louder, voice. Lestrade rounded the corner and wrinkled his nose at the two of them. "Oh. Mr. Holmes, I might've known it was you. What is it you want from me now?"
"Two things," Holmes said haughtily, "though Watson has ruined the first, as is his wont. I suppose I shall have to make due with the secondary purpose of my visit, which was to inform you that Sir George Rothschild has murdered his daughter. Do what you will with that."
He turned on his heel and stalked away, reeking greatcoat thrown over his shoulder.
"Evidence, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade bellowed after him; he got a very rude gesture in response, and Watson made apologies for both of them and hurried after him.
"What," he growled, "is wrong with you today? Are you being pithy because the case is over, or is it something even more trivial? Enlighten me."
"You had a visitor at the house this afternoon," Holmes shot back. "A lovely guest by all accounts--"
"Why should my social calls--"
"And then I had a brilliant time extricating from your rooms," Holmes returned. "An old friend of yours from the military, he said--of course, he said rather more when I found him naked in your chambers--"
"Oh god," Watson said, going white. "I--surely not--"
"Alexis Jackson," Holmes hissed, "the very same. Tell me, Watson, when were you planning on telling me of this little deviation, hmm? Mr. Jackson was very explicit, especially after I threatened to dose him with poison."
"You what?"
"Relax," he spat, "I wasn't actually planning on murdering your silly invert. It was a simple sulfur solution in a beaker; I waved it 'round and he suddenly found himself inclined to speak to me. Of course, I'd have preferred not to have spilled it on my coat in agitation, but some things can't be helped."
"Holmes," Watson said. He was still walking, but he wasn't entirely sure how; his legs seemed to drifting forward of their own accord while the rest of him floundered in shock and terror. "Holmes, I am truly sorry--I can't imagine why he'd have--"
"Said it had been too long," Holmes muttered. "Thought he might surprise you. Said you'd be most amenable to the idea."
"Is there any chance I could persuade you to believe--"
"That he was lying?" Holmes barked out a short laugh. "Watson, please. I have made a career out of studying the oddities and ticks of the criminal man; I know when someone is lying to me, and Mr. Jackson was being entirely honest."
Watson started. That last inflection--could he--no. No, the very idea was ridiculous. "I'll clear out tomorrow, then," he said, trying to keep his eyes from stinging.
Holmes stopped and rounded on him, furious. "You'll do no such thing," he hissed, his voice traipsing into a dangerous register.
"Well, I'll hardly force you to live with me, considering the depravity--"
"And why should that make a whit of difference?" Holmes demanded. "I am agitated because you have failed to tell me, despite any number of chances, of this proclivity. I am agitated because I have failed to deduce it to myself. I certainly do not intend to kick you to the curb like a mongrel dog. I am appalled that you would think it of me."
Watson stared. "Holmes," he breathed, "you don't owe me this kindness--"
"I don't wish to discuss this," Holmes snapped. "Ever again, actually. But since you inquired as to the blackness of my mood--"
"Quite," Watson said, reeling. They remained silent for the rest of the walk.
5.
Two nights later, Watson opened the door of his bedroom to find Holmes sitting on the floor, picking at his violin strings absently.
"You have been avoiding me," he said, as Watson sighed and removed his hat. "I wish to inquire as to why."
"You know why," Watson returned. He stood there warily, hat in his hand, and watched Holmes get up. "I didn't want to bother you, not after--"
"You are no bother," Holmes returned stiffly. Watson twirled the brim of his hat on his finger. "I apologize for sending the impression that you were."
"Holmes--" Watson started. For a split second he imagined he saw Holmes' eyes light up, but just as quickly the expression was gone, replaced by a carefully indifferent mask. And Watson suddenly had no idea what he'd been about to say, so he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Was there something you wanted? I am more than happy--"
"No," Holmes said hastily. "No, nothing."
He walked towards the door, the Stradivarius and bow clutched in his left hand. Then, already reaching for the knob, he stopped, turned around.
"Yes," Holmes gasped, sounding all of a sudden like he'd been running, "actually, there was something I wanted."
And then Holmes was kissing him, the stubble on his chin rubbing raw against Watson lower lip. It was uncomfortable; the bow of the violin was poking Watson's thigh and his own hat, usually so trustworthy, was a staunch barrier between them. There was too the fact that Watson had, aside from the obviously misguided case of Alexis Jackson, never spent much time participating in this kissing of men, and Holmes (as far as he knew) had not spent much time participating in the kissing of anyone.
So, yes, it was uncomfortable, and misguided, and incredibly stupid to boot. It was also easily the most brilliant thing Watson had ever done, and he was at a loss when Holmes broke away, breathing heavily.
"Do with that what you will," he said faintly, and turned to go.
Watson acted before he could think about it. He threw his hat aside and grabbed Holmes by the arm and then the waist, hauling him in and slamming their mouths together. He pushed Holmes into the door, grinding into him; Holmes gasped into his mouth, stunned.
"You might have told me," he murmured into Holmes' mouth. "Not all of us are blessed with your incomparable skills of deduction."
"Logic has been of no help at all in this particular arena," Holmes returned, biting Watson's lip and dragging it briefly between his teeth. "Believe me. I threatened to poison a man just the other day--where is the logic in that?"
"I should have torn him limb from limb," Watson growled, "were the situation reversed."
"I'd really prefer if you'd reserve your attentions to my limbs," Holmes managed, arching under Watson's hands and capturing his mouth again.
"That can be arranged," Watson groaned, and at that point their conversation was cut off by the discovery of a myriad of better uses for their mouths.
When they'd finished--when Watson had come in a sticky mess down Holmes' throat, when Holmes had thouroghly soiled the rug with his own spilling, they stretched across Watson's bed, sated.
"How long?" Watson asked, eventually, and Holmes laughed.
"I could not possibly say," he admitted. "Always, perhaps. Certainly I cannot recall a time when it was not there; I went through rather a lot of effort to hide it, truth be told. And you?"
"Just as long," Watson replied, tracing the line of Holmes' collarbone with an absent finger. "Maybe longer. It seems ridiculous, doesn't it? The energy we wasted?"
"Energy is never wasted when it leads to a favorable result," Holmes said after a pause. "But yes, I suppose in retrospect it is all rather silly."
"I shall have to send Alexis Jackson a proper thank you," Watson murmured musingly, and the look of reproach and horror that graced Holmes' features kept them laughing long into the night.