The restaurant was just as dodgy as Holmes had implied, and talk of seafood aside there wasn't much on the menu he did trust. He was, however, ravenously hungry, so he ate a little light supper, and he waited.
Good Lord, how he waited.
He could only think of the multitude of things he hadn't asked. Where had he been? What had he done? He was regretting his show of temper and his anger, now, or at least somewhat. If this evening was really going to be dangerous, he hated their last private conversation to have been so violent.
But no one would die tonight, not if Watson had anything to do about it. And he was actually going to be here tonight, and not decoyed away.
He sipped his glass of beer, waiting, growing more and more anxious about Holmes's continued absence.
In the time since seeing Watson the Bookseller off, Holmes has been busy. He's been back to Baker Street, to fake his return all over again, and with Mrs. Hudson's help, he set up the guise that will hopefully fool Moran. He's messaged Lestrade and waited around the corner for delivery confirmation. He's made himself known around London, and he's shaken off being followed three times. He knows there's no one after him now, something which is aided by the fact that he is not himself. In terms of Holmes's disguises, a sailor is probably his best, and probably his favorite; it's so easy to blend in that way, not to mention sailors aren't the most cleanly of people, which is helpful for disguising characteristics.
He's there on time, and he watches Watson eat for a little while, looking past the costume and into his Watson -- well, maybe not his Watson anymore, but he's here now, isn't he? That's telling. That must mean something, that he hasn't lost Watson completely. After a while of watching, he realizes he isn't simply looking; he's
( ... )
Watson looked up, an eyebrow raised, and he set down his glass. What it was that had attracted this sailor to him, he had no idea, but have a stranger at the table with him was more than a little awkward. For a moment, when the man had sat down he'd been very hopeful, but he was feeling rather disappointed about his new guest now.
"I'm waiting for someone, actually," he said, his tone firm but not unkind, the politest way to ask for the chap to go away that he could think of.
The shadiness of this restaurant had been convenient for its proximity to the back alleys that would lead them to the empty house across from their rooms; the side effect that most people wouldn't think too much about a man talking in hushed tones to another man is merely coincidental. He leans in and lowers his voice, and his smile borders on suggestive.
"The man who would make you wait is a cruel man," he says, but before Watson can react too strongly, he relaxes his face and straightens his shoulders, and he reaches up to push his hat back. It's only long enough for him to know that Watson has recognized him, and then he's back to the sailor, and he leans back in his seat, lifting a lazy eyebrow.
"Why don't we forget about him? I've got a place in mind where we could go," he says, still speaking lowly. It's all an act, of course, in case anyone is tailing them, though he's certain no one is.
Swallowing his surprise, his irritation, his delight, Watson took a sip of his beer. He hadn't expected a disguise, but after consideration, perhaps he should have. "Well, he has kept me waiting for an awfully long time," he said, lightly.
There was something rather... well, dangerously exciting about the fiction of being approached in a restaurant by a sailor looking for company. Part of him protested that it was unwise, even as a joke, but then... well, they were both in diguise.
Watson drained his beer, and lifted his head to look Holmes in the eye. His expression was challenging. "Very well, I accept your offer. Why don't you lead the way, then?"
Holmes gives him a challenging smile back, though he probably wouldn't have, had he not been in disguise, had he not been acting. He does indeed lead the way, and he takes them on a twisting journey through London backstreets and side alleys. It's hardly the lush tour that his last journey with Watson had been; instead of wide expanses of scenery, now there are grimy walls and trash littering the path, and unpleasant smells. It's London, at its rotting core, and it's not romantic in the least
( ... )
"Surely that's Baker Street," Watson breathed. Part of him wanted to wrench his hand away Holmes, but at the same time... the urge was not strong. This entire evening had been peculiar, full of too-strong emotions and unclear motivations, but all that faded into the background when compared to this situation. It was dark, dangerous, and possibly the most fun Watson had had in years.
And it certainly was Baker street. He couldn't have named the maze of streets they had taken to get here, but he knew that view. That view was home. "You mentioned laying a trap." He was very still, listening intently to any sound other than themselves.
"And it has been set." He relinquishes his hold on Watson's hand only to instead set his arm against his back, and he draws him closer -- but not too close -- to the window. "Look in the window to our sitting room, and tell me what you see."
He doesn't even entirely notice that he's called it that aloud, and maybe it isn't really a big deal. It's habit; it just slips out to call the sitting room theirs because it never stopped being theirs to him, not for a single day in these three years, but he'd neglected to consider that for Watson... It's ceased to be theirs. For Holmes, his life with Watson has been frozen in time, suspended, and he realizes now that he'd been thinking about this all the wrong way. Things cannot simply jump into motion now that he's come back.
Theirs. It was better not to dwell on that, to think too hard about what was and was not shared between them any longer. He let that pass, if only for the reason that there were more important things to deal with -- more important, even, than the fact that Holmes's hand on his back was far more intimate than their hands clasped together.
It was an effort not to lean into that touch, familiar and missed and precious.
"It's... it's me." Watson was astonished, and he glanced at Holmes, then back to the window. "How did you manage that?"
"By hiring someone skilled in the production of wax models," he says, a teasing glint in his eye. The thrill of all this -- and the dark of the room, which obscures Watson's face -- is doing much for his nerves; he can almost pretend there's nothing wrong here, can almost pretend that they are as they were. Watson's astonishment is a welcome sound, and he revels in it.
"Convincing, isn't it? I confess it was a bit complicated, considering we couldn't get an exact mold of you without alerting you to something strange. My brother is a odd man, but if he'd come asking to have a bust made of you, I imagine you would be a little curious as to why."
He turns back to Watson and realizes he's still touching his back. He can't regret it; in this moment, he can't regret anything so wonderful as touching Watson's back again. He even presses his palm flatter against him before he draws it away.
"Would you like to be rid of that makeup now?" he asks, voice more gentle than it had been, without the edge of his excitement.
It was strangely difficult to tear his gaze away from his double in the window, nor to dwell too much upon the now-absent touch at his back. He had the strong feeling by this point that to welcome Holmes back into his life, back into his old role, would be to abandon any pretence at self-respect he had ever had. What would it say about him if he was so easily coerced into returning to the way things were, after everything that had happened? At the same time, the urge to kiss him now, for the first time in what felt a lifetime, was very strong.
He wondered if he ought to suspect Holmes of trying to seduce him, and wondered if that was, in fact, redundant.
"Yes, I suppose so," he said, though he felt vulnerable at the very idea. "I have to say, though, the way I look now doesn't speak very highly for your sailor's taste in men."
He stops on his way to the water he'd placed there earlier -- who knows how long they will be here, after all -- and he laughs, startled by the statement, on edge from his adrenaline and proximity to Watson. He isn't sure where to cast his thoughts; to think about Moran is to feel ready to be sick, to worry that his plan will fail, to consider that Watson might die. To think about Watson is to feel dizzy with the desire to gather him up in his arms, to touch him or kiss him or breathe in his smell
( ... )
It was good to be able to scrub the makeup off his face; Watson wasn't used to wearing makeup, and he wasn't fond of the way it felt -- never mind the self-consciousness that came of not being able to touch his face for fear of smearing it. He scrubbed, but without a mirror, or light, and with nothing more than water, he had to suspect it was an uneven cleaning job. It would do.
"We wait," Watson repeated. He glanced out the window again, at his doppleganger. He hadn't expected anything else, but it was still a little discouraging to hear. Having to wait for the climactic conclusion after an evening that was already eventful and overwhelming was a little frustrating.
There was some furniture, abandoned and under sheets to protect it from dust; rather gingerly, he sat down, his eyes on Holmes.
Holmes takes the opportunity to let his concerns for the case take over, rather than continue on a conversation with Watson that would no doubt be distracting and possibly a little heartbreaking. He focuses intently on the street instead, looking out the window and watching impatiently for Moran to reveal himself. He still isn't exactly sure how he'll react upon seeing Moran. Logic dictates that he ought to be enraged, or that he ought to at least be able to keep a level head, but after weeks, months of not quite being killed, of seeing his face suddenly when Holmes had had no idea he'd been followed... Moran rattles him
( ... )
Watson followed, far too used to these sorts of situations, even after a span of three years. There was a difference, though, one that felt incredibly awkward and wrong to him. He shifted his hand slightly, enough to entwine his fingers with Holmes's properly. To do otherwise was unthinkable; it was necessary to communicate reassurance, comfort, and safety far more clearly than Holmes's fingertips along were able to.
He was keenly aware of the thump of his heart, the sound of his own breathing. He put his free hand to his pocket, his fingers brushing the hilt of his revolver.
He was eager, he found, to lay eyes on this Moran, at last.
When he'd been alerted to Holmes's return to London, he knows he should have been frustrated. He should have been irritated, angered that he'd been tricked, that Holmes had wriggled away from him and managed to arrange this comeback. He isn't frustrated, though; he isn't frustrated at all because how boring would it have been for Holmes to fade away in an opium den? How unsatisfying?
This is far better. This is thrilling.
Moriarty had liked that about Moran. He would've been frustrated, but he would've been thrilled, too. Moran would've helped him see that this is really a blessing in disguise.
He mounts the stairs to this house with Moriarty on his mind; he's already sneering to himself, here in the dark, that in a moment he'll be putting a bullet through the head of Holmes's lover, and it will destroy himIt will destroy him in the way that Moran's death wouldn't have destroyed Moriarty. Moriarty was too smart to let someone under his skin like that
( ... )
Good Lord, how he waited.
He could only think of the multitude of things he hadn't asked. Where had he been? What had he done? He was regretting his show of temper and his anger, now, or at least somewhat. If this evening was really going to be dangerous, he hated their last private conversation to have been so violent.
But no one would die tonight, not if Watson had anything to do about it. And he was actually going to be here tonight, and not decoyed away.
He sipped his glass of beer, waiting, growing more and more anxious about Holmes's continued absence.
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He's there on time, and he watches Watson eat for a little while, looking past the costume and into his Watson -- well, maybe not his Watson anymore, but he's here now, isn't he? That's telling. That must mean something, that he hasn't lost Watson completely. After a while of watching, he realizes he isn't simply looking; he's ( ... )
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"I'm waiting for someone, actually," he said, his tone firm but not unkind, the politest way to ask for the chap to go away that he could think of.
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The shadiness of this restaurant had been convenient for its proximity to the back alleys that would lead them to the empty house across from their rooms; the side effect that most people wouldn't think too much about a man talking in hushed tones to another man is merely coincidental. He leans in and lowers his voice, and his smile borders on suggestive.
"The man who would make you wait is a cruel man," he says, but before Watson can react too strongly, he relaxes his face and straightens his shoulders, and he reaches up to push his hat back. It's only long enough for him to know that Watson has recognized him, and then he's back to the sailor, and he leans back in his seat, lifting a lazy eyebrow.
"Why don't we forget about him? I've got a place in mind where we could go," he says, still speaking lowly. It's all an act, of course, in case anyone is tailing them, though he's certain no one is.
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There was something rather... well, dangerously exciting about the fiction of being approached in a restaurant by a sailor looking for company. Part of him protested that it was unwise, even as a joke, but then... well, they were both in diguise.
Watson drained his beer, and lifted his head to look Holmes in the eye. His expression was challenging. "Very well, I accept your offer. Why don't you lead the way, then?"
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And it certainly was Baker street. He couldn't have named the maze of streets they had taken to get here, but he knew that view. That view was home. "You mentioned laying a trap." He was very still, listening intently to any sound other than themselves.
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He doesn't even entirely notice that he's called it that aloud, and maybe it isn't really a big deal. It's habit; it just slips out to call the sitting room theirs because it never stopped being theirs to him, not for a single day in these three years, but he'd neglected to consider that for Watson... It's ceased to be theirs. For Holmes, his life with Watson has been frozen in time, suspended, and he realizes now that he'd been thinking about this all the wrong way. Things cannot simply jump into motion now that he's come back.
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It was an effort not to lean into that touch, familiar and missed and precious.
"It's... it's me." Watson was astonished, and he glanced at Holmes, then back to the window. "How did you manage that?"
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"Convincing, isn't it? I confess it was a bit complicated, considering we couldn't get an exact mold of you without alerting you to something strange. My brother is a odd man, but if he'd come asking to have a bust made of you, I imagine you would be a little curious as to why."
He turns back to Watson and realizes he's still touching his back. He can't regret it; in this moment, he can't regret anything so wonderful as touching Watson's back again. He even presses his palm flatter against him before he draws it away.
"Would you like to be rid of that makeup now?" he asks, voice more gentle than it had been, without the edge of his excitement.
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He wondered if he ought to suspect Holmes of trying to seduce him, and wondered if that was, in fact, redundant.
"Yes, I suppose so," he said, though he felt vulnerable at the very idea. "I have to say, though, the way I look now doesn't speak very highly for your sailor's taste in men."
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"We wait," Watson repeated. He glanced out the window again, at his doppleganger. He hadn't expected anything else, but it was still a little discouraging to hear. Having to wait for the climactic conclusion after an evening that was already eventful and overwhelming was a little frustrating.
There was some furniture, abandoned and under sheets to protect it from dust; rather gingerly, he sat down, his eyes on Holmes.
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He was keenly aware of the thump of his heart, the sound of his own breathing. He put his free hand to his pocket, his fingers brushing the hilt of his revolver.
He was eager, he found, to lay eyes on this Moran, at last.
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This is far better. This is thrilling.
Moriarty had liked that about Moran. He would've been frustrated, but he would've been thrilled, too. Moran would've helped him see that this is really a blessing in disguise.
He mounts the stairs to this house with Moriarty on his mind; he's already sneering to himself, here in the dark, that in a moment he'll be putting a bullet through the head of Holmes's lover, and it will destroy himIt will destroy him in the way that Moran's death wouldn't have destroyed Moriarty. Moriarty was too smart to let someone under his skin like that ( ... )
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