Sherlock Holmes Fic: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Ten, Holmes/Watson, R)
A brief note: THIS IS THE END, GUYS. All the chapters and anything I do in this 'verse can be found under my History Repeating Itself tag. I am planning to do some side stories, including the Miles/Irene story and maybe a companion piece/sequel to this from Holmes' POV. Also, there will be a post up at some point in the near future where you can ask Holmes and Watson questions and they'll, uh, answer you. So feel free to check that out. I posted mad, mad thanks over at the meme, and I will do a full acknowledgment here tomorrow when it's like, real people hours, but the concept bears repeating: SERIOUSLY, THANK YOU, YOU GUYS. YOU HAVE BEEN INCREDIBLE, YOU LIGHT UP MY LIFE WITH YOUR COMMENTS, AND THIS ENTIRE THING IS BELONG YOU YOU <3
And now, onto the conclusion of this tale.
Title: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Ten)
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Violence, alcohol and marijuana use, general debauchery, copious use of coarse language.
Spoilers: None, except for Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, and Chapter Nine of this story.
Author's Notes: This is a fill for an AWESOME prompt at shkinkmeme; both the prompt and the fill thread can be found here. I have posted the chapters bit-by-bit there and then archived them on my journal. The work can be viewed in its entirety both here and at the meme.
Chapter Summary: John Watson concludes his story.
Chapter Ten: On Endings, Beginnings, and That Which Falls Somewhere In Between
The ride to the safehouse was a quiet one. I sat in the back, wringing my hands and wanting more than anything to be able to teleport myself, to have fought Miles harder and gotten into that ambulance. I knew, on some level, that he was right; my being with Holmes was an unnecessary risk to both of us. Still, it was all I could do not hurl myself out the door at every stoplight--it was all I could do to bite my tongue and keep from screaming.
Then, of course, we got to the safehouse. And actually, that's a bad way to describe it--it wasn't a safehouse so much as a saferoom. It was about the size of the living room at the apartment. There was a television, a kitchenette, a bookshelf and--to my mild amusement--a king sized bed. At least Miles knew what he was getting us into, I thought wryly, looking at it.
"Holmes is going to go crazy in here," I murmured, glancing around. "No movies, no Wii--"
"I can pick up anything you need," Dante said, smiling at me. Joseph coughed and turned away and then Dante leaned closer, pitching his voice low. "And I mean anything, man."
I looked at him. "I, uh," I said, "I don't have any cash on me, and I don't know where my wallet--"
"Don't worry about it," Dante said, grinning and pulling a credit card out of his pocket. "Miles gave me this, said I could set you guys up. He won't mind. "
I thought that over for a second. Then: "Okay," I said, smiling slightly. "I'm going to have to write you a list."
--
It took Dante two hours to round up everything I'd asked him for. When he came back, checking in with the guard at the door and smiling at me, we had a couple of the beers he'd brought with him, shooting the shit. It had been days since I'd slept at that point, and I was having a hard time focusing on anything other than how very badly I wanted Holmes to come back. Dante knew that; he was nice to me without pushing, wasn't offended when I checked the cell phone Miles had given me in the middle of one of his stories.
Twenty minutes after he'd left--"You should sleep, man," he'd said, shutting the door softly behind him--the phone rang. I jumped about a foot in the air and grabbed it, slamming it to my ear.
"Hello?" I said breathlessly.
"You spent a lot of money on my credit card," Miles said crossly. "And Dante said I owe him like $200 more in cash."
"I'll work it off," I snapped. "How is he?"
Miles sighed. "He's okay," he said. "He isn't concussed--they drugged him with something, that's why he was so out of it. We won't know for sure what it was until the bloodwork comes back, but we're thinking roofie. He doesn't remember much of what happened, which is probably for the best."
"Yeah," I said, even though my heart was sinking a little. Then a horrible thought occurred to me. "Wait, a roofie? He wasn't--they didn't--"
"No," Miles sighed, "no, he wasn't raped or anything, thank god. His left hand is a fucking mess, and three of his ribs are cracked, and he needs stitches in a few places. They pulled out one of his molars, too, but just one. I think that was their next tactic after his fingers, but I can't be sure--he doesn't remember which came first."
My hands went to fists, and I held myself back from throwing a punch into the wall. It wouldn't do any good, and he'd only yell at me when he got here. "Can I talk to him?"
"He's," Miles started. Then, in the background, I heard a very familiar voice yell out MotherFUCKER, followed immediately by Oh, FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK WHAT. I smiled, despite myself.
"He's getting his hand set," Miles finished, sounding torn between amusement and horror. I was right there with him. "Shouldn't be more than an hour or two before we get there. Sorry to put you through this, man."
"It's okay," I told him, even though it wasn't. "Tell him not to get explosion on my shirt, he'll like that."
"You two are weird," Miles informed me. "We'll see you soon."
We hung up, and then I…busied myself. Took a hot shower, letting the spray run over me until it ran ice cold. Set up some of the shit I'd had Dante procure. Got to know the guard outside a little, and then his end-of-shift replacement. By the time I heard footsteps on the stairs it was pitch black outside and I could barely keep my eyes opened, but I jumped up when I heard a knock at the door.
Miles was holding Holmes up, hunched over to cover the height difference. He--Miles, that is--looked annoyed. Holmes himself looked battleworn and pissed off and exhausted. There were stitches in the cut on his face, on his arm. He had a black eye to match the ones Miles and I were sporting, his cheek was slightly swollen, there was a massive cast on his left hand, and I could see the faint outline of heavy bandages under his shirt.
He was, in short, a fucking mess. I've never been more in love with anyone.
"Let go of me," he snapped to Miles. "Like it wasn't enough that they had to wheel me to the fucking car, I'm not a baby, I can walk."
"You can stumble," Miles agreed, his voice bright and dangerous. "And then you can break one of those cracked ribs and maybe your face! That'd be fun."
"I fucking hate you," Holmes spat.
"Yeah, well." Miles turned to me, rolling his eyes. "Good luck. He's very pleasant when he's injured, I've discovered. Very pleasant."
"He'll be fine, I like him more than you," Holmes muttered under his breath, not looking at me. Miles laughed outright.
"You'd think I hadn't just rescued you from your biggest fuck-up ever!" he returned. "And you're not even supposed to be out of the hospital, I'll take you back there if you're not careful."
"Watson rescued me," he shot back, still avoiding my gaze. "And you don't hear him lecturing me for hours on end, do you?"
My hands twitched as Miles disengaged from him, putting both hands on his brother's shoulders.
"I am glad you're alive," he said, "even if you're an obnoxious little fuck."
"I am glad you're alive," Holmes returned, the edge of his mouth twitching around a small smile, "even if I kind of want to kill you right now."
Miles laughed and removed his hands; Holmes took a step toward me and then, yes, stumbled. I caught him before Miles had a chance to move, steadying him carefully, trying to avoid jostling anything painful. He looked up at me, entirely still, and I stopped moving, staring down at him.
"See, Miles," he said, without breaking our gaze, "I like him better than you."
Out of my peripheral vision I could see Miles glance back and forth between us and then shake his head. "I'll be back tomorrow to explain how this is going to work," he said, moving to the door. "Don't leave this room."
"Not likely," I murmured, my eyes fixated on Holmes' mouth.
"Oh, ew," Miles snapped, and then he was slamming the door behind him.
Holmes and I stared at other for a long minute. I had a hand underneath his arm and one resting lightly on his hip; his good hand was on my waist, shaking slightly against my belt loops.
"Hi," I said softly.
He kept staring at me. Then he made a strangled, raw sound and leaned close, closing the distance between us. I was expecting him to kiss me, I guess, but he buried his face in my neck instead and held on to me, shaking, twisting my shirt underneath his fingers. I pulled him close, holding him as tightly as I could without hurting him
"I'm sorry," he muttered. It was muffled against my shoulder, but I heard him all the same. "I'm sorry, I know this isn't how this is supposed to--but I'm just so happy to fucking see you, John, you've got no idea--"
"I've got some idea," I growled roughly, pressing my face into his hair and breathing deeply, trying to ground myself. "Shit, I was so fucking scared--"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry--"
"Shut up," I managed. "Don't be sorry, it's okay--"
"I should have--"
"Shhh," I said. "It doesn't matter. You're alive, you're here. Don't apologize."
He pulled back from me, smiling shakily. Then his knees buckled and fell forward a little, swearing, and I sighed.
"You need to sit down," I told him, helping him over to the bed.
"I'm fine," he protested, and then he stumbled into me again. "Fuck, that hurt."
"Sit," I instructed, pushing him down. He collapsed onto the soft surface and I sat next to him, smiling when he glanced up at me with hooded eyes.
"I know I'm kind of," he said, gesturing to himself and grimacing, "I mean, this is not the best I've ever--
And I'd had about enough of that. I reached up to cup his face in my palm, running the pad of my thumb across his unscathed cheek. "I love you," I said, "you stupid, stupid fuck. You do kind of smell like a hospital, but I'm prepared to let that go--"
But then he was kissing me, dragging my lower lip between his teeth and moaning against my lips. And I buried my hand in his hair and tilted his head back a little, leaned away to drag a few light kisses along his jawline. He hissed his pleasure at this, running his uninjured hand along my back.
"I'm sorry I was an asshole," I murmured into his ear, scraping my teeth along the tender skin of his neck. He moaned aloud and arched as best he could, raking his fingers down my spine.
"I'm sorry I snuck into your room like a creeper and then got kidnapped," he gasped, as I pushed the corner of his shirt aside to lick at his collarbone. "And I'm sorry I can't--there are things I want to do but I can't, it's not that I don't want to--"
"Shut up," I growled, pushing him gently back against the pillows. "I seem to remember owing you a blowjob."
I'm not going to bother describe the technique I used to blow him; that seems narcissistic and weird, and anyway it isn't the point. The point is that Holmes has a huge cock, way bigger than any guy that skinny had any right to be walking around with, and he made these--noises. These little gasping mewling noises, like he couldn't get enough, like he was drowning in the want of it. I was so underslept that my cock only half-responded, but every time he moved a little shiver ran down my spine. For all he was injured, for all neither of us had gotten any sleep, it was one of the most perfect moments of my life; his cock in my mouth, his hand in my hair, his voice rasping out my name, over and over and over again.
When he finished I pulled away, grinning at him. "Jesus," he gasped, looking at me with wide eyes. "I should have let you do that the other night."
"Yeah, well," I sighed, moving up so I was next to him. "I thought I was dreaming, so I don't know how good at it I would have been."
"Is that why--?" he started, his eyes lighting up. I kissed him briefly--well, not so briefly, really.
"Yeah," I admitted, when we broke from each other. "When I woke up and you were in the kitchen, I thought--you know, that you were never going to want me and I'd just be torturing myself with these ridiculously vivid dreams forever--"
"And you say I'm the stupid fuck," he muttered fondly, kissing the edge of my jaw. "Ladies and gentlemen, the pot calls the kettle black."
"Mmmm," I sighed, closing my eyes. "Never said I wasn't just as bad as you."
"Worse, even." He was quiet for a minute; then I felt the bed shift, heard him groan as he levered himself up a little to look around the room.
"I'm gonna go crazy in here," he said with finality. I snorted without bothering to open my eyes.
"No you're not," I told him. "There's a Wii in the entertainment set with one of those Netflix all-access DVDs in it, a router in the corner, a laptop under the bed and beef with broccoli and beer in the fridge. And, you know, as much sex as feel up for. I think you''ll make it for a few days."
He was quiet for a second, and I was actually almost asleep when I heard him cough. I cracked one eye open and peered up at him; his eyes were very, very bright.
"John," he said, "have I actually said that I love you yet?"
"No," I said, grinning a little. "I know you do, though."
"Do you?" he asked, sniffing and clearly trying to get hold of himself. "I don't know, man, if you're gonna be this cocky--"
"I think I forgot to mention the ounce of weed and the new bong in the nightstand drawer," I interrupted him, closing my eyes again. A second later I felt his head settle down on top of my chest.
"Yeah, okay," he said, something between a laugh and a sob caught on his tone. "You're right; I love you."
An Epilogue, of Sorts
We've been in hiding for three years.
It was suggested--by Holmes, no less--that I didn't have to go with him. It was suggested that I could go back to my life, shave my mustache, and probably not be recognizable; it was suggested that I could function as I once had, and try to forget about him.
It was then suggested--by me, of course--that if anyone suggested that again, they would get a punch in the face, and after that he never bothered taking that tack with me. A good thing too, since I would have really hated to punch him.
We've lived a lot of places over the last three years, Holmes and I. We never know when we're going, or where we're going, until Miles shows up, usually with a case of beer and a sheepish expression. The first time he did that was three days after we rescued Holmes, and he got us roaring drunk before he told us he wasn't sure how long he'd have to keep us moving, hidden away.
There's a picture of us from that night, toasting and laughing with identical black eyes, that I am never going to let Holmes take off the mantle.
It was weird at first. In the grand scheme of things, we hadn't been living together for that long--a few months, really, as strange as that seems. We spent a couple very awkward days in our first new location, fucking at night and staring at each other during the day, trying to process. And then, as is the way with all awkward realities, we got used to the surreal quality of our lives. In some ways, it's been nice. We've gotten to know each other in ways we wouldn't have otherwise. Do you know Holmes, when he's really really stir crazy, when he's taken apart every piece of furniture he can find, will start to paint? Beautiful paintings too, strange mixtures of a thousand styles.
Sometimes they're done in ketchup, of course, but what can you do? The man's genius is very real, but it's selective at best. He really shouldn't be left alone for too long.
He read the Holmes books the first year, during the terrible six weeks when Mihailov was in trial and we were riding the terror that he'd go free. That was agony, him realizing every weird goddamn connection. I'd already made my peace with it--I mean, really, even Lestrade--but he would wake me up in the middle of the night, wigging out.
"Watson," he'd say, "Irene is in these books," and I'd have to reach up and kiss him quiet, bring him to relaxation with the crickets keeping time outside.
The second year, he relearned to play the violin. We went through a number of violins, actually--he'd push his healing hand too hard and get frustrated and smash the things against the wall, looking horrified when he stepped away. Luckily, I'd seen that coming, bought the cheapest ones I could find. At the end of the year he managed to keep one for three whole months, and I emailed Miles to go ahead and buy the Stradivarius for his birthday. He makes the thing fucking sing, but I can tell he still worries sometimes that he's not as good as he once was. It pisses me off on his behalf every fucking time.
This last year he's mostly been busy with the business, and I've been busy with the end of my degree. Miles has been really great with a lot of things, but especially about that; everywhere we've gone there's somehow been a university, a professor on sabbatical, a hospital willing to take me on under a false name. I've gotten a very piecemeal medical education, but it's complete, and I've been a real doctor for an entire week now. Holmes got his PhD last year, and he's sold the technology he suffered so much to develop. We've got--well. We've got a lot more money then we ever imagined we might.
Now he runs a consulting business. He changed his name--he had to, Sherlock Holmes is ridiculously easy to track down--but his crazy fucking passion is the same. He attacks the weird chemical problems they give him with his typical aplomb, and then he solves them, and they sings his praises. He's worked under a number of monikers, but Miles says it's safe for us to start functioning normally now. We're still trying to figure out how to believe him.
And--look. Some nights he wakes up with screaming nightmares, and some nights I do. He's got a long, thin scar on his arm, a short thick one on his face. We check in with each other via text message nearly constantly when we're apart, and in the mornings, when he's strung out from not sleeping and I'm groggy, he'll grab my arm and just…look at me. Look at me, like he's never going to have the chance again. It's unnerving. It's a little bit terrible. In some ways we're not the same guys we were when we met. Then again--
Well, today I woke up at dawn to the sound of him taking apart our air conditioner. "Appleseed!" he said brightly when I wandered into the living room in my pajamas, "I didn't mean to wake you, but now that you're up, can you pack me a bowl? I wanted to do a wake and bake, but I didn't exactly sleep--"
"You're a fucking idiot," I told him, casting around for his lighter anyway. "I'm only encouraging this behavior because it might knock you out."
"It's Sunday!" he said, grinning up at me from the floor. That hair--that fucking hair--was all over the place. "You said we could do a zombie movie marathon."
"No," I groaned, handing him the packed bowl and sinking onto the floor next to him, "you said that. I said maybe we could try functioning like normal people, since Miles said we could like--go places and shit--"
"We're bad at that," Holmes decided. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed. "No, hey, this isn't paranoia, I promise. I just--I don't know. I want a couple more days with just you, I guess. Is that so wrong?"
"You've got a lifetime with me," I reminded him, taking the bowl from him and hitting it just because. He grinned at me. "Or at least, you will, unless I kill you for driving me crazy because you haven't exercised your newfound right to actually interact with other people. And how does the zombie marathon relate to your lack of sleep?"
"I'll sleep while we watch them," he said, shrugging. "It's not like I haven't seen them all a million times."
"But that leaves me watching zombie movies, Holmes. I don't even really like zombie movies."
"Don't talk about them that way," he hissed, snatching the bowl back reproachfully. "You'll hurt their feelings. Their bloody, undead feelings. You wouldn't like them when they're angry, John."
"That's the Hulk," I advised him, but he just rolled his eyes at me.
And now, well, now I'm typing away on my laptop and he's conked out on my chest, and Dawn of the Dead is scrolling through the credits. At some point I'm going to have to wake him--if I let him sleep much longer he'll mix up day and night again, and that's always an ordeal. But I've got to admit, the sensation of having him next to me, his breathing warm and even, his nightmares at bay; it's nice. I don't really relish the idea of making it stop.
Oh, fine, call me a sap. I don't care--I'm in love with the craziest man in the world and he's in love with me, and that, as it turns out, is my story. I stand by what I said when I started--I only meant to get a drink, and this is entirely Miles' fault, and I should have known it was a bad idea.
But the thing is, I got so much more than a drink, and I send Miles a thank you card every year, and as it turns out it wasn't a bad idea at all--it was a good idea. It was a great idea. It was a brilliant fucking idea.
I'm going to miss the air conditioner, of course, but sometimes you've gotta make a sacrifice for the cause.
Signed,
Dr. John Watson, MD
Addendum
…well. John's going to kill me for adding to this, but he should have known better than to leave it on a computer under three dummy folders and an encrypted code. It was like child's play, hacking in here. He probably knew that when he saved it. He probably wanted me to find it. He probably thought it would do me good to see him describe me as crazy in writing like a million and five times, instead of the same number of times verbally over an extended period of time.
I mean, it's not that he's wrong, but damn, I'm starting to think he has Tourette's.
Anyway. He's done an excellent job, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want him to tear me to pieces when he finds this note. Not that he would--he's not like abusive or anything, jesus, quite the opposite. Just, you know--fuck, I'm not making sense again. My point is, he's great, this is almost entirely perfect, I'm mostly just here to clear up like…four things.
1) Pot is legal where we are. And everywhere we've been. And you'll notice that he's never actually mentioned either of us purchasing it explicitly so this cannot be considered a confession or incendiary evidence or some shit if anyone should somehow find it. Call me paranoid, but I cover my fucking bases.
2) My brother is waaaaaay more of an asshole than John thinks he is. I like the dude a lot, and he's been wicked helpful, and, I mean, I love him--he's my brother, of course I love him--but he likes John more than me and it totally shows. And he did break my arm when I was 13. That was a helpful clue and the truth. Suck it, Mycroft. You rock, but suck it.
3) I SO DID NOT WRITE APPLESEED ON HIS ARM IN SHARPIE THE NIGHT WE MET. THAT WAS A LITERARY EMBELLISHMENT AND, ALSO, A LIE. It was a dry-erase marker. Bastard.
4) Heh. You know, you'd only kind of know it from reading this, but John totally thinks he got the good end of the deal in this relationship. I mean, Jesus Christ, he wrote this whole epic love story down like a sappy girl, didn't he? But I love him for it. And actually I just love him--and I totally got the better end of the stick. I totally, totally did. I'm still waiting for him to realize that.
I think--yeah, that's pretty much it. God, he's gonna be piiiiissed when he finds this little addendum…I wonder if he'll tell me? Probably not, because that would mean admitting to rereading this like, I say again, a very lovable but completely sappy girl, and that'd dent his pride. He's big on his pride, Appleseed. Bigger than you'd think.
But I guess you knew that, right? Oh, who fucking knows, I need more beer if I'm going to attempt literary genius. I'm a science guy! I run on Gaga and chemistry, man. Gaga and chemistry and John Watson's dick.
Cheers,
Dr. Forrest Holmes, PhD
And now, onto the conclusion of this tale.
Title: History, Repeating Itself (Chapter Ten)
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Violence, alcohol and marijuana use, general debauchery, copious use of coarse language.
Spoilers: None, except for Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, and Chapter Nine of this story.
Author's Notes: This is a fill for an AWESOME prompt at shkinkmeme; both the prompt and the fill thread can be found here. I have posted the chapters bit-by-bit there and then archived them on my journal. The work can be viewed in its entirety both here and at the meme.
Chapter Summary: John Watson concludes his story.
Chapter Ten: On Endings, Beginnings, and That Which Falls Somewhere In Between
The ride to the safehouse was a quiet one. I sat in the back, wringing my hands and wanting more than anything to be able to teleport myself, to have fought Miles harder and gotten into that ambulance. I knew, on some level, that he was right; my being with Holmes was an unnecessary risk to both of us. Still, it was all I could do not hurl myself out the door at every stoplight--it was all I could do to bite my tongue and keep from screaming.
Then, of course, we got to the safehouse. And actually, that's a bad way to describe it--it wasn't a safehouse so much as a saferoom. It was about the size of the living room at the apartment. There was a television, a kitchenette, a bookshelf and--to my mild amusement--a king sized bed. At least Miles knew what he was getting us into, I thought wryly, looking at it.
"Holmes is going to go crazy in here," I murmured, glancing around. "No movies, no Wii--"
"I can pick up anything you need," Dante said, smiling at me. Joseph coughed and turned away and then Dante leaned closer, pitching his voice low. "And I mean anything, man."
I looked at him. "I, uh," I said, "I don't have any cash on me, and I don't know where my wallet--"
"Don't worry about it," Dante said, grinning and pulling a credit card out of his pocket. "Miles gave me this, said I could set you guys up. He won't mind. "
I thought that over for a second. Then: "Okay," I said, smiling slightly. "I'm going to have to write you a list."
--
It took Dante two hours to round up everything I'd asked him for. When he came back, checking in with the guard at the door and smiling at me, we had a couple of the beers he'd brought with him, shooting the shit. It had been days since I'd slept at that point, and I was having a hard time focusing on anything other than how very badly I wanted Holmes to come back. Dante knew that; he was nice to me without pushing, wasn't offended when I checked the cell phone Miles had given me in the middle of one of his stories.
Twenty minutes after he'd left--"You should sleep, man," he'd said, shutting the door softly behind him--the phone rang. I jumped about a foot in the air and grabbed it, slamming it to my ear.
"Hello?" I said breathlessly.
"You spent a lot of money on my credit card," Miles said crossly. "And Dante said I owe him like $200 more in cash."
"I'll work it off," I snapped. "How is he?"
Miles sighed. "He's okay," he said. "He isn't concussed--they drugged him with something, that's why he was so out of it. We won't know for sure what it was until the bloodwork comes back, but we're thinking roofie. He doesn't remember much of what happened, which is probably for the best."
"Yeah," I said, even though my heart was sinking a little. Then a horrible thought occurred to me. "Wait, a roofie? He wasn't--they didn't--"
"No," Miles sighed, "no, he wasn't raped or anything, thank god. His left hand is a fucking mess, and three of his ribs are cracked, and he needs stitches in a few places. They pulled out one of his molars, too, but just one. I think that was their next tactic after his fingers, but I can't be sure--he doesn't remember which came first."
My hands went to fists, and I held myself back from throwing a punch into the wall. It wouldn't do any good, and he'd only yell at me when he got here. "Can I talk to him?"
"He's," Miles started. Then, in the background, I heard a very familiar voice yell out MotherFUCKER, followed immediately by Oh, FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK WHAT. I smiled, despite myself.
"He's getting his hand set," Miles finished, sounding torn between amusement and horror. I was right there with him. "Shouldn't be more than an hour or two before we get there. Sorry to put you through this, man."
"It's okay," I told him, even though it wasn't. "Tell him not to get explosion on my shirt, he'll like that."
"You two are weird," Miles informed me. "We'll see you soon."
We hung up, and then I…busied myself. Took a hot shower, letting the spray run over me until it ran ice cold. Set up some of the shit I'd had Dante procure. Got to know the guard outside a little, and then his end-of-shift replacement. By the time I heard footsteps on the stairs it was pitch black outside and I could barely keep my eyes opened, but I jumped up when I heard a knock at the door.
Miles was holding Holmes up, hunched over to cover the height difference. He--Miles, that is--looked annoyed. Holmes himself looked battleworn and pissed off and exhausted. There were stitches in the cut on his face, on his arm. He had a black eye to match the ones Miles and I were sporting, his cheek was slightly swollen, there was a massive cast on his left hand, and I could see the faint outline of heavy bandages under his shirt.
He was, in short, a fucking mess. I've never been more in love with anyone.
"Let go of me," he snapped to Miles. "Like it wasn't enough that they had to wheel me to the fucking car, I'm not a baby, I can walk."
"You can stumble," Miles agreed, his voice bright and dangerous. "And then you can break one of those cracked ribs and maybe your face! That'd be fun."
"I fucking hate you," Holmes spat.
"Yeah, well." Miles turned to me, rolling his eyes. "Good luck. He's very pleasant when he's injured, I've discovered. Very pleasant."
"He'll be fine, I like him more than you," Holmes muttered under his breath, not looking at me. Miles laughed outright.
"You'd think I hadn't just rescued you from your biggest fuck-up ever!" he returned. "And you're not even supposed to be out of the hospital, I'll take you back there if you're not careful."
"Watson rescued me," he shot back, still avoiding my gaze. "And you don't hear him lecturing me for hours on end, do you?"
My hands twitched as Miles disengaged from him, putting both hands on his brother's shoulders.
"I am glad you're alive," he said, "even if you're an obnoxious little fuck."
"I am glad you're alive," Holmes returned, the edge of his mouth twitching around a small smile, "even if I kind of want to kill you right now."
Miles laughed and removed his hands; Holmes took a step toward me and then, yes, stumbled. I caught him before Miles had a chance to move, steadying him carefully, trying to avoid jostling anything painful. He looked up at me, entirely still, and I stopped moving, staring down at him.
"See, Miles," he said, without breaking our gaze, "I like him better than you."
Out of my peripheral vision I could see Miles glance back and forth between us and then shake his head. "I'll be back tomorrow to explain how this is going to work," he said, moving to the door. "Don't leave this room."
"Not likely," I murmured, my eyes fixated on Holmes' mouth.
"Oh, ew," Miles snapped, and then he was slamming the door behind him.
Holmes and I stared at other for a long minute. I had a hand underneath his arm and one resting lightly on his hip; his good hand was on my waist, shaking slightly against my belt loops.
"Hi," I said softly.
He kept staring at me. Then he made a strangled, raw sound and leaned close, closing the distance between us. I was expecting him to kiss me, I guess, but he buried his face in my neck instead and held on to me, shaking, twisting my shirt underneath his fingers. I pulled him close, holding him as tightly as I could without hurting him
"I'm sorry," he muttered. It was muffled against my shoulder, but I heard him all the same. "I'm sorry, I know this isn't how this is supposed to--but I'm just so happy to fucking see you, John, you've got no idea--"
"I've got some idea," I growled roughly, pressing my face into his hair and breathing deeply, trying to ground myself. "Shit, I was so fucking scared--"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry--"
"Shut up," I managed. "Don't be sorry, it's okay--"
"I should have--"
"Shhh," I said. "It doesn't matter. You're alive, you're here. Don't apologize."
He pulled back from me, smiling shakily. Then his knees buckled and fell forward a little, swearing, and I sighed.
"You need to sit down," I told him, helping him over to the bed.
"I'm fine," he protested, and then he stumbled into me again. "Fuck, that hurt."
"Sit," I instructed, pushing him down. He collapsed onto the soft surface and I sat next to him, smiling when he glanced up at me with hooded eyes.
"I know I'm kind of," he said, gesturing to himself and grimacing, "I mean, this is not the best I've ever--
And I'd had about enough of that. I reached up to cup his face in my palm, running the pad of my thumb across his unscathed cheek. "I love you," I said, "you stupid, stupid fuck. You do kind of smell like a hospital, but I'm prepared to let that go--"
But then he was kissing me, dragging my lower lip between his teeth and moaning against my lips. And I buried my hand in his hair and tilted his head back a little, leaned away to drag a few light kisses along his jawline. He hissed his pleasure at this, running his uninjured hand along my back.
"I'm sorry I was an asshole," I murmured into his ear, scraping my teeth along the tender skin of his neck. He moaned aloud and arched as best he could, raking his fingers down my spine.
"I'm sorry I snuck into your room like a creeper and then got kidnapped," he gasped, as I pushed the corner of his shirt aside to lick at his collarbone. "And I'm sorry I can't--there are things I want to do but I can't, it's not that I don't want to--"
"Shut up," I growled, pushing him gently back against the pillows. "I seem to remember owing you a blowjob."
I'm not going to bother describe the technique I used to blow him; that seems narcissistic and weird, and anyway it isn't the point. The point is that Holmes has a huge cock, way bigger than any guy that skinny had any right to be walking around with, and he made these--noises. These little gasping mewling noises, like he couldn't get enough, like he was drowning in the want of it. I was so underslept that my cock only half-responded, but every time he moved a little shiver ran down my spine. For all he was injured, for all neither of us had gotten any sleep, it was one of the most perfect moments of my life; his cock in my mouth, his hand in my hair, his voice rasping out my name, over and over and over again.
When he finished I pulled away, grinning at him. "Jesus," he gasped, looking at me with wide eyes. "I should have let you do that the other night."
"Yeah, well," I sighed, moving up so I was next to him. "I thought I was dreaming, so I don't know how good at it I would have been."
"Is that why--?" he started, his eyes lighting up. I kissed him briefly--well, not so briefly, really.
"Yeah," I admitted, when we broke from each other. "When I woke up and you were in the kitchen, I thought--you know, that you were never going to want me and I'd just be torturing myself with these ridiculously vivid dreams forever--"
"And you say I'm the stupid fuck," he muttered fondly, kissing the edge of my jaw. "Ladies and gentlemen, the pot calls the kettle black."
"Mmmm," I sighed, closing my eyes. "Never said I wasn't just as bad as you."
"Worse, even." He was quiet for a minute; then I felt the bed shift, heard him groan as he levered himself up a little to look around the room.
"I'm gonna go crazy in here," he said with finality. I snorted without bothering to open my eyes.
"No you're not," I told him. "There's a Wii in the entertainment set with one of those Netflix all-access DVDs in it, a router in the corner, a laptop under the bed and beef with broccoli and beer in the fridge. And, you know, as much sex as feel up for. I think you''ll make it for a few days."
He was quiet for a second, and I was actually almost asleep when I heard him cough. I cracked one eye open and peered up at him; his eyes were very, very bright.
"John," he said, "have I actually said that I love you yet?"
"No," I said, grinning a little. "I know you do, though."
"Do you?" he asked, sniffing and clearly trying to get hold of himself. "I don't know, man, if you're gonna be this cocky--"
"I think I forgot to mention the ounce of weed and the new bong in the nightstand drawer," I interrupted him, closing my eyes again. A second later I felt his head settle down on top of my chest.
"Yeah, okay," he said, something between a laugh and a sob caught on his tone. "You're right; I love you."
An Epilogue, of Sorts
We've been in hiding for three years.
It was suggested--by Holmes, no less--that I didn't have to go with him. It was suggested that I could go back to my life, shave my mustache, and probably not be recognizable; it was suggested that I could function as I once had, and try to forget about him.
It was then suggested--by me, of course--that if anyone suggested that again, they would get a punch in the face, and after that he never bothered taking that tack with me. A good thing too, since I would have really hated to punch him.
We've lived a lot of places over the last three years, Holmes and I. We never know when we're going, or where we're going, until Miles shows up, usually with a case of beer and a sheepish expression. The first time he did that was three days after we rescued Holmes, and he got us roaring drunk before he told us he wasn't sure how long he'd have to keep us moving, hidden away.
There's a picture of us from that night, toasting and laughing with identical black eyes, that I am never going to let Holmes take off the mantle.
It was weird at first. In the grand scheme of things, we hadn't been living together for that long--a few months, really, as strange as that seems. We spent a couple very awkward days in our first new location, fucking at night and staring at each other during the day, trying to process. And then, as is the way with all awkward realities, we got used to the surreal quality of our lives. In some ways, it's been nice. We've gotten to know each other in ways we wouldn't have otherwise. Do you know Holmes, when he's really really stir crazy, when he's taken apart every piece of furniture he can find, will start to paint? Beautiful paintings too, strange mixtures of a thousand styles.
Sometimes they're done in ketchup, of course, but what can you do? The man's genius is very real, but it's selective at best. He really shouldn't be left alone for too long.
He read the Holmes books the first year, during the terrible six weeks when Mihailov was in trial and we were riding the terror that he'd go free. That was agony, him realizing every weird goddamn connection. I'd already made my peace with it--I mean, really, even Lestrade--but he would wake me up in the middle of the night, wigging out.
"Watson," he'd say, "Irene is in these books," and I'd have to reach up and kiss him quiet, bring him to relaxation with the crickets keeping time outside.
The second year, he relearned to play the violin. We went through a number of violins, actually--he'd push his healing hand too hard and get frustrated and smash the things against the wall, looking horrified when he stepped away. Luckily, I'd seen that coming, bought the cheapest ones I could find. At the end of the year he managed to keep one for three whole months, and I emailed Miles to go ahead and buy the Stradivarius for his birthday. He makes the thing fucking sing, but I can tell he still worries sometimes that he's not as good as he once was. It pisses me off on his behalf every fucking time.
This last year he's mostly been busy with the business, and I've been busy with the end of my degree. Miles has been really great with a lot of things, but especially about that; everywhere we've gone there's somehow been a university, a professor on sabbatical, a hospital willing to take me on under a false name. I've gotten a very piecemeal medical education, but it's complete, and I've been a real doctor for an entire week now. Holmes got his PhD last year, and he's sold the technology he suffered so much to develop. We've got--well. We've got a lot more money then we ever imagined we might.
Now he runs a consulting business. He changed his name--he had to, Sherlock Holmes is ridiculously easy to track down--but his crazy fucking passion is the same. He attacks the weird chemical problems they give him with his typical aplomb, and then he solves them, and they sings his praises. He's worked under a number of monikers, but Miles says it's safe for us to start functioning normally now. We're still trying to figure out how to believe him.
And--look. Some nights he wakes up with screaming nightmares, and some nights I do. He's got a long, thin scar on his arm, a short thick one on his face. We check in with each other via text message nearly constantly when we're apart, and in the mornings, when he's strung out from not sleeping and I'm groggy, he'll grab my arm and just…look at me. Look at me, like he's never going to have the chance again. It's unnerving. It's a little bit terrible. In some ways we're not the same guys we were when we met. Then again--
Well, today I woke up at dawn to the sound of him taking apart our air conditioner. "Appleseed!" he said brightly when I wandered into the living room in my pajamas, "I didn't mean to wake you, but now that you're up, can you pack me a bowl? I wanted to do a wake and bake, but I didn't exactly sleep--"
"You're a fucking idiot," I told him, casting around for his lighter anyway. "I'm only encouraging this behavior because it might knock you out."
"It's Sunday!" he said, grinning up at me from the floor. That hair--that fucking hair--was all over the place. "You said we could do a zombie movie marathon."
"No," I groaned, handing him the packed bowl and sinking onto the floor next to him, "you said that. I said maybe we could try functioning like normal people, since Miles said we could like--go places and shit--"
"We're bad at that," Holmes decided. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed. "No, hey, this isn't paranoia, I promise. I just--I don't know. I want a couple more days with just you, I guess. Is that so wrong?"
"You've got a lifetime with me," I reminded him, taking the bowl from him and hitting it just because. He grinned at me. "Or at least, you will, unless I kill you for driving me crazy because you haven't exercised your newfound right to actually interact with other people. And how does the zombie marathon relate to your lack of sleep?"
"I'll sleep while we watch them," he said, shrugging. "It's not like I haven't seen them all a million times."
"But that leaves me watching zombie movies, Holmes. I don't even really like zombie movies."
"Don't talk about them that way," he hissed, snatching the bowl back reproachfully. "You'll hurt their feelings. Their bloody, undead feelings. You wouldn't like them when they're angry, John."
"That's the Hulk," I advised him, but he just rolled his eyes at me.
And now, well, now I'm typing away on my laptop and he's conked out on my chest, and Dawn of the Dead is scrolling through the credits. At some point I'm going to have to wake him--if I let him sleep much longer he'll mix up day and night again, and that's always an ordeal. But I've got to admit, the sensation of having him next to me, his breathing warm and even, his nightmares at bay; it's nice. I don't really relish the idea of making it stop.
Oh, fine, call me a sap. I don't care--I'm in love with the craziest man in the world and he's in love with me, and that, as it turns out, is my story. I stand by what I said when I started--I only meant to get a drink, and this is entirely Miles' fault, and I should have known it was a bad idea.
But the thing is, I got so much more than a drink, and I send Miles a thank you card every year, and as it turns out it wasn't a bad idea at all--it was a good idea. It was a great idea. It was a brilliant fucking idea.
I'm going to miss the air conditioner, of course, but sometimes you've gotta make a sacrifice for the cause.
Signed,
Dr. John Watson, MD
Addendum
…well. John's going to kill me for adding to this, but he should have known better than to leave it on a computer under three dummy folders and an encrypted code. It was like child's play, hacking in here. He probably knew that when he saved it. He probably wanted me to find it. He probably thought it would do me good to see him describe me as crazy in writing like a million and five times, instead of the same number of times verbally over an extended period of time.
I mean, it's not that he's wrong, but damn, I'm starting to think he has Tourette's.
Anyway. He's done an excellent job, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want him to tear me to pieces when he finds this note. Not that he would--he's not like abusive or anything, jesus, quite the opposite. Just, you know--fuck, I'm not making sense again. My point is, he's great, this is almost entirely perfect, I'm mostly just here to clear up like…four things.
1) Pot is legal where we are. And everywhere we've been. And you'll notice that he's never actually mentioned either of us purchasing it explicitly so this cannot be considered a confession or incendiary evidence or some shit if anyone should somehow find it. Call me paranoid, but I cover my fucking bases.
2) My brother is waaaaaay more of an asshole than John thinks he is. I like the dude a lot, and he's been wicked helpful, and, I mean, I love him--he's my brother, of course I love him--but he likes John more than me and it totally shows. And he did break my arm when I was 13. That was a helpful clue and the truth. Suck it, Mycroft. You rock, but suck it.
3) I SO DID NOT WRITE APPLESEED ON HIS ARM IN SHARPIE THE NIGHT WE MET. THAT WAS A LITERARY EMBELLISHMENT AND, ALSO, A LIE. It was a dry-erase marker. Bastard.
4) Heh. You know, you'd only kind of know it from reading this, but John totally thinks he got the good end of the deal in this relationship. I mean, Jesus Christ, he wrote this whole epic love story down like a sappy girl, didn't he? But I love him for it. And actually I just love him--and I totally got the better end of the stick. I totally, totally did. I'm still waiting for him to realize that.
I think--yeah, that's pretty much it. God, he's gonna be piiiiissed when he finds this little addendum…I wonder if he'll tell me? Probably not, because that would mean admitting to rereading this like, I say again, a very lovable but completely sappy girl, and that'd dent his pride. He's big on his pride, Appleseed. Bigger than you'd think.
But I guess you knew that, right? Oh, who fucking knows, I need more beer if I'm going to attempt literary genius. I'm a science guy! I run on Gaga and chemistry, man. Gaga and chemistry and John Watson's dick.
Cheers,
Dr. Forrest Holmes, PhD