Fic: Lovers Meeting
Holmes-related slash is my guilty pleasure. It's kind of like putting chocolate chips on my Belgian waffles...It just makes everything a bit more interesting. And...despite my experimentation with various other Holmesian fandoms (an Irene Adler mystery that the world is not yet prepared for, numerous fics about the Moriartys, a not-so-secret passion for Sherlock Holmes: The Musical), I've never actually written slash.
Title: Lovers Meeting, Part I
Rating: PG-ish? I'm horrible with this sort of thing, but it's soppy and depressing.
Warnings: As I mentioned, I do not write romance well. Angst, yes. Romance, not so much.
Implied Moriarty/Moran....and, if one so desires, implied Holmes/Watson. There is also gambling and reference to character death.
Note: This takes place sometime between FINA and EMPT. Mary either doesn't exist or has left Watson some years previously--I haven't yet decided. This is also heavily unbetaed, as it just came into my mind after reading comments on the Moriarty/Moran relationship in the Holmesslash Yahoo group.
It was December of '91. My practice was doing tolerably well, although I must admit that my heart was no longer in it. How I hated the feelings of loneliness that seemed to crowd my every thought and deed. During the summer and autumn months, I had done fairly well coping with my friend's death. Visits from Mrs. Hudson, former clients, and even Mycroft Holmes himself did much to lift my spirits and remind me that Holmes had indeed left the world a better place upon his passing. I was asked to testify at the trials of Moriarty's former henchmen, and, while I do not believe that I was able to produce any substantial addition to the evidence my friend had accumulated shortly before his death, the proceedings kept me busy. Eventually, however, these ended, leaving me alone with my thoughts and memories.
Alone. It was the holiday season, a time for laughter and family and companionship. A time for love and hope. Yet I had none of these things. I spent many a night in my study, looking over former case notes or staring at the silver cigarette case, wondering if I would ever truly get over my loss.
By mid-December, I had had enough. Feeling that I could dwell no more on the past, I forced myself to spend (if not entirely enjoy) an evening at the Tankerville, a club for which Harry Montingdale, an old school chum, had invited me to join years before. I accepted, and while I had not been in attendance very often during my long association with Holmes, continued to pay my dues regularly.
The Tankerville was fairly empty when I entered. There were many unfamiliar faces...indeed, it had been some time since I last darkened the doorway of the establishment. Old Harry was by the card table, chatting with an unfamiliar group of newer members and trying to start a game. He waved me over.
"John! It's been a long enough time since I saw you. Ansthruther here just mentioned that your practice had really taken off. Is this true?"
I nodded carefully and smiled. While he may have been a clumsy, careless medical student, Harry was certainly never at a loss for words. It was said that his own patients went to him merely for the pleasure of hearing him talk.
When he saw that I had no intention of elaborating on his statement, Harry shrugged and motioned towards the table. "Well, gentlemen? Anyone in for whist tonight?"
The group instantly divided itself into pairs. My lack of regularity at the club would apparently cost me; it seemed that I would be left out of the game. I shrugged and decided to look for a magazine in the Reading Room, reflecting that such entertainments were much better suited to Mycroft Holmes and the denizens of the Diogenes Club.
Before I could leave the room, however, a rather broad, burly-looking man stood up and hurried over to join us. "I'll be your partner," he declared, motioning me back towards Harry and the rest.
I must confess that I was rather distracted throughout the game. Gambling, while entertaining, put me in mind of my return from Afghanistan years before. That thought in turn put me in mind of my first meeting with Holmes. I did not even notice how much I had bet, nor did I pay attention to the fact that my unusual partner and I had beat Harry and Ansthruther until the cards had been gathered back up into the deck.
"Good game!" Harry exclaimed, patting me on the back and rushing off to go talk to someone else. My partner handed me my part of the winnings and--without bothering to introduce himself--asked if I had eaten. I had not, and, as I am someone who feels starved when not fed three square meals a day, followed him into the dining room.
It was a decent enough roast, although I thought the cook had gone a bit heavy on the gravy. The entire dinner was eaten in silence, with my companion staring off into space. I tried to amuse myself by attempting to deduce his situation, a game I had once seen the Holmes brothers play while observing total strangers on the street. His face was quite tan, and he was in excellent physical condition. He ate as if it did not matter how or what he put into his mouth, but I took note that the brandy he drank was among the best one could find. His zest for gambling and drink reminded me heavily of some of the peccadilloes of my former army compatriots, and I supposed that, like me, he had spent time serving in some Eastern clime.
After we finished eating, I asked him cautiously about his life. He replied that he had served in India some years back, but that he was currently living in London after being discharged. There was something melancholy about the way he talked, as if there was a hole in his life that, try as he might, he could not fill.
"Dr. Watson," he asked in a soft voice that seemed incongruous with his gruff exterior, "how do you cope?"
The question took me by surprise. Cope? Cope with what? With my practice? With my writings? And then it hit me. He was asking about Holmes. I paused, arranging my thoughts carefully before deciding what to say.
"It is difficult," I replied. "It is extremely difficult to have someone so much in one's life and then....to have them leave."
My companion looked at me. In his eyes, I saw such pain, such anger and dismay. Nothing I could say would comfort this man. We sat there, the mysterious veteran and I, merely observing each other for a few minutes.
Finally, the other man stood up and prepared to leave. Before leaving his tip, he turned back to me.
"Yes, Doctor. You are certainly correct in that regard."
He left before I could even ask his name. Harry, however, noticed me as I went into the coatroom, and joined me as I made my way outside.
"I'm sorry you had to spend the night with old Seb. He's a nice enough fellow, if a bit odd about his cards. It's just..."
Harry, for the first time in our long acquaintance, paused. I waited for him to go on.
"I'm not sure if I should be telling you this, John, what with you still grieving over Mr. Holmes and all. But, anyway, old Seb just hasn't been the same since that professor chap took a spill."
I blinked and stared at Harry. The pieces began to slowly work themselves into place.
"Seb...the professor....Moriarty?" I asked, looking at Harry for some response.
"Yep, that was his name, wasn't it? Anyway, apparently him and Seb were pals. You wouldn't think it, would you, what with how tough Seb looks, but there's some of us here that suspect something rather funny was going on between those two..."