Sherlock Holmes - Touch
This actually started out as a fill for the kink meme, but it varied so drastically from the original prompt (for one thing, the prompt requested a happy ending) that I'm not even posting it as a fill. Instead, here, just have some shameless Sherlock angst on its lonesome.
Title: Touch
Pairing: Depressingly one-sided Holmes > Watson
Rating/Warnings: PG-15? Or so. Masturbation and copious amounts of angst.
Summary: It started out as an experiment.
Notes: I don't know how this got quite this depressing. Be warned.
Of all of the many problems that came with having an intellect above and beyond that of the huge majority of the world, the inability to harbor false hopes was probably among the worst. Sherlock Holmes, while something of an expert in tricking others into believing what he wanted, was completely incapable of deluding himself. In the past, this had led to a general dissatisfaction, occasionally pain - but never the frustration of the situation he found himself now.
It had started . . . Well, long ago, shortly after he had found himself taking Watson into his confidence in cases. To be completely honest with himself - which he could not help being - it had probably been there the entirety of their acquaintance, but the sole thing Sherlock was terrible at observing was himself. Because of this, then, when he had leaned over Watson’s shoulder to see something in the paper, and Watson - by a simple turn of head - breathed, warm and soft and only for half a moment, against his neck, the shock of pleasure that ran down his spine was a complete surprise.
Watson realized nothing, of course. Between Watson’s own fairly undeveloped observation skills and Sherlock’s own acting skills, it was unlikely that Watson ever would realize anything. Sherlock maintained this balance carefully - he had become somewhat dependant on Watson’s company, and it did not take someone of Holmes’s intelligence to see that Watson would never be open to the idea of sodomy, no matter how ridiculous Holmes found that term. No, Watson would eventually find a woman and marry and be perfectly happy, without ever entertaining a sexual thought about his best friend. Indeed, it would take a great deal to force such a thought into his head.
And it was this thought that led Sherlock to a rather guilty habit. An experiment, of sorts.
The first few hours after solving a case, Sherlock was inevitably euphoric. It was a nearly dangerous mentality to be in around people, because it lowered his inhibitions a great deal more than being drunk ever could. He began his experiment, then, without entirely intending to.
“Watson, my dear boy,” Sherlock said, “I believe we have done well on this case.” His arm was flung around Watson’s shoulders, as it had been for almost the entirety of their ride home. He was aware that Watson was vaguely uncomfortable with the gesture, but a combination of adrenaline and ego was making him slightly reckless, and so he pulled Watson closer in a companionable tug, as though to emphasize his point. Heat seeped through the jacket Watson wore and into Sherlock’s arm, and it felt vaguely as though that point of warmth was the only thing he could feel right then.
Watson gave a small, incredulous laugh, though he to was pleased with the outcome of the night. “As though all the credit does not belong to you. I scarcely did anything except follow and observe.” His shoulders shifted, but he stayed in Holmes’s grasp even as they went up to their shared apartment.
“Nonsense, old boy,” Sherlock said quickly, and he pulls Watson into a quick embrace of gratitude. “You are essential to me on these cases.” Perhaps the embrace lingers a moment too long, and perhaps this is part of the experiment Holmes is running, although his own brutal honesty makes him admit that it is largely because he is entirely hesitant to cease touching Watson.
Watson, though, aside from a tense posture that shows just how unused he is to physical contact and a wry smile at his friend’s affection, has clearly put absolutely no significance on the embrace.
Frustration blooms in Holmes’s stomach, but he doesn’t allow it to show or affect his mood at all, and instead they drink and recollect and argue amiably for several hours. When Watson finally leaves for bed, his cheeks are flushed from drink and amusement, his eyes are bright despite the hour, and his clothes are thoroughly disheveled from the many things they had gone through today; his collar’s starch has fallen out and sometime during the evening he had unbuttoned the top button in his shirt, exposing just the base of his neck.
It occurs to Sherlock as he attempts to memorize this image that this is probably the closest to ravaged he is ever going to have Watson, and the thought sends a shot of something painful and dark through him. Jealousy, lust, yes, those things, but something else, something that keeps him from simply going to Watson and taking what he wants, and it is largely this emotion that Sherlock is annoyed with, because he has no name for it and he has always had little patience for emotions that he could not remove on a whim.
Later, in his bed, Sherlock’s mind wanders to the different ways he could get Watson’s eyes to take on that sheen and his hair to become that mussed, and his hand wanders - something he isn’t used to, and it’s been so long since he’s done this that it feels almost as foreign as another’s hand. Watson’s hand, he thinks, and the thought scatters his sense to the winds, desperately trying and for half a moment succeeding in losing himself in fantasy. Long enough, it seems, because a moment later his vision goes white, his mind caught on the temperature of Watson’s skin and that spot at the base of his neck that was exposed and how Holmes is just the right height that if he embraced Watson when he was like that he could kiss that place, to feel if Watson shivered.
And when he comes down from this self-induced high, it is that unnamed emotion again that burns him with some kind of branding shame and, deeper than that, a deep-seated melancholy that those things would always be fantasies. It is that feeling that is simultaneously a respect for Watson and a jolt of pain at the fact that such respect meant that this would ever be confined to his own hand and fleeting, unnoticed touches. It drives him to memorize every movement Watson makes, the texture of every part of skin he manages to touch, in the very moments that he is completely sure he will never get any more than this.
He is frustrated with the emotion, with its folly, but he is not very sure how to stop it, because it makes him feel like he is on fire, and he was not sure that attempting to deny the emotion would do any good.
It was some time two weeks later, when a bullet grazes Watson’s cheek and Sherlock feels the greatest mix of emotions he can ever recall feeling - terror, followed by drowning relief, and fury, and affection, and a million other things evoked by how few inches that bullet came to taking this man away from him - that he realizes that perhaps this is what it feels like to be in love with someone.
So many past cases make so much more sense now, the motives infinitely clearer now that he knows the soul-consuming strength of this feeling even as he cringes away from it. Sherlock is quite sure that his priorities are wrong, maybe because he is not even sure what his priorities are anymore, or why the continued life and happiness of John Watson has seemed to become more important than every life in London.
What follows is years - years - of accidental touches, of fingers and shoulders and arms brushing. Of Watson’s breath on his neck when Sherlock leans over his shoulder to read the paper - which has become something of a guilty habit of his - and of the feeling of being pressed to Watson’s side, their arms around each other’s shoulders in camaraderie and absolutely nothing more. Holmes becomes accustomed to the jolt of fire that comes from touching Watson, and Watson becomes accustomed to Holmes’s strange habits of invading his personal space. It is at once a stable and unstable relationship.
And then, when Watson comes homes with an announcement of his intention to marry one Mary Morston, Sherlock cannot entirely explain the jolt in his stomach, or the sudden hatred of a woman he does not know. He has no valid reasoning behind his detestment of Mary; it is entirely possible that she is wonderful for Watson, as she certainly seems to be, and it is possible - though unlikely - that Watson will settle wonderfully into the stagnant stability of married life. Minor doubts as to the wisdom of the decision do not justify the burning that spreads through him.
When Watson goes out to meet with Mary, and Sherlock is aware that Watson intends to get her a ring within the next few days, he lays on the couch and takes a dose of morphine so great that it slows his heart nearly to stopping, and finally the burning ceases and the thought of Watson leaving him does not feel like he is falling apart, does not in fact much feel like anything at all, because nothing feels like anything at all.
Actually, Sherlock discovers, this is a lie. When Watson gets back - late, he registers, although he cannot quite figure out how late as he cannot remember whether the sun set five minutes or fives hours ago - and he swoops in on Sherlock, his voice afraid and angry and fading in and out, the fingers on his pulse burn like fire, and the texture of his skin is a finer feel than any silk.
Half-desperate and delirious, Sherlock closes his eyes and memorizes the feel of Watson’s hands, unable to fathom if this would be the last time he would feel them, unable to even know if he cared.
Title: Touch
Pairing: Depressingly one-sided Holmes > Watson
Rating/Warnings: PG-15? Or so. Masturbation and copious amounts of angst.
Summary: It started out as an experiment.
Notes: I don't know how this got quite this depressing. Be warned.
Of all of the many problems that came with having an intellect above and beyond that of the huge majority of the world, the inability to harbor false hopes was probably among the worst. Sherlock Holmes, while something of an expert in tricking others into believing what he wanted, was completely incapable of deluding himself. In the past, this had led to a general dissatisfaction, occasionally pain - but never the frustration of the situation he found himself now.
It had started . . . Well, long ago, shortly after he had found himself taking Watson into his confidence in cases. To be completely honest with himself - which he could not help being - it had probably been there the entirety of their acquaintance, but the sole thing Sherlock was terrible at observing was himself. Because of this, then, when he had leaned over Watson’s shoulder to see something in the paper, and Watson - by a simple turn of head - breathed, warm and soft and only for half a moment, against his neck, the shock of pleasure that ran down his spine was a complete surprise.
Watson realized nothing, of course. Between Watson’s own fairly undeveloped observation skills and Sherlock’s own acting skills, it was unlikely that Watson ever would realize anything. Sherlock maintained this balance carefully - he had become somewhat dependant on Watson’s company, and it did not take someone of Holmes’s intelligence to see that Watson would never be open to the idea of sodomy, no matter how ridiculous Holmes found that term. No, Watson would eventually find a woman and marry and be perfectly happy, without ever entertaining a sexual thought about his best friend. Indeed, it would take a great deal to force such a thought into his head.
And it was this thought that led Sherlock to a rather guilty habit. An experiment, of sorts.
The first few hours after solving a case, Sherlock was inevitably euphoric. It was a nearly dangerous mentality to be in around people, because it lowered his inhibitions a great deal more than being drunk ever could. He began his experiment, then, without entirely intending to.
“Watson, my dear boy,” Sherlock said, “I believe we have done well on this case.” His arm was flung around Watson’s shoulders, as it had been for almost the entirety of their ride home. He was aware that Watson was vaguely uncomfortable with the gesture, but a combination of adrenaline and ego was making him slightly reckless, and so he pulled Watson closer in a companionable tug, as though to emphasize his point. Heat seeped through the jacket Watson wore and into Sherlock’s arm, and it felt vaguely as though that point of warmth was the only thing he could feel right then.
Watson gave a small, incredulous laugh, though he to was pleased with the outcome of the night. “As though all the credit does not belong to you. I scarcely did anything except follow and observe.” His shoulders shifted, but he stayed in Holmes’s grasp even as they went up to their shared apartment.
“Nonsense, old boy,” Sherlock said quickly, and he pulls Watson into a quick embrace of gratitude. “You are essential to me on these cases.” Perhaps the embrace lingers a moment too long, and perhaps this is part of the experiment Holmes is running, although his own brutal honesty makes him admit that it is largely because he is entirely hesitant to cease touching Watson.
Watson, though, aside from a tense posture that shows just how unused he is to physical contact and a wry smile at his friend’s affection, has clearly put absolutely no significance on the embrace.
Frustration blooms in Holmes’s stomach, but he doesn’t allow it to show or affect his mood at all, and instead they drink and recollect and argue amiably for several hours. When Watson finally leaves for bed, his cheeks are flushed from drink and amusement, his eyes are bright despite the hour, and his clothes are thoroughly disheveled from the many things they had gone through today; his collar’s starch has fallen out and sometime during the evening he had unbuttoned the top button in his shirt, exposing just the base of his neck.
It occurs to Sherlock as he attempts to memorize this image that this is probably the closest to ravaged he is ever going to have Watson, and the thought sends a shot of something painful and dark through him. Jealousy, lust, yes, those things, but something else, something that keeps him from simply going to Watson and taking what he wants, and it is largely this emotion that Sherlock is annoyed with, because he has no name for it and he has always had little patience for emotions that he could not remove on a whim.
Later, in his bed, Sherlock’s mind wanders to the different ways he could get Watson’s eyes to take on that sheen and his hair to become that mussed, and his hand wanders - something he isn’t used to, and it’s been so long since he’s done this that it feels almost as foreign as another’s hand. Watson’s hand, he thinks, and the thought scatters his sense to the winds, desperately trying and for half a moment succeeding in losing himself in fantasy. Long enough, it seems, because a moment later his vision goes white, his mind caught on the temperature of Watson’s skin and that spot at the base of his neck that was exposed and how Holmes is just the right height that if he embraced Watson when he was like that he could kiss that place, to feel if Watson shivered.
And when he comes down from this self-induced high, it is that unnamed emotion again that burns him with some kind of branding shame and, deeper than that, a deep-seated melancholy that those things would always be fantasies. It is that feeling that is simultaneously a respect for Watson and a jolt of pain at the fact that such respect meant that this would ever be confined to his own hand and fleeting, unnoticed touches. It drives him to memorize every movement Watson makes, the texture of every part of skin he manages to touch, in the very moments that he is completely sure he will never get any more than this.
He is frustrated with the emotion, with its folly, but he is not very sure how to stop it, because it makes him feel like he is on fire, and he was not sure that attempting to deny the emotion would do any good.
It was some time two weeks later, when a bullet grazes Watson’s cheek and Sherlock feels the greatest mix of emotions he can ever recall feeling - terror, followed by drowning relief, and fury, and affection, and a million other things evoked by how few inches that bullet came to taking this man away from him - that he realizes that perhaps this is what it feels like to be in love with someone.
So many past cases make so much more sense now, the motives infinitely clearer now that he knows the soul-consuming strength of this feeling even as he cringes away from it. Sherlock is quite sure that his priorities are wrong, maybe because he is not even sure what his priorities are anymore, or why the continued life and happiness of John Watson has seemed to become more important than every life in London.
What follows is years - years - of accidental touches, of fingers and shoulders and arms brushing. Of Watson’s breath on his neck when Sherlock leans over his shoulder to read the paper - which has become something of a guilty habit of his - and of the feeling of being pressed to Watson’s side, their arms around each other’s shoulders in camaraderie and absolutely nothing more. Holmes becomes accustomed to the jolt of fire that comes from touching Watson, and Watson becomes accustomed to Holmes’s strange habits of invading his personal space. It is at once a stable and unstable relationship.
And then, when Watson comes homes with an announcement of his intention to marry one Mary Morston, Sherlock cannot entirely explain the jolt in his stomach, or the sudden hatred of a woman he does not know. He has no valid reasoning behind his detestment of Mary; it is entirely possible that she is wonderful for Watson, as she certainly seems to be, and it is possible - though unlikely - that Watson will settle wonderfully into the stagnant stability of married life. Minor doubts as to the wisdom of the decision do not justify the burning that spreads through him.
When Watson goes out to meet with Mary, and Sherlock is aware that Watson intends to get her a ring within the next few days, he lays on the couch and takes a dose of morphine so great that it slows his heart nearly to stopping, and finally the burning ceases and the thought of Watson leaving him does not feel like he is falling apart, does not in fact much feel like anything at all, because nothing feels like anything at all.
Actually, Sherlock discovers, this is a lie. When Watson gets back - late, he registers, although he cannot quite figure out how late as he cannot remember whether the sun set five minutes or fives hours ago - and he swoops in on Sherlock, his voice afraid and angry and fading in and out, the fingers on his pulse burn like fire, and the texture of his skin is a finer feel than any silk.
Half-desperate and delirious, Sherlock closes his eyes and memorizes the feel of Watson’s hands, unable to fathom if this would be the last time he would feel them, unable to even know if he cared.