Sherlock Holmes: Correspondence
Title: Correspondence
Characters: Holmes, with guest appearances by Moran and original characters, references to Mycroft and Watson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2643
Warnings: references to drug use, violence, and sexual situations
Summary: Written in response to this prompt:
Holmes during The Hiatus. He's not the happy nomad he later describes to Watson, but a miserable fugitive; starved, stoned and missing Watson insanely.
He takes a lover or two, but after he calls them "Watson!" one too many times, it's out on his butt again, to wander alone, ducking the air-guns and busking for supper.
So, anyone wanna angst up Hiatus!Holmes for me?
Author's Notes: The characterizations are based more on movie Holmes and Watson (although I don't know how close they come to any version!), but the story is based closely upon the paragraph in "The Empty House" where Holmes relates to Watson his exploits of the last three years.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sherlock Holmes laid out all of his letters from his brother on the scarred surface of the writing desk at which he sat. The strange swirls and whorls of the cryptograph, decipherable only to Mycroft and himself, were just readable in the early dawn light creeping through the curtains. He picked up the first short letter and reviewed its contents.
"My dear brother," it said, "I rejoiced at receiving your note and its proof of your survival."
The note referred to had been necessarily brief. He had not dared to spend more than five minutes in the general store and post office in which he had penned it, though the kind old man who ran it pleaded with him to at least stay the night with him and his good wife if he would not see a doctor. The soft, expanding bullet which struck Holmes's reflection in a shop mirror confirmed his opinion of the inadvisability of the idea.
"I knew no brother of mine could be so foolish as to allow himself to be thrown off a cliff!"
He had been foolish enough, however, to be seen. Holmes's every furtive step had been dogged by Moran. The ex-military man had not accepted that his boulder had done for the detective. The man and his air-gun, perfectly matched in their nearly silent deadliness, haunted Holmes's waking hours, which numbered over twenty each day as he dared not sleep in any exposed place.
"I have made the provisions you requested although I am afraid that for the time being I can only provide you with such small sums of disposable funds as I have on the Continent. Do take care. Yours sincerely, Mycroft."
He had taken care. And that care had taken its toll on him. By the time he had reached the safe house where a copy of his brother's letter awaited him, Holmes had been weary muscle over aching bones. The long days of constant vigilance had also worn down his psyche. Shameful tears had seeped from the corners of his eyes at that letter -- that tiny hint of home and hope -- before he had passed out from utter exhaustion.
A sudden harsh snore behind him drew Holmes momentarily out of his reminiscence. He glanced back at the bed behind him, but his current companion thankfully showed no signs of waking. That was good, he thought as his change of position caused a dull ache to radiate up from his lower body. His new "lover" was not gentle, but his scent of tobacco and antiseptic allowed Holmes to imagine for a moment that--
Not now. He picked up the second letter.
"My dear brother, your plan of going to Asia, especially Tibet, is more than sound."
Holmes had written from another safe house (this one in Budapest) to tell Mycroft of his intentions and ask for more money. He had been travelling across Europe in a variety of disguises, but none of them had fooled the sharp-eyed Moran for long. There had been three more near misses and Holmes's nerves had been frayed to paranoia. He had been convinced that only the vastness of Asia could protect him.
"The Chinese no doubt have some strange martial arts for you to learn and the Lama in Lhassa is bound to have some interesting new philosophies about reason."
Holmes's only thoughts had been quiet, safety, and perhaps the sweet escape of opium. A few moments of peace, free of worry and regret.
"I regret to inform you, though, that I am being watched most carefully here. It is quite impossible for me to send you further funds at present. Your active nature will undoubtedly assist you in finding some means of finance. Stay well and maintain your caution. Yours sincerely, Mycroft."
Some means of finance. Mycroft might be ashamed that the only occupation his brother had found had been begging and street performances -- by then that was all his clothes were suitable for and the work was possibly too low for the proud Moran to notice. He had not had a violin to play and he had been too weak then for boxing. Instead, he had tried his hand at magic tricks.
It had gotten him a near beating from some confused and angry drunks or unhappy policemen almost as often as it had netted him coins. The few scars that remained should not be obvious.
"My dearest brother." That was the first sign that the third letter contained either very good news or very bad. Or both. "I have a piece of good news for you. Moran has returned to England! He seems to believe that you died on that mountainside.”
Moran had caught up with Holmes again on a snowy mountain pass in Central Asia. There had been no shot to ring out and echo through the small valley - just a sudden searing pain in his neck. The falling snow must have thrown off the marksman’s usually perfect aim as the bullet had only clipped Holmes’s throat. Still, the loss of blood from a body weakened by stress and privation had been damage enough and the detective had collapsed onto the snow.
He had lain there, unable to do more than clamp a shaking hand to the gash on his neck, while Moran had approached. The former colonel had sworn at himself when he had found Holmes still alive, not shot through the head. The angry tone had swiftly changed to one of vindictive gloating as Moran had observed that the snow or some wild animal would soon do for the great detective.
“A slow death,” Moran had hissed out. Holmes had been unable to make out his expression, but he could imagine the ugly mix of hate and satisfaction. He had felt something warm and wet and decidedly not snow hit his face. “For James.”
Moran had left him for dead and Holmes, body and soul weary past endurance, had felt a relief that was close to joy. It had been the first wholly positive emotion he had had since he had said goodbye to Watson on that trail and watched his tall, lean form limping away.
“Unfortunately, he is still cautious and we can gather no evidence against him that would allow you to return. And I still can send nothing with this correspondence without arousing suspicion. It might be best if you continued in Tibet for a few more months.”
Strong hands had pulled Holmes out of that snow drift. He must have said someone’s name (Watson’s was most likely, as he had been thinking of the owner) because a serious voice with a Scandinavian accent had replied, “No, my name is Sigerson, but you may call me whatever you wish if you promise to live.”
“Norwegian” and “explorer,” Holmes had been able to deduce from the man’s accent and the feel of his clothing before losing consciousness entirely. He had awakened in a tent, his neck bandaged and warm arms wrapped around him. He had kept his eyes closed, savoring every square inch of contact with another human’s flesh. Watson, he had thought and the aching longing attached to that name had risen up from his gut to stab at his heart. He had not realized that it had also brought tears to his eyes until his companion had spoken.
“Do not cry, kjære, the pain will fade soon enough.” Holmes had opened his watering eyes to meet the compassionate gaze of his savior.
Only to close them once more against another stab of longing. Sigerson’s dark hair and rugged features had been nothing like Watson’s, but his warm blue eyes… Holmes had been unable to stop crying until he had slipped back into insensibility. Sigerson had held him, stroked his hair, and said soft things in his own language the entire time.
After that, Holmes had travelled to and around Tibet with his new companion. It had not taken much time for them to become lovers, though even Holmes had felt it was poor repayment for everything the Norwegian had done for him. Sigerson had cared for, guided, fed, and clothed the once great detective. He had sighed with patient resignation every time he found Holmes “chasing the dragon.”
And each time Holmes had called out Watson’s name when they lay together, he had made no reproaches - only looked down at his lover with sadness and compassion filling his blue eyes.
“And yet, Moran must slip up some time as his master once did. After leaving Tibet, I would advise you to stay close to England. When you return, you must tell me what wisdom you have learned from the lamas. Yours most sincerely, Mycroft."
The head lama in Lhassa had had a great deal of wisdom, but he had been unable to tell Holmes anything except that which he had already known.
He was destroying himself, slowly but surely. And if he was not careful, he would share that destruction with those that cared for him.
Holmes had decided then to leave Tibet for France. If he did indeed succeed in his self-destruction, it may as well be in a place from which his body at least might return home, to England. He had taken leave of Sigerson there, in Lhassa, with unaccustomed feelings of guilt and regret weighing down his stomach and choking his throat.
“There is sorrow, kjære, but not regret. I wish you only the best.” The Norwegian had kissed each of his cheeks softly before turning to go.
Holmes set that final letter down, momentarily unable to read as tears misted his eyes in the present. While in Persia, on his way back to Europe, he had learned of Sigerson’s disappearance and assumed demise somewhere in the Himalayas. Though it was a death the man would have wished, he had deserved so much more.
Again, there was stirring from the bed behind him. Holmes held his breath, but the rustling sounds of the bedcovers soon subsided. The other man was still asleep, but likely close to waking. Holmes had best get on with his own letter.
“My dear brother,” he began writing, “Many apologies for having not written sooner. No doubt you received word through the Foreign Office about the events in Khartoum.”
There had been an incident with the Khalifa of that state on Holmes’s journey to France. It had been no great matter - a simple enough case of espionage that a lesser mind than Holmes’s could have solved easily - but some good had come of it. For the first time in two years, he had been able to think of himself as Sherlock Holmes, master detective, without mocking himself. And the grateful Khalifa had offered him a reward: a violin - the only thing Holmes wanted that the ruler could give. It was by no means as fine an instrument as his own (supposing it had survived the fire). It was sadly neglected and out of tune, but it was clear that it had once been loved. It was perfectly suited to Holmes as he was now.
“I am in the south of France now and Fortune has thrown me in the way of a scientific companion. He has some connections to a laboratory in Montpellier where I might carry out some research.”
That was all entirely true, but it was not all the truth. Holmes did not want Mycroft, of all people, to know all the details. His current companion, a professor of medicine in Montpellier, had found him on the street. He had been supporting himself on his way to and through France by means of his violin. He had been busking in a town square in some quarter of Grenoble, lost in the chords of Watson’s favorite piece.
“You play with such passion,” a deep, smooth voice, addressing him in French, had startled him out of his reverie and his violin wailed a complaint as the bow jerked across its strings. “I wonder, do you show as much passion in the bedroom?”
The proposal had been crude, but when Holmes had drawn in breath to dismiss the man, the breeze had carried the scent of ethanol and cigarettes. Holmes had looked carefully at the man, rapidly assessing him. He looked nothing like Watson, but his clothing, condition, and bearing had all indicated a well-bred man of moderate means and no great vice. Breathing in that familiar mix of scents again, Holmes had instead made a more favorable reply and they had soon come to an arrangement that did indeed include access to the Montpellier laboratory.
“I will have some access here to English magazines and papers and I have hope yet that our secretive prey will expose himself in some way. Until then, know that I am well and ready to return at a moment’s notice. Yours sincerely, Sherlock.”
Blocking out the memory of the copy of The Strand that he had been allowed to read last night (“The Final Problem,” Watson had called it - if only that had been true), Holmes placed his finished letter in an envelope which he then addressed to one of Mycroft’s associates. He gathered it and his other letters into a small bundle and slipped them into the pocket of his coat, which was hanging beside the wardrobe. When he turned back around, he met the eyes of his companion, awake now and sitting up on the bed.
“Good morning, John,” the man greeted him with the pseudonym Holmes had given him.
“Good morning,” Holmes replied warily. There was a glint in the other man’s eyes and the manner in which his hand moved under the bedcovers told Holmes the meaning of that glimmer.
“Come here,” the man beckoned, “I have something for you.” Holmes hesitated until the man reached over to the nightstand, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small medicine bottle. “I promised, did I not?” He asked with a smile as he lightly swirled the contents.
“Seven percent?”
“Of course.”
Holmes walked swiftly over to the bed and sat down beside the man, rolling back a sleeve of his borrowed dressing gown as he moved. His companion had taken out a syringe in the meantime and had already filled it with the clear solution.
“Look at me,” the man ordered and Holmes kept his eyes on his companion’s face as the man pricked his arm with the needle and pushed down the piston. “Keep your eyes open!”
It was a difficult order to follow. Holmes wanted to close his eyes and savor the sweetness of the drug as it flowed through his veins. Still he kept his eyes on the narrowed ones of his “lover” and watched the strange mix of disgust, desire, and satisfaction that filled them as the man saw Holmes succumbing to the effects of the cocaine.
“Better now?” Holmes nodded vaguely as euphoria took over. “That is all good, and yet, I am not better.” The man removed the bedcovers from his naked body. “I have kept my end of our little bargain. Now you must keep yours.” He indicated his arousal with a dramatically flourished hand. “Your mouth will do, John.”
When the drug faded away, Holmes would probably feel shame for Watson’s name being used in such a context. Still, he got to his knees beside the bed and gave the man the pleasure he had demanded.
He closed his eyes and tuned out the too deep voice as his companion groaned in lust. The hand gripping his hair was not gentle, but Watson should be angry with Holmes right now. More than anything, though, the smell, so like the dear doctor’s, allowed Holmes to see blue eyes, looking down at him with exasperation and affection.
Watson… Something warm and wet flowed slowly down Holmes’s cheek. I’ve missed you so much.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sorry folks. I saw no need to end this on a happy note, because we already know that Holmes will be reunited with his Watson in a few months!
ingridmatthews , I know you already got a great fill for this, but I still hope you read and were able to enjoy this. I guess not... Oh, well.
Other notes:
In the book, Watson says he is writing "The Final Problem" two years after the events at Reichenbach, so it is not too unlikely for Holmes to be reading it at that point in the story.
Yes, I made Sigerson a separate character. I thought the wording in the book was sufficiently vague to allow me to do so.
The word Sigerson uses is Norwegian for "dear." It was on the page that I got as a first hit on a Google search for "Norwegian endearments" and I figured it was a safe enough choice.
My only other reference for Norwegian is this...
Anyway, thanks for reading!
Characters: Holmes, with guest appearances by Moran and original characters, references to Mycroft and Watson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2643
Warnings: references to drug use, violence, and sexual situations
Summary: Written in response to this prompt:
Holmes during The Hiatus. He's not the happy nomad he later describes to Watson, but a miserable fugitive; starved, stoned and missing Watson insanely.
He takes a lover or two, but after he calls them "Watson!" one too many times, it's out on his butt again, to wander alone, ducking the air-guns and busking for supper.
So, anyone wanna angst up Hiatus!Holmes for me?
Author's Notes: The characterizations are based more on movie Holmes and Watson (although I don't know how close they come to any version!), but the story is based closely upon the paragraph in "The Empty House" where Holmes relates to Watson his exploits of the last three years.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sherlock Holmes laid out all of his letters from his brother on the scarred surface of the writing desk at which he sat. The strange swirls and whorls of the cryptograph, decipherable only to Mycroft and himself, were just readable in the early dawn light creeping through the curtains. He picked up the first short letter and reviewed its contents.
"My dear brother," it said, "I rejoiced at receiving your note and its proof of your survival."
The note referred to had been necessarily brief. He had not dared to spend more than five minutes in the general store and post office in which he had penned it, though the kind old man who ran it pleaded with him to at least stay the night with him and his good wife if he would not see a doctor. The soft, expanding bullet which struck Holmes's reflection in a shop mirror confirmed his opinion of the inadvisability of the idea.
"I knew no brother of mine could be so foolish as to allow himself to be thrown off a cliff!"
He had been foolish enough, however, to be seen. Holmes's every furtive step had been dogged by Moran. The ex-military man had not accepted that his boulder had done for the detective. The man and his air-gun, perfectly matched in their nearly silent deadliness, haunted Holmes's waking hours, which numbered over twenty each day as he dared not sleep in any exposed place.
"I have made the provisions you requested although I am afraid that for the time being I can only provide you with such small sums of disposable funds as I have on the Continent. Do take care. Yours sincerely, Mycroft."
He had taken care. And that care had taken its toll on him. By the time he had reached the safe house where a copy of his brother's letter awaited him, Holmes had been weary muscle over aching bones. The long days of constant vigilance had also worn down his psyche. Shameful tears had seeped from the corners of his eyes at that letter -- that tiny hint of home and hope -- before he had passed out from utter exhaustion.
A sudden harsh snore behind him drew Holmes momentarily out of his reminiscence. He glanced back at the bed behind him, but his current companion thankfully showed no signs of waking. That was good, he thought as his change of position caused a dull ache to radiate up from his lower body. His new "lover" was not gentle, but his scent of tobacco and antiseptic allowed Holmes to imagine for a moment that--
Not now. He picked up the second letter.
"My dear brother, your plan of going to Asia, especially Tibet, is more than sound."
Holmes had written from another safe house (this one in Budapest) to tell Mycroft of his intentions and ask for more money. He had been travelling across Europe in a variety of disguises, but none of them had fooled the sharp-eyed Moran for long. There had been three more near misses and Holmes's nerves had been frayed to paranoia. He had been convinced that only the vastness of Asia could protect him.
"The Chinese no doubt have some strange martial arts for you to learn and the Lama in Lhassa is bound to have some interesting new philosophies about reason."
Holmes's only thoughts had been quiet, safety, and perhaps the sweet escape of opium. A few moments of peace, free of worry and regret.
"I regret to inform you, though, that I am being watched most carefully here. It is quite impossible for me to send you further funds at present. Your active nature will undoubtedly assist you in finding some means of finance. Stay well and maintain your caution. Yours sincerely, Mycroft."
Some means of finance. Mycroft might be ashamed that the only occupation his brother had found had been begging and street performances -- by then that was all his clothes were suitable for and the work was possibly too low for the proud Moran to notice. He had not had a violin to play and he had been too weak then for boxing. Instead, he had tried his hand at magic tricks.
It had gotten him a near beating from some confused and angry drunks or unhappy policemen almost as often as it had netted him coins. The few scars that remained should not be obvious.
"My dearest brother." That was the first sign that the third letter contained either very good news or very bad. Or both. "I have a piece of good news for you. Moran has returned to England! He seems to believe that you died on that mountainside.”
Moran had caught up with Holmes again on a snowy mountain pass in Central Asia. There had been no shot to ring out and echo through the small valley - just a sudden searing pain in his neck. The falling snow must have thrown off the marksman’s usually perfect aim as the bullet had only clipped Holmes’s throat. Still, the loss of blood from a body weakened by stress and privation had been damage enough and the detective had collapsed onto the snow.
He had lain there, unable to do more than clamp a shaking hand to the gash on his neck, while Moran had approached. The former colonel had sworn at himself when he had found Holmes still alive, not shot through the head. The angry tone had swiftly changed to one of vindictive gloating as Moran had observed that the snow or some wild animal would soon do for the great detective.
“A slow death,” Moran had hissed out. Holmes had been unable to make out his expression, but he could imagine the ugly mix of hate and satisfaction. He had felt something warm and wet and decidedly not snow hit his face. “For James.”
Moran had left him for dead and Holmes, body and soul weary past endurance, had felt a relief that was close to joy. It had been the first wholly positive emotion he had had since he had said goodbye to Watson on that trail and watched his tall, lean form limping away.
“Unfortunately, he is still cautious and we can gather no evidence against him that would allow you to return. And I still can send nothing with this correspondence without arousing suspicion. It might be best if you continued in Tibet for a few more months.”
Strong hands had pulled Holmes out of that snow drift. He must have said someone’s name (Watson’s was most likely, as he had been thinking of the owner) because a serious voice with a Scandinavian accent had replied, “No, my name is Sigerson, but you may call me whatever you wish if you promise to live.”
“Norwegian” and “explorer,” Holmes had been able to deduce from the man’s accent and the feel of his clothing before losing consciousness entirely. He had awakened in a tent, his neck bandaged and warm arms wrapped around him. He had kept his eyes closed, savoring every square inch of contact with another human’s flesh. Watson, he had thought and the aching longing attached to that name had risen up from his gut to stab at his heart. He had not realized that it had also brought tears to his eyes until his companion had spoken.
“Do not cry, kjære, the pain will fade soon enough.” Holmes had opened his watering eyes to meet the compassionate gaze of his savior.
Only to close them once more against another stab of longing. Sigerson’s dark hair and rugged features had been nothing like Watson’s, but his warm blue eyes… Holmes had been unable to stop crying until he had slipped back into insensibility. Sigerson had held him, stroked his hair, and said soft things in his own language the entire time.
After that, Holmes had travelled to and around Tibet with his new companion. It had not taken much time for them to become lovers, though even Holmes had felt it was poor repayment for everything the Norwegian had done for him. Sigerson had cared for, guided, fed, and clothed the once great detective. He had sighed with patient resignation every time he found Holmes “chasing the dragon.”
And each time Holmes had called out Watson’s name when they lay together, he had made no reproaches - only looked down at his lover with sadness and compassion filling his blue eyes.
“And yet, Moran must slip up some time as his master once did. After leaving Tibet, I would advise you to stay close to England. When you return, you must tell me what wisdom you have learned from the lamas. Yours most sincerely, Mycroft."
The head lama in Lhassa had had a great deal of wisdom, but he had been unable to tell Holmes anything except that which he had already known.
He was destroying himself, slowly but surely. And if he was not careful, he would share that destruction with those that cared for him.
Holmes had decided then to leave Tibet for France. If he did indeed succeed in his self-destruction, it may as well be in a place from which his body at least might return home, to England. He had taken leave of Sigerson there, in Lhassa, with unaccustomed feelings of guilt and regret weighing down his stomach and choking his throat.
“There is sorrow, kjære, but not regret. I wish you only the best.” The Norwegian had kissed each of his cheeks softly before turning to go.
Holmes set that final letter down, momentarily unable to read as tears misted his eyes in the present. While in Persia, on his way back to Europe, he had learned of Sigerson’s disappearance and assumed demise somewhere in the Himalayas. Though it was a death the man would have wished, he had deserved so much more.
Again, there was stirring from the bed behind him. Holmes held his breath, but the rustling sounds of the bedcovers soon subsided. The other man was still asleep, but likely close to waking. Holmes had best get on with his own letter.
“My dear brother,” he began writing, “Many apologies for having not written sooner. No doubt you received word through the Foreign Office about the events in Khartoum.”
There had been an incident with the Khalifa of that state on Holmes’s journey to France. It had been no great matter - a simple enough case of espionage that a lesser mind than Holmes’s could have solved easily - but some good had come of it. For the first time in two years, he had been able to think of himself as Sherlock Holmes, master detective, without mocking himself. And the grateful Khalifa had offered him a reward: a violin - the only thing Holmes wanted that the ruler could give. It was by no means as fine an instrument as his own (supposing it had survived the fire). It was sadly neglected and out of tune, but it was clear that it had once been loved. It was perfectly suited to Holmes as he was now.
“I am in the south of France now and Fortune has thrown me in the way of a scientific companion. He has some connections to a laboratory in Montpellier where I might carry out some research.”
That was all entirely true, but it was not all the truth. Holmes did not want Mycroft, of all people, to know all the details. His current companion, a professor of medicine in Montpellier, had found him on the street. He had been supporting himself on his way to and through France by means of his violin. He had been busking in a town square in some quarter of Grenoble, lost in the chords of Watson’s favorite piece.
“You play with such passion,” a deep, smooth voice, addressing him in French, had startled him out of his reverie and his violin wailed a complaint as the bow jerked across its strings. “I wonder, do you show as much passion in the bedroom?”
The proposal had been crude, but when Holmes had drawn in breath to dismiss the man, the breeze had carried the scent of ethanol and cigarettes. Holmes had looked carefully at the man, rapidly assessing him. He looked nothing like Watson, but his clothing, condition, and bearing had all indicated a well-bred man of moderate means and no great vice. Breathing in that familiar mix of scents again, Holmes had instead made a more favorable reply and they had soon come to an arrangement that did indeed include access to the Montpellier laboratory.
“I will have some access here to English magazines and papers and I have hope yet that our secretive prey will expose himself in some way. Until then, know that I am well and ready to return at a moment’s notice. Yours sincerely, Sherlock.”
Blocking out the memory of the copy of The Strand that he had been allowed to read last night (“The Final Problem,” Watson had called it - if only that had been true), Holmes placed his finished letter in an envelope which he then addressed to one of Mycroft’s associates. He gathered it and his other letters into a small bundle and slipped them into the pocket of his coat, which was hanging beside the wardrobe. When he turned back around, he met the eyes of his companion, awake now and sitting up on the bed.
“Good morning, John,” the man greeted him with the pseudonym Holmes had given him.
“Good morning,” Holmes replied warily. There was a glint in the other man’s eyes and the manner in which his hand moved under the bedcovers told Holmes the meaning of that glimmer.
“Come here,” the man beckoned, “I have something for you.” Holmes hesitated until the man reached over to the nightstand, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small medicine bottle. “I promised, did I not?” He asked with a smile as he lightly swirled the contents.
“Seven percent?”
“Of course.”
Holmes walked swiftly over to the bed and sat down beside the man, rolling back a sleeve of his borrowed dressing gown as he moved. His companion had taken out a syringe in the meantime and had already filled it with the clear solution.
“Look at me,” the man ordered and Holmes kept his eyes on his companion’s face as the man pricked his arm with the needle and pushed down the piston. “Keep your eyes open!”
It was a difficult order to follow. Holmes wanted to close his eyes and savor the sweetness of the drug as it flowed through his veins. Still he kept his eyes on the narrowed ones of his “lover” and watched the strange mix of disgust, desire, and satisfaction that filled them as the man saw Holmes succumbing to the effects of the cocaine.
“Better now?” Holmes nodded vaguely as euphoria took over. “That is all good, and yet, I am not better.” The man removed the bedcovers from his naked body. “I have kept my end of our little bargain. Now you must keep yours.” He indicated his arousal with a dramatically flourished hand. “Your mouth will do, John.”
When the drug faded away, Holmes would probably feel shame for Watson’s name being used in such a context. Still, he got to his knees beside the bed and gave the man the pleasure he had demanded.
He closed his eyes and tuned out the too deep voice as his companion groaned in lust. The hand gripping his hair was not gentle, but Watson should be angry with Holmes right now. More than anything, though, the smell, so like the dear doctor’s, allowed Holmes to see blue eyes, looking down at him with exasperation and affection.
Watson… Something warm and wet flowed slowly down Holmes’s cheek. I’ve missed you so much.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sorry folks. I saw no need to end this on a happy note, because we already know that Holmes will be reunited with his Watson in a few months!
ingridmatthews , I know you already got a great fill for this, but I still hope you read and were able to enjoy this. I guess not... Oh, well.
Other notes:
In the book, Watson says he is writing "The Final Problem" two years after the events at Reichenbach, so it is not too unlikely for Holmes to be reading it at that point in the story.
Yes, I made Sigerson a separate character. I thought the wording in the book was sufficiently vague to allow me to do so.
The word Sigerson uses is Norwegian for "dear." It was on the page that I got as a first hit on a Google search for "Norwegian endearments" and I figured it was a safe enough choice.
My only other reference for Norwegian is this...
Anyway, thanks for reading!