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.
Holmes is, nonetheless, invigorated. It isn't just the running that sets his blood rushing, his heart pumping; it's having Watson at his side and adventure in the space between them. He'd take Watson's hand if there weren't other people to see, and he wouldn't even think about whether or not Watson would protest.
Once they get to that empty house, once they get inside, he decides to hell with it; there's no one to see in here, and it's dark, besides. He takes Watson's hand and leads him through the house, half feeling his way and half letting his adrenaline lead him.
They get to the necessary room, and Holmes draws Watson in close, sets his lips to his ear. Several things dart through his mind -- Watson's smell, the interference of the makeup and the beer notwithstanding; the fact that if Watson turned his head, they could kiss -- but he ignores them all for the moment, focusing solely on the game.
"Do you know where we are?" he asks, still breathless.
"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.
"That's the thing about sailors. They aren't commonly very picky."
He wets a cloth and passes it to Watson before wetting one for himself.
"I apologize we can't use proper remover, but the smell would linger. This ought to do well enough for now."
He scrubs his face, grateful for the opportunity to hide his eyes; he tries to turn the act into something symbolic, scrubbing himself clean of his confusing array of emotions, but he isn't sure that he's very successful.
"Now, Watson, we wait." He glances out the window to spot the officers Lestrade sent; his surprise at recognizing them is a bit overshadowed by his consciousness of Watson being near. He doesn't see Lestrade, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, does it?
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.
He hopes Watson's presence will bolster him, and he's very grateful Moran is not as observant as Mycroft, or Moriarty, even. He doesn't want it to be read that he and Watson aren't exactly getting along swimmingly.
His fingers stop their impatient tapping on the windowsill when he sees him. There was never any chance that Holmes wouldn't see him immediately when Moran walked into his line of sight. His blood runs cold, but he keeps a grip on himself, and he backs away from the window. Reaching out, he snatches Watson's wrist and pulls him swiftly into the darkest corner. With his free hand, he presses his finger to Watson's lips to indicate the need for silence.
His other hand doesn't release Watson's wrist. Maybe he and Watson aren't quite able to go back to their romantic relationship, but he thinks Watson, even now, wouldn't begrudge Holmes the comfort that this tight grip is obviously seeking.
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 him.
It 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.
His hands don't shake anymore at that thought; there was a time when that had made him sick, when they were in the thick of things. Now... Now it doesn't bother him. (The truth is Moran is a man who feels, and that's a hurt he feels keenly; he's also a man of determination, and so pretends that he doesn't.)
Oh, but he will be happy to murder Watson and watch Holmes fall apart. Maybe he'll even convince Holmes to throw himself into the Thames. Maybe he'll be there to see it. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Moriarty into Reichenbach, the falls so huge and majestic and terrifying and unfamiliar but beautiful; and Holmes into the Thames, so choked and polluted and so very London. It's where Holmes deserves to rot.
He sets up his gun, and his body hums with anticipation; his breath catches in his throat, his heart thuds with excitement. He's been held back from this kill for far, far too long. He puts the good doctor into his sights, and his sneer grows.
If Holmes and Moriarty are parallels, he can see the parallels between himself and this man, the faithful right-hand man, the one left behind to mourn. He deserves this, too. (For being loved, his mind does not add.)
He holds his breath, places his finger on the trigger, and waits one -- two -- three heartbeats, and before the fourth one settles, the gun makes its whisper, and across the street, a bullet tears through the glass of the window in Baker st., and it rips a hole into Dr. Watson's forehead.
Holmes counts his heartbeats too as he waits for Moran to pull the trigger. Seeing him here in person, in all his fierce excitement, in all his vigor and delight in killing Watson, chills Holmes. He'd been quivering in nervous anticipation, but the shudder that comes when Moran steps into the room is from something entirely different. He's grateful that Watson holds his hand like this, comforts Holmes back, for he could really use the reminder that he isn't alone just now.
When he hears the tinkle of glass across the street is when he makes his move.
Fighting is nothing new to Holmes, but it's nothing new to Moran either. Though he prefers long-range combat, he's definitely a skilled fighter, and he's fueled by rage and the leftover adrenaline from having (he thinks) just shot Watson. And Holmes... Holmes looks into Moran's fierce eyes and remembers the Falls, remembers dodging Moran's bullets, and his focus isn't as steady as it should be.
Moran overpowers him, knocks him to the ground, closes his hands around Holmes's throat and leans in close to hiss in his face.
"Today's the day, Mr. Holmes. So glad you didn't die in that den; this is far more satisfying."
His breath stinks, and Holmes claws at his hands, attempting to fight him off, and attempting desperately not to look beyond Moran to Watson.
Watson acted quickly; he was a man made for action, after all. When Holmes was in peril, too, he didn't have to think. There was only one thing he could possibly have done, after all.
His hand was already on his revolver, and in a heartbeat he had rushed out with it at the read. Even in the heat of the moment, even after witnessing the man assassinate his double across the road, he couldn't quite bring himself to shoot the man in cold blood. There was no way to do such a thing safely, either, not with him struggling with Holmes. He would sooner cut off his own hand than risk injuring Holmes.
So, before he could have consciously thought any of this, Watson rushed up behind Holmes and Moran, struggling on the ground, and brought the butt of his revolver down upon Moran's head, hard.
Holmes coughs when Moran's weight falls on him; the man went from crushing his throat to crushing his chest, but at least the latter is far less dangerous, and Holmes pushes him aside. He gets to his feet quickly, unwilling to be such an easy target on the floor for much longer, should Moran come to too soon. He's still coughing when straightens, and he rubs absently at his throat, watching Moran, but it seems he's out cold.
He looks to Watson then because it's safe, because he wants to, because he may have just saved Holmes's life and Holmes is breathless (not just from nearly being choked) and his body is thrumming with victory and excitement. And Watson is right there, Watson saved him. There aren't even any bitter or confused feelings in this. He's exhilarated , and he loves Watson, and he wants, instinctually, desperately, to kiss him.
This is victory. This is the three worst years of Holmes's life over.
There is no thought in Holmes's mind, no doubt, as he strides across the short distance between himself and Watson. He lays one hand on his waist and the other against his shoulder, hand fisting in the material, and he pulls Watson against him. He kisses Watson with all the enthusiasm of a man who's just been handed his life back to him -- because that's what just happened, and really, Watson is the life that's been ripped away from him.
Maybe Watson doesn't agree, but there's no room for that in Holmes's mind right now.
It was an icy sort of shock; Watson's mind was still full of anger, vengeance, the thrill of battle. How dare this man stand between he and Holmes, how dare he come in here now, with his airgun, and attempt to make the separation more permanent.
He raised his hand with the intention of pushing Holmes away, of warding him off (with force, if necessary), but after so long without being kissed his resolve failed him. He would have even if it hadn't been such a desperate, longing, hungry sort of kiss. Watson melted into it, his fingers clenching into Holmes's hair, for the moment forgetting all thought of how angry he was with Holmes, how hurt. There was just the two of them, finally joined after so very long.
And then Moran gave a sort of moan, beneath them, and Watson pulled back in alarm, startled out of his mindless joy. There was still a very dangerous man on the ground with them, and he was still not sure how angry he was with Holmes.
Holmes starts and looks down at Moran, but it doesn't seem likely that he'll do much more than moan just now. Still, they need to hurry, and maybe it's good that they can't talk about what just happened. Holmes tries to read Watson's reaction as he (a little uncertainly) takes his hands off Watson's body and steps away from him completely.
It's an effort -- even through the situation's urgency -- to draw away from Watson and blow on the police whistle. The men Lestrade sent (and Lestrade?) will be here shortly, and as much as he'd like to be alone with Watson, maybe the forced aversion of what just happened would be good for them.
Watson had kissed back. He should be deliriously happy about that, but it had been an adrenaline-rich moment; Watson might regret it later.
He's glad to hear the officers stomping noisily up the steps, so he doesn't have time to say anything to Watson.
Holmes is, nonetheless, invigorated. It isn't just the running that sets his blood rushing, his heart pumping; it's having Watson at his side and adventure in the space between them. He'd take Watson's hand if there weren't other people to see, and he wouldn't even think about whether or not Watson would protest.
Once they get to that empty house, once they get inside, he decides to hell with it; there's no one to see in here, and it's dark, besides. He takes Watson's hand and leads him through the house, half feeling his way and half letting his adrenaline lead him.
They get to the necessary room, and Holmes draws Watson in close, sets his lips to his ear. Several things dart through his mind -- Watson's smell, the interference of the makeup and the beer notwithstanding; the fact that if Watson turned his head, they could kiss -- but he ignores them all for the moment, focusing solely on the game.
"Do you know where we are?" he asks, still breathless.
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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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"That's the thing about sailors. They aren't commonly very picky."
He wets a cloth and passes it to Watson before wetting one for himself.
"I apologize we can't use proper remover, but the smell would linger. This ought to do well enough for now."
He scrubs his face, grateful for the opportunity to hide his eyes; he tries to turn the act into something symbolic, scrubbing himself clean of his confusing array of emotions, but he isn't sure that he's very successful.
"Now, Watson, we wait." He glances out the window to spot the officers Lestrade sent; his surprise at recognizing them is a bit overshadowed by his consciousness of Watson being near. He doesn't see Lestrade, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, does it?
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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 hopes Watson's presence will bolster him, and he's very grateful Moran is not as observant as Mycroft, or Moriarty, even. He doesn't want it to be read that he and Watson aren't exactly getting along swimmingly.
His fingers stop their impatient tapping on the windowsill when he sees him. There was never any chance that Holmes wouldn't see him immediately when Moran walked into his line of sight. His blood runs cold, but he keeps a grip on himself, and he backs away from the window. Reaching out, he snatches Watson's wrist and pulls him swiftly into the darkest corner. With his free hand, he presses his finger to Watson's lips to indicate the need for silence.
His other hand doesn't release Watson's wrist. Maybe he and Watson aren't quite able to go back to their romantic relationship, but he thinks Watson, even now, wouldn't begrudge Holmes the comfort that this tight grip is obviously seeking.
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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 him.
It 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.
His hands don't shake anymore at that thought; there was a time when that had made him sick, when they were in the thick of things. Now... Now it doesn't bother him. (The truth is Moran is a man who feels, and that's a hurt he feels keenly; he's also a man of determination, and so pretends that he doesn't.)
Oh, but he will be happy to murder Watson and watch Holmes fall apart. Maybe he'll even convince Holmes to throw himself into the Thames. Maybe he'll be there to see it. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Moriarty into Reichenbach, the falls so huge and majestic and terrifying and unfamiliar but beautiful; and Holmes into the Thames, so choked and polluted and so very London. It's where Holmes deserves to rot.
He sets up his gun, and his body hums with anticipation; his breath catches in his throat, his heart thuds with excitement. He's been held back from this kill for far, far too long. He puts the good doctor into his sights, and his sneer grows.
If Holmes and Moriarty are parallels, he can see the parallels between himself and this man, the faithful right-hand man, the one left behind to mourn. He deserves this, too. (For being loved, his mind does not add.)
He holds his breath, places his finger on the trigger, and waits one -- two -- three heartbeats, and before the fourth one settles, the gun makes its whisper, and across the street, a bullet tears through the glass of the window in Baker st., and it rips a hole into Dr. Watson's forehead.
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When he hears the tinkle of glass across the street is when he makes his move.
Fighting is nothing new to Holmes, but it's nothing new to Moran either. Though he prefers long-range combat, he's definitely a skilled fighter, and he's fueled by rage and the leftover adrenaline from having (he thinks) just shot Watson. And Holmes... Holmes looks into Moran's fierce eyes and remembers the Falls, remembers dodging Moran's bullets, and his focus isn't as steady as it should be.
Moran overpowers him, knocks him to the ground, closes his hands around Holmes's throat and leans in close to hiss in his face.
"Today's the day, Mr. Holmes. So glad you didn't die in that den; this is far more satisfying."
His breath stinks, and Holmes claws at his hands, attempting to fight him off, and attempting desperately not to look beyond Moran to Watson.
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His hand was already on his revolver, and in a heartbeat he had rushed out with it at the read. Even in the heat of the moment, even after witnessing the man assassinate his double across the road, he couldn't quite bring himself to shoot the man in cold blood. There was no way to do such a thing safely, either, not with him struggling with Holmes. He would sooner cut off his own hand than risk injuring Holmes.
So, before he could have consciously thought any of this, Watson rushed up behind Holmes and Moran, struggling on the ground, and brought the butt of his revolver down upon Moran's head, hard.
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He looks to Watson then because it's safe, because he wants to, because he may have just saved Holmes's life and Holmes is breathless (not just from nearly being choked) and his body is thrumming with victory and excitement. And Watson is right there, Watson saved him. There aren't even any bitter or confused feelings in this. He's exhilarated , and he loves Watson, and he wants, instinctually, desperately, to kiss him.
This is victory. This is the three worst years of Holmes's life over.
There is no thought in Holmes's mind, no doubt, as he strides across the short distance between himself and Watson. He lays one hand on his waist and the other against his shoulder, hand fisting in the material, and he pulls Watson against him. He kisses Watson with all the enthusiasm of a man who's just been handed his life back to him -- because that's what just happened, and really, Watson is the life that's been ripped away from him.
Maybe Watson doesn't agree, but there's no room for that in Holmes's mind right now.
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He raised his hand with the intention of pushing Holmes away, of warding him off (with force, if necessary), but after so long without being kissed his resolve failed him. He would have even if it hadn't been such a desperate, longing, hungry sort of kiss. Watson melted into it, his fingers clenching into Holmes's hair, for the moment forgetting all thought of how angry he was with Holmes, how hurt. There was just the two of them, finally joined after so very long.
And then Moran gave a sort of moan, beneath them, and Watson pulled back in alarm, startled out of his mindless joy. There was still a very dangerous man on the ground with them, and he was still not sure how angry he was with Holmes.
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It's an effort -- even through the situation's urgency -- to draw away from Watson and blow on the police whistle. The men Lestrade sent (and Lestrade?) will be here shortly, and as much as he'd like to be alone with Watson, maybe the forced aversion of what just happened would be good for them.
Watson had kissed back. He should be deliriously happy about that, but it had been an adrenaline-rich moment; Watson might regret it later.
He's glad to hear the officers stomping noisily up the steps, so he doesn't have time to say anything to Watson.
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