Sherlock Holmes, Holmes / Watson, NC-17, PART TWO OF THREE

[shockselectric]

Title: All the Dead Lie Down
Author: blacktofade
Artist: lokeloke
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Ghost!Holmes, explicit sexual content, NSFW artwork within text
Word Count: ~11,000/~30,000
Notes: Please let lokeloke know how brilliant her artwork is because she put so much effort into this challenge! A huge thank you to gracefulfool for being an amazing beta, as this fic would be nothing without her. Any other mistakes are my own. A big thank you to my FList and my DJers for helping/encouraging/yelling during the writing process. Title is from Emily Dickinson's It was not death, for I stood up.

Summary: The ghost of Sherlock Holmes haunts John Watson and reveals that there is a mystery to be solved. Watson has to figure out how Holmes died and why Holmes has chosen him, of all people, to visit beyond the grave.



Watson has often doubted Holmes’ methods in the past, and some things just never change; not even death calls a halt to Holmes’ lunacy.

Watson finds himself hunched over in the bathtub Holmes passed away in, his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped tightly around his shins. The water has long since become cold and his fingertips are as wrinkled as prunes, which is not surprising as he has been submerged for more than two hours, while Holmes has paced around the room, muttering for him to “Think, Watson, think!”

“Holmes, I daresay we can work this problem out without my having to actually bathe. Can’t I dry off and dress?”

Holmes holds up a hand for silence.

“How do you expect to solve the mystery without walking through every moment?”

“What mystery, Holmes?” Watson retorts with more venom than he expects to have. “There is no mystery in the fact that you finally managed to kill yourself with your seven-percent solution. There is no mystery in the fact that you left me so you could gallivant about in the afterlife!”

Holmes stands completely still, an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he says, “You do not believe that, Watson; tell me you don’t.”

Watson rubs at his knees to avoid Holmes’ eyes.

“I don’t know what to think, Holmes; it’s all been so sudden.”

Holmes moves to kneel beside the bath, looking carefully Watson, who tries to hide his shivering.

Without actually touching him, Holmes urges Watson to rest his right arm along the curved lip of the tub, before Holmes raises a hand and lets it float just above the soft flesh of the inside of Watson’s elbow. Watson’s hair stands on end all along his forearm, but he does not say a word. The goosebumps along his skin are no longer solely due to the temperature of the bath water. Watson can’t take his eyes off Holmes’ hand as it lowers and finally brushes against Watson’s skin. It is an odd sensation, as there is no weight, despite the fact that he can see Holmes’ hand touching him. Holmes’ fingertips dip through his skin in a ghostly fashion, making him want to pull his arm away, though he does not do so, intrigued by what Holmes has to reveal.

“Someone broke in the night I died, Watson. They poisoned me with something; I can still remember the pinch of the needle fitting under my skin.”

As Holmes says the words, a phantom pain spreads across the crook of Watson’s elbow, as though someone has indeed pricked him with a syringe.

“I remember feeling dizzy and light-headed, and then I couldn’t catch my breath.”

Following the description, Watson’s lungs tighten and his mind begins to feel rather as though it’s melting. Before his head tips forward and knocks into his knees, Holmes pulls his arm away and stands again. Watson instantly feels better, but there’s an uneasy rolling in his stomach still.

“Death was not a pleasant experience, Watson, but I daresay that living like this is much worse; I cannot even touch you without infecting you with my own feelings.”

“Do you know who killed you?”

Holmes looks at him, his face schooled into indifference.

“Yes,” he says, and the answer catches Watson off-guard.

“Who then? Tell me so I might find the culprit and have Lestrade arrest them!”

“I cannot tell you who, but I can hint to how. This is your chance to solve a case by yourself.”

Watson doesn’t tell him that he’s never wanted to do that; he’s always rather liked having Holmes at his side.

“Observe,” Holmes starts, turning to the door and, with a wave of his hand, opening it to allow Watson a view of the room beyond.

Watson is momentarily impressed by Holmes’ powers; he has certainly come a long way since his reappearance many weeks back.

Holmes walks to the far window and throws it open without touching it. “There are nail marks on this windowsill, I believe you have seen them; however, as it looks remarkably as though it is just the paint chipping, I fairly expect you would have overlooked them. There is also the matter of the ink stains, fingerprinted onto the inside of the curtains.” Holmes curls the edge of the material around with a casual wave of his hand and although Watson cannot see the detail from where he sits, he does not doubt its presence.

“The killer would have climbed the rain spout that scales the exterior wall of this house, entered through this window, using a small penknife to unlatch it, crept across the room, then taken me by surprise while my guard was down.” He walks back towards Watson, kneeling beside his folded form. “I did not inject any of my seven percent solution before bathing, my friend; I am not guilty of killing myself. I doubt you even found a vial of the drug when you were cleaning these rooms.”

“How am I meant to find out who did this to you?” Watson says with a sigh.

Holmes looks at him, his face honest and open.

“That is for you to figure out, my dear friend, but I have every ounce of faith in you. For now, though, you may remove yourself from the tub and enjoy a pleasant evening beside the fire.”

He remains in place for a moment and Watson begins to wonder whether Holmes expects him to rise from the water with him standing there. Holmes seems to read his mind, as his eyes run over Watson’s curled form and redness settles high on his otherwise sallow cheeks, as though he only just notices Watson’s undressed state.

He flicks a towel in Watson’s direction as he disappears. Watson, who’s hardly been given any notice, fails to raise his hands in time to catch it. It misses him and lands, folded, in the water with a thump. It soaks up bubbles and dirt alike, as it sinks to rest on the porcelain bottom. Glancing about, Watson realises that it’s the only one in the room and he’s left shivering in the cold water, feeling tired, annoyed, and completely perplexed by Holmes’ troubles.

*

The air is mild when Watson steps onto the street; he almost doesn’t need his coat, but there is enough of a chill in the wind to make him glad he has it. He nods to Mrs Whitley, who’s stacking romance novels by the dozen on portable shelves outside her husband’s bookshop and wearing an expression that says that the only good thing about the day is the weather, and she sends a brief smile his way in return. He passes the Copperstone Inn a few moments later and it is when he glances into one of its dark windows that he realises he’s not alone.
“Holmes,” he hisses, “go back.”

This only earns him a curious glance from a man with thick round glasses and a white beard as he quickly walks by. He glares at Holmes, but says nothing more, not needing anyone else to think he’s fit material for the asylum.

“Can I not join you on your morning stroll?” Holmes asks, remaining at Watson’s side, even when Watson winds through groups of passersby, hoping to lose his ghostly shadow in the crowd. Watson stays silent and tries to ignore the way Holmes drifts straight through person after person, though he hears two people audibly gasp and one man sneeze.

At the street corner, Watson places his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistles for a cab. When one pulls alongside the kerb, he opens the door and pauses just long enough for Holmes to get the hint to step inside. He quickly states his destination to the driver and follows his friend’s lead. The carriage jolts into motion suddenly and Watson throws a hand out onto the seat beside him to steady himself; before he can stop it, his palm slips through Holmes’ thigh. He doesn’t feel anything physically, but as he looks down at their merged bodies, a feeling of heated embarrassment washes over him. Once again, he cannot tell if it belongs to himself or Holmes, but before the moment can drag out, Holmes clears his throat and shifts across the seat, putting space between them. Pointedly, Watson looks away, out the window and they remain in an awkward silence until a few minutes later when they finally reach their destination.

Stepping out of the confined cab improves Watson’s mood and he quickly pays their fare and follows Holmes into the looming structure of the police station. Watson has visited Lestrade’s office enough times to know the route by heart - down the hall, to the right. It unnerves him that, as they stroll side-by-side, only Watson’s shoes sound upon the tiled floor, though he can see Holmes walking, his long legs carrying him smoothly, step after step. When they reach the room, the door is already open in obvious invitation for anyone who visits and it only takes a second for Lestrade to look up and notice Watson standing just outside.

“Doctor!” Lestrade cries in light-hearted surprise. “It’s good to see you again. Come in, come in, old boy!”

Watson does just that, carefully sidestepping Holmes to sit in a chair, while he removes his hat and sets it on the open seat next to him.
“What brings you to this part of the city?” Lestrade asks, rearranging the paperwork on his desk and lining each of his many pens in a straight row alongside each other.

“I have a few questions for you,” he starts and Lestrade’s face lights up in anticipation of Watson needing his help, “about Holmes.”

Lestrade’s face falls comically and Holmes lets out a bark of laughter from somewhere near the doorway.

“Good to know that I have the same effect on the inspector’s spirits, even in death,” Holmes says, and Watson hides his amusement behind his palm as he pretends to scratch his nose.

“I don’t know how I could possibly help you on that account - ”

“On the contrary, you are the one man I suspect holds all the answers.”

Lestrade doesn’t meet his eyes when he nods his understanding, which Watson thinks is probably for the best, as Holmes takes it upon himself to move Watson’s hat aside so he can occupy the space. He sets it on the side of Lestrade’s desk and Watson freezes in horror; all Lestrade would be able to see is the hat travelling by itself. Lestrade finally looks up, and frowns when he notices the change.

“Wasn’t that just - ” he starts, motioning towards the chair, the one which Holmes is now hovering above, pretending to actually sit down upon as though he isn’t just a spirit.

“No, you must be mistaken,” Watson lies and Lestrade observes him for a moment before he shakes his head as if to clear it.

“Sorry, Doctor, do continue.”

“Yes, I was hoping you could help me find people who could have possibly been Holmes’ enemies.”

Lestrade laughs loudly until he realises Watson isn’t joining in.

“The list would be half of London’s population, Doctor. The man was not well liked by those whose crimes he foiled.”

“I understand that,” Watson says patiently, “but is there anyone who stands out? Anyone, at all?”

Lestrade’s features soften and he sits forward, leaning his elbows on his desk.

“You think someone could have been responsible for Holmes' death? I have to admit that I wish that were the case, but all evidence points away from such a conclusion.”

Holmes stands and looks down at Watson with frustration clear in his eyes.

“Tell him he did not look hard enough, Watson! Tell him this case is not yet closed!”

However, Watson doesn’t know what else to say, so he settles for, “Well, if you think of anyone, Inspector, please send me a note.”

Lestrade nods, but Watson knows it’s just a conciliatory gesture- he won’t hear from him.

“Watson!” Holmes disputes. “This is not over! You cannot leave yet, we only just arrived!”

Watson tilts his chin up, but doesn’t look over at Holmes.

He collects his hat as he stands, and slowly moves towards the door; he turns back, nodding towards Lestrade politely, while he tries not to stare at Holmes’ expression of annoyance. With a wave of his hand, Holmes sends Lestrade’s paper and pens flying across the surface of the desk, as though a strong breeze has whipped through the room. Lestrade flails his arms about trying to stop the mess, but everything clatters to the floor, nevertheless. Watson leaves before he has to try to explain the phenomenon, but doesn’t look back to check whether Holmes is following him.

*

Watson finds himself at a table tucked away in the corner of Jim Stack’s beerhouse - just off Harcourt Street, the one with its sign missing and back windows boarded up - determined to drown his sorrows in a pint of ale, despite it not even being noon yet. He has the first few mouthfuls in blissful solitude, but then Holmes blinks into sight sitting across from him, his face neutral, but his body noticeably tense.

“You could check your personal records,” Holmes suggests, eyeing up Watson’s drink as though he’d rather like one himself. “See which cases had particularly hostile clients.”

Watson hangs his head and shuts his eyes.

“Can we not discuss this right now?”

“Yes, Watson, good idea; let us wait until you’re dead and buried, too.”

Watson looks back up and glares coolly.

“Well, let us say that I check my records, as you suggest. What would I do then, visit their homes? ‘Sorry to intrude’,” Watson says mockingly, “‘but did you by chance murder Mr Holmes?’”

A group of men sitting to Watson’s right throw glances over their shoulders and Watson realises that to outsiders it once again looks as though he’s talking to himself. He drinks heavily and avoids their eyes.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Watson,” Holmes bites back. “Is it really too much to ask for you to put what little deductive skills you have to use and come up with a few leads?”

“Yes, I do apologise for not being you, Holmes, I know how difficult it must be for you to be around those of us who do not possess the same genius as you.”

One of the men across the way raises his head.

“Oi, guv!” he shouts, making it clear that it is Watson he’s addressing, “mind keeping the argument inside yer head?”

Watson turns his face away and pretends not to hear the man mumble, “Wha’ a nutter,” though Holmes shoots the man a pointless scowl.

“Don’t get annoyed at them,” Watson whispers, “you’re the reason they think I’m mad.”

Holmes turns back towards him and coldly says, “Indeed. Then you will no doubt be pleased by my departure,” before he vanishes out of sight, leaving only the pangs of a headache behind Watson’s eyes. He drains his glass, but does not order a second, opting for fresh air instead.

He hides himself down the nearest side alley and pulls a cigar out of his inner pocket with shaking hands. Arguments with Holmes never end well, he thinks with a sigh. He trims the end of the Havana with his penknife, but it takes two matches to light it - the first burning the tips of his fingers as he loses himself in thought. He leans against the brick wall at his back and watches the smoke drift away from his body before it disappears into nothingness. After a minute, however, the hairs on the back of his neck raise and he can’t quite help feeling as though someone has fixed their gaze upon him. He glances about, but finds no one.

“Holmes, I know it’s you,” he says clearly after removing the cigar from between his lips and tapping the build-up of ash into a nearby bin.
He expects his friend to appear out of nowhere, but instead, a man - the same man who had told him to be quiet earlier - rounds the corner of the alley, a dark smirk on his face.

“Talking to the voices in your head again, mate? You really ought to get that looked at. My friend over there,” the man nods to the other end of the passageway, where a short, stout man is standing with a wooden baton in his grip, “is a doctor of sorts, and knows just what a mind like yours needs - a sharp rap to the skull will set it all right for you.”

Watson knows he’s been cornered and his heart picks up speed. He drops his cigar and reaches into his pocket to draw his penknife back out again, but before he can, the man at his back darts forward, moving quicker than Watson has thought possible, and lands a painful whack across his shoulders. His knees judder as they try to keep him up and he stumbles sideways into the wall. The man is upon him in an instant, pushing him back with one hand, while he raises the club in the other and seems about to bring it down onto Watson’s head. In that moment, however, Holmes appears, looking white with rage.

Before Watson can do or say anything, Holmes steps forwards quickly and Watson almost believes they’re going to collide; he shuts his eyes and waits in expectation. Yet the solid impact never comes, though it suddenly feels a lot as though he’s falling ten thousand feet out of the sky, plummeting towards Earth - England, London, the dirty alley behind the beerhouse where three men are standing - and there’s nothing he can do but try to catch his breath. Everything is a swirl of colour as clouds and landscape flash by, followed by clear visions of the moon and a sky full of stars, images that can only be seen at night in the countryside. He feels as though he’s about to be very sick, but he can’t even find his body to do so, it seems as though his soul has been forced from its anchor and is floating away, slowly seeping out of his body and vanishing, like the smoke he was watching earlier.

When he reaches what he feels must surely be his limits, it’s as though someone has grabbed him by the ankle and is keeping him from drifting too far upwards. The touch is cool and strong and makes him feel as though everything will be okay, that he shouldn’t panic, even though his thundering heart disagrees. He shuts his eyes and focuses on breathing evenly, and when he opens them once again, he feels encompassed by warmth that smells surprisingly familiar - something like mix of tobacco and mint. He reaches for more of the sensation, but it slips just beyond his grasp.

Just as suddenly, everything comes crashing back down and Watson half believes he’s just fallen from the top of Big Ben, as his body thrums and his bones ache. He opens his eyes and finds himself leaning against the same patch of wall, but the two men who were attacking him are sprawled unconscious across the damp ground. Watson swallows and blinks slowly, trying to stop the rising nausea. He finds Holmes standing only a few inches away - their noses are, startlingly, almost touching - watching him with a careful, yet curious look.

“W-what just happened?” Watson asks raising a hand and rubbing at the side of his pounding head, though he stops as he notices his freshly bloodied knuckles.

Holmes narrows his eyes in thought, but looks faintly pleased with himself.

“I think I just possessed you.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, Watson finds himself squatting down and lowering his head between his knees, lest he pass out. It is while he’s staring at the dirty concrete underfoot that he notices crimson drops appearing sporadically. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and finds it smeared with even more red.

“Did you do this?” he asks Holmes as he pinches the bridge of his nose and tilts his head back.

“I don’t think I can take blame for that one, Watson; the plump man got in a fairly decent strike with his fist. It shouldn’t be broken, but as a doctor, you may make your own assessment.”

He does just that; the cartilage is tender and hot to the touch, but there’s nothing out of place or severely damaged that he can feel.

“You’re lucky,” he tells Holmes as he uses his free hand against the wall to right himself. After a few minutes and a quick dab of his handkerchief, Watson’s nose stops bleeding and Watson finally takes in the scene. The taller man has a gash down the length of the left side of his face, while the other has a rapidly bruising eye and a split lip.

“How did you know it would work?” Watson asks as he drags the two men until they are leaning against each other, back-to-back, and binds their hands together with a length of twine that’s hanging half out of a bin with no lid. He leaves them as they are and turns towards Holmes, who looks as though he’d prefer not to have to explain himself. “Holmes,” Watson presses, wearing what he hopes is an expression of displeasure.

“I didn’t,” Holmes replies, sounding as truthful as Watson’s ever heard him. “I was just - you were in need of assistance, and I stepped in - quite literally.”

“Yes, well, next time don’t,” he snaps before he has time to think. He blinks at his own outrage and takes a calming breath. “I apologise, Holmes, it’s just that it was horrible,” he says shutting his eyes against the rush of memories. “It felt like I no longer existed; I was nothing more than the air around us. I couldn’t even see what was going on. You removed my right to live, Holmes, and stepped into something that does not belong to you.”

When he opens his eyes again, he finds Holmes with a muddle of a hundred different emotions on his face.

“My dear Watson, I - ” He appears to struggle for words, but then all he says is, “I will refrain from doing that to you again,” in a steady tone that reveals nothing of his emotions.

Holmes disappears before Watson can actually thank him for saving him, but Watson rather feels it’s for the best, as he needs to contact the police to arrest the two incapacitated fiends, and take a brisk walk to clear his mind of the fog that seems to have settled there. For some reason, it feels as though his body no longer fits him.

*

“He’s lurking again,” Holmes says from his position by the door. “This is the fifth time today.”

Watson doesn’t humour him by looking up, opting to stay with his gaze firmly set upon the letters in front of him.

“There is no crime being committed here, Holmes, this is as much his home and it is mine.”

“It is our home, Watson, and loitering is very much a crime.”

“Loitering? What on earth would someone like Grimsby be standing around and plotting? The man wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Tell that to the many butterflies he has pinned cruelly to bits of paper.”

Watson finally looks up, giving Holmes an incredulous look.

“Holmes, you spent your free time experimenting on Gladstone. You are hardly one to talk here.”

Holmes doesn’t answer, just drifts through the door without even bothering to open it. Through the wood, Holmes calls, “He is pacing, Watson, come look.”

Watson doesn’t move and after a minute, Holmes’ head pushes back through the closed door and he looks fairly annoyed. “Did you not hear me, dear friend?”

“I heard you perfectly well, Holmes, I just refuse to be a part of your spying. What Grimsby does is his own business.”

Holmes’ shoulders, torso, then lean legs appear. “Do something to make him cease, Watson, or else I will.”

Watson lets out a frustrated breath as he sets his pen down. “You are like a child,” he complains as he stands and moves swiftly to the door. He pulls it open, purposely letting it swing through Holmes’ body, and glances coolly at the man just across the landing. Grimsby looks fairly shocked, but his mouth curls upward into a smile quickly and he acknowledges Watson with an enthusiastic greeting.

“I thought I heard your voice, Doctor, do you have company? I apologise if my presence has been noticeable.”

“I haven’t heard a whisper of noise, Grimsby, do not fear. As for company, there is no one, save myself. I admit that I was dictating my own letter to check for errors - that must have been what you heard.”

Grimsby nods in understanding then turns to enter his own study.

“Grimsby,” Watson starts, causing the other man to stop in his tracks and move to face him, “any chance you’d be interesting in dining out with me in a few minutes time? It’s just that the air in this house is giving me a headache,” he glances briefly towards Holmes as he says this, “and my stomach has recently started growling in interest of food.”

Grimsby appears rather surprised by Watson’s proposal, but accepts it nonetheless with an animated nod of his head.

*

They take a cab to the recently opened restaurant, Le Menteur, where they’re quickly escorted to a table near the back. Grimsby sits opposite him, pushing his glasses up his nose, while glancing about the establishment.

“I’ve heard this place does the most exquisite salmon filet with white wine sauce.”

Watson smiles politely. “Then I do believe I know what I am having, Mr Grimsby.”

“Thomas, Doctor Watson, you can call me Thomas. It is almost our third month of living together; surely it is about time that you call me by my Christian name.”

Watson takes a long sip of wine from the glass in front of him before he nods.

“Then I supposed you had better call me John.”

The name rolls strangely off his tongue; he’s not used to anyone calling him anything but Doctor or Watson, or both. Thomas smiles, pushing his glasses up his nose for the umpteenth time of the evening, and catches the eye of a nearby waiter to take their order. While they wait, Thomas makes idle conversation, discussing everything from Watson’s medical patients, to the weather in Ohio during the month of July. Watson finds himself smiling at a few of Thomas’ careful jokes and when their meals arrive - Thomas has the rack of lamb with mint sauce, while Watson has the salmon, as promised - they fall into an easy silence.

Watson finishes his dinner and sits back in his chair, slowly sipping the remains of his drink, while observing those around them. It is then that he notices a familiar figure seated at a nearby table; it’s Holmes, and he’s looking straight at him. Watson glances down at his empty plate, feeling guilty for reasons unbeknownst to him. When he looks back over, he has to hide his amusement behind his glass, as a fairly large lady is escorted to the table Holmes is sitting at and, unknowingly, tries to seat herself on top of him.

Holmes appears aghast for a moment before he blinks out of sight and reappears standing behind Thomas’ chair. Watson tries his hardest not to stare, but it’s not that easy.

“Dining out with the new boy?” Holmes asks in a tone that is not exactly pleasant. “What will the other patrons think?”

Watson shoots a glare his way, while Thomas busies himself with his last piece of meat. As soon as Thomas swallows the mouthful, Watson slips his serviette from his lap and sets it on the table.

“Do excuse me,” he states, as he stands and heads in the direction of the lavatory. There’s a man in there when he arrives, but after he quickly washes his hands, he leaves and Watson is thankfully alone. Holmes appears before him not a minute later.

“What are you doing?” Watson whispers angrily. “Why did you leave the house?”

“Am I a prisoner now? Am I not allowed to dine out with my old friend?”

“It is hardly dining when only one half of the party can digest food!”

“Then it would be no different from this evening with yourself and Mr Grimsby; he is not human!”

“Why do you dislike the man? He is a generous person and were you still alive, he could teach you a fair few things about manners.”

“He’s already taken over my house -”

“- the house -” Watson interjects, though Holmes seems to ignore him. “Though he’s hardly taken over!”

“He has taken my position as your ally, and I highly suspect he will soon begin to play the violin and inject a seven percent solution of cocaine.”

Watson narrows his eyes.

“Is that what this is about? You think you’re being replaced?”

“Well, am I not?”

“No!” Watson shouts, before remembering to keep his voice low. “No,” he repeats, whispering this time. “Why would I want to replace you? Do you really believe me to be that cold?”

“No, Watson, that is not it at all,” Holmes snaps. “This is only the beginning. There will be more dinners out and more nights spent conversing by the fire. Am I just to stand by, invisible to everyone except you, and watch as that fool enjoys your company? You will push me aside, perhaps even out of my own home, and then where will I go? The cemetery? Be sure to visit me, old boy.”

“You are unbearable, Holmes!” he yells as he lashes out, his anger getting the better of him.

A white hot flash of jealousy burns through his body, as his arm slashes through Holmes’ spectral form, curling up his spine and locking his jaw so he is unable to tell Holmes to stop, to stay right where he is. However, before he can even begin to question the other man about his feelings, Holmes blinks out of sight and Watson is left standing alone and thoroughly bewildered by Holmes’ behaviour.

*

Although Watson is not drunk, he’s not entirely sober after the four glasses of wine he consumed with his meal. Holmes’ earlier words continue to flit around his mind, but he enjoys Thomas’ company, nevertheless. The cab ride home is filled with Thomas’ enthusiastic tones, as he speaks of The Royal Entomological Society and how he hopes one day to be an active member of it. Watson is more than happy to relax into his seat and listen.

He readily accepts Thomas’ invitation for a nightcap, and follows the younger man into his room, taking a seat by the fire.

Thomas pours them both two fingers of brandy, though, while Thomas throws his own back in one large swallow and without a hint of a grimace, Watson savours his, allowing the taste to settle on his tongue; the perfect end to the nicest dinner he’s had in a long time.

Thomas sits in the chair opposite, tucking his legs underneath himself and folding his hands in his lap. The pose makes him appear even younger than he already is, as the chair swamps his slight form.

Watson airs his drink, gently swirling the liquid in his glass, as Thomas watches him with a careful gaze, one that Watson tries pointedly to pretend not to notice. It isn’t until Thomas takes his glasses off, slips them into his trouser pocket, and clears his throat that Watson catches his eye.

“I very much enjoyed our time together,” Thomas says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, which Watson notices has small indents either side from where his glasses have been resting. “Your company is refreshing after living for so long within such a stale environment.”

Watson laughs quietly, knowing the exact feeling; he remembers when he first moved out at the age of nineteen and society became an adventure, full of unexplored territory and new people to meet. However, he also knows that if Thomas is anything like him, the romanticism will wear off after only a short while, and realism with rear its head.

“I had almost forgotten how pleasant it was to dine with another, so I must thank you in return. Your enthusiasm is much needed around this place, as I fear the landlady and I are not the most cheerful of people. There are many ghosts in our pasts, ones that are too real for us to ignore.” Watson’s telling the truth, he just doesn’t explain that the ghost he’s talking of is not as figurative as Thomas probably thinks.

“You are speaking of your lost companion, are you not?”

Watson nods and quickly finishes the last few drops of brandy in his glass.

“I can tell that you and Mr Holmes were close, and although I am not trying to compare our situations in the least, you should know that I once lost someone dear to me, as well.”

“Who was it?” Watson asks, valuing their moment of honesty.

“It was my mother.”

Watson might not be completely sober, but he’s sure there’s something not quite right with that statement.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Thomas, but didn’t your father once mention that it was your mother who was keen for you to find your own home?”

Thomas’ face darkens.

“My father meant his wife, his new wife, which he found only a few months after he buried my mother. She and I don’t often see eye to eye and my moving was to separate us once and for all.” Thomas sighs, looking openly at Watson. “No, my mother was a remarkable woman; it is a shame you cannot meet her, for I am sure you would have appreciated her sharp wit and delightful sense of humour.”

“May I ask what happened?”

Thomas shifts in his seat, appearing uncomfortable, but he speaks, nonetheless.

“There was a mad man, one who was set on murdering young ladies. He would kidnap them and mutilate their bodies to the point where they were almost unrecognisable, and,” he swallows and takes a breath, “my mother became one of his victims. We were on holiday in France, having such a pleasant trip with one or two of my father’s friends, when she went missing only a few days before we were to return home.”

The information settles uncomfortably in Watson’s stomach and he finds himself pouring them each another glass of brandy.

“What was the murderer’s name?”

“It hardly matters; it was a long time ago, and I am sure he is dead now, anyway. I am not one to live in the past; what’s done is done, and as much as I wish I could change it, I can’t.”

Thomas smiles sadly and Watson leans forward to pat Thomas’ knee gently.

“I often feel the same way about my own loss.”

Thomas covers the back of his hand with his own in a kind manner. “Thank you, Doctor, really; for everything.” He squeezes gently once then lets go as he shifts in his chair and hides a yawn behind the back of his hand; Watson only just realises how late it must be.

“I shall take this as my time to exit, Thomas, as I expect the time to be well past eleven, and I fear I have drunk too much to stay awake much longer. This whole evening has been highly pleasant; we must do it again sometime soon.”

Watson rises from his chair, blinking heavily as the alcohol sends a sleepy warmth through his body. Thomas unfolds himself and stands not a second after. Watson sets his empty glass on the table and moves to shake Thomas’ hand goodnight.

Thomas grips his hand firmer than is truly comfortable, but Watson does not comment; he allows Thomas the excuse of having one too many drinks, and leaves the room.

*

Watson dreams that night, his mind and body pliant from alcohol.

He remembers the time when he and Holmes spent at least a month trying to capture the elusive Mr Gregory, only to find that they had been chasing the wrong one and that the real Mr Gregory had already left the country some weeks before. Holmes had laughed and laughed until Watson had almost feared him to have gone mad, but then Holmes had looked at him, sighed, and shrugged.

“What can we do about it? It was an honest mistake to make, and we must remember that we won’t always succeed,” Holmes had said before seating himself on a nearby park bench, just outside the train station at which they had hoped to capture their man. Watson had settled himself next to him, their shoulders and knees brushing together lightly. Holmes had lit his pipe and Watson had breathed in the smell of tobacco and freshly cut grass.

“We let him go then?” Watson had asked, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles.

“The man did nothing illegal, Watson, just disappeared. The family will have to remain without him; they will carry on, as we all must.”

However, when Watson looks over at Holmes in his dream, his face is a blur of colours. Watson reaches a hand out, but before his fingers come into contact with flesh, the scene folds upon itself and Watson finds himself seated in the back of a cab, facing a Holmes who once again has his features. A trickle of blood slowly makes it way from Holmes’ left nostril and Watson pulls out his own handkerchief and swipes it away.

Watson remembers how this day had begun with Holmes going for a walk after breakfast. Watson had seen to a patient - the senior Grimsby if he’s not mistaken - and around lunchtime, he’d received a telegram addressed from the post office on King’s Road.




They’d had to apprehend four thieves, who’d thought they could get away with stealing bodies from the hospital.

Holmes had taken quite a hit to the bridge of his nose during the scuffle, and it had failed to stop bleeding for the better part of an hour, even with Watson’s handkerchief held firmly against it. Watson had disposed of his soiled material in the fire that night, but in his dream, the whole room burns along with the small cotton square. Flames lick at the walls and ceiling, catching everything alight. Watson finds himself sitting in the midst, his skin unscorched and pleasantly cool. The room tumbles to ash and when the grey smoke clears, Watson finds himself back in his own room, standing beside the bed his unconscious mind knows he’s asleep in.

“We made a good team, did we not, Watson?”

The voice sends a jolt of surprise through his body and he turns to find Holmes at his side. Watson sits heavily on the mattress and stares at Holmes’ pale face, only just visible in the dim light. After a slight pause, Holmes carefully takes a seat beside him.

“That we did, Holmes.” He looks away to hide the sadness he knows will be discernible there. “It is not the same without you.”

“But I am here, Watson. I might be a spirit, but I am here, nonetheless.”

“It is not the same,” Watson repeats, lining their feet up alongside each other on the floor.

“Name one difference.”

“One? I could name several! I cannot talk to you in public, or if I do, I appear to be delusional. We are confined to each other’s company, that is you are stuck with having only myself as a conversational partner. We cannot even touch, Holmes!”

Trying to prove his point, Watson shifts his foot and pushes it into Holmes’ own, waiting for it to drift straight through the flesh; however, their feet collide as solidly as a rock does with the ground and Watson finds himself without words.

“Dreams are magnificent things, are they not, Watson? Objects can be summoned in the blink of an eye.” Holmes suddenly tosses an apple from one hand to the other before it vanishes into thin air. “Scenery can change without the slightest bit of effort.” Sunlight begins streaming through the windows, turning night to day, while the floor beneath their feet shifts and rolls without the wooden boards even creaking or splintering with the movement. After a moment, they become still once more. “Someone who once lacked the ability to touch another can do so once more.” Holmes rests his warm palm over the back of Watson’s hand, which is sitting on the covers between their bodies.

“You were - and are - a good friend, Watson, but there is a lot you don’t know about me. For one, you do not know that I find nothing distasteful in the idea of having you as my sole friend for the rest of our years - though, of course you do now.”

“This is just a dream; you are not the real Holmes, so who are you to tell these secrets?”

“Who is to say that dreams cannot be real? Can you not feel this?” Holmes’ fingers trace up Watson’s arm lightly and Watson can definitely feel it; goosebumps rise along his skin, and the realism of the moment shocks him. It’s almost as though he is awake.

“Why me, though?”

“Why not?”

“Surely there is another reason for you to stay in this world. I highly doubt you are here solely for me. Once we solve the mystery of your murder and the truth is revealed, I am sure you will pass into the next life and be able to rest in peace.”

“Perhaps,” is all Holmes says, and Watson can’t figure out which of his statements the response is meant for.

Holmes’ hand curls around his shoulder - Watson can feel fingers digging into his skin - and he cannot deny that it seems real.

“You will not know this conversation in the morning, Holmes; this is my own mind.”

“Are you so sure of that?” Holmes says quietly and Watson finds himself jarring out of sleep as something ghosts over the curve of his jaw.

He is alone, curled under multiple blankets on the bed in his darkened room.

“It was not just in your mind,” a voice says very close to his ear.

“Holmes!” he breathes as all the air leaves his lungs in his surprise.

Holmes’ hand moves to his shoulder and although Watson cannot feel it, he can feel the ghost of the fingers that were in that same spot in his dream. As though he’s been pressed deep into the mattress, Watson falls back into his dream, where he’s once again sitting on the edge of his bed, with Holmes at his side.

“These powers come in handy,” Holmes says, wriggling his fingers. “Just one of the many perks of being between worlds.”

“The only perk, I suspect.” Watson sighs. “Holmes, why are we here? Why are you making me dream this?”

Holmes lowers his hand and folds it over his own knee.

“I cannot dream - ”

“So you invade mine?” Watson interjects.

“Is it so awful of me to want company? I am alone, Watson! There is no one, no one else, except for you.”

“You are around during my every waking hour. Am I to accept that you will fill my nights as well; my one true escape?”

Holmes looks at him sadly.

“Why do you want to escape from me?”

Watson wakes once again, feeling as though he’s just stepped off the edge of a cliff. His stomach is somewhere in his throat and his heart is racing, its beat thundering like horse hooves against a dirt road. Watson suddenly feels more than a little guilty for what he said to Holmes. The room feels cold and empty, even when Holmes appears, sitting cross-legged at the bottom of his bed.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Holmes says softly and Watson’s irritation crumbles like the walls of Jericho.




“I know,” he whispers into the dark.

There’s a pause before Holmes reappears by Watson’s side, staring down at him with a sorrowful look. Watson doesn’t even flinch as Holmes brings a hand up to the side of Watson’s face; there’s no physical touch, but there’s a warmth slowly spreading throughout his chest as Holmes’ feelings overflow into him.

“You make me feel, Watson, you give me hope, and that is a lot when you have nothing else.”

Watson knows he’s telling naught but the truth, can feel it filling and overtaking his body.

“This is why you were jealous of my being with Thomas? You thought I would leave and take everything away from you?”

Holmes says nothing, answering only with his silence.

“You are - I would never - It’s just that - “ Watson cannot find the words to explain himself, but Holmes is right there beside him in his mind, feeling what he’s thinking, and hearing everything he cannot say.

Holmes looks at him knowingly.

“Take us back,” Watson whispers and, this time, the transition into his dream is smooth.

Holmes’ hand is still on his face, only now he can feel it. He brings his own palm up to rest over the top of it and it’s all too easy as Holmes lowers his face, bringing their mouths together. Watson isn’t too sure what he’s been expecting, but Holmes seems to understand what he’s doing, what he wants, and Watson finds himself following blindly, a habit he’s yet to break.

“This is why I’m still here, Watson,” Holmes says between gentle kisses. “It’s not about living or dying, it’s about you and me. You want this as much as I do; I’ve seen it in your mind.”

Watson has no excuses, no way to hide the truth, so, without a word, he wraps his free arm around Holmes’ waist, carefully urging him to straddle his hips. It betters the angle of their faces and allows Holmes to slip his tongue into Watson’s mouth when he lets it fall open. Holmes nips at his swollen bottom lip and pushes their bodies together, grinding down into Watson’s lap just hard enough that Watson forgets for a second that he’s meant to be returning the kiss.

Watson feels at a disadvantage spread out on his back; he pulls his mouth away and peers up at Holmes.

“If this is a dream, I can - ” He breaks off before he gives himself away, but Holmes looks at him like he already knows.

The room goes white as everything falls away; then after a few moments, the bedroom returns, looking no different from before. However, instead of being on the bed, Watson has Holmes backed against his desk. Holmes doesn’t seem to mind, as he fails to put up a protest, just lets Watson continue to kiss him.

Holmes gasps into his mouth when Watson lifts him easily and sets him on the corner of the desk, but parts his thighs around Watson’s body, allowing them to get closer.




Watson takes advantage of the action and presses forward into Holmes’ body, rutting and grinding their hips together, as Holmes clings to Watson’s shoulders with sweaty palms. Watson can feel the dampness through his shirt and it seems so real, he almost forgets it’s all in his mind.

Without warning, Holmes lies back across the desktop, his body crushing and crumpling the papers scattered about it. Watson watches with heavy-lidded eyes as Holmes scrabbles with his belt and trouser fastenings. Watson helps tug them down over Holmes’ hips, though halfway through struggling, he remembers that he decides what happens, and, in a heartbeat, Holmes is completely naked, his clothes nowhere to be seen. Watson’s breath hitches and he’s hard enough that it’s beginning to hurt. He quickly blinks away his own nightshirt until there’s nothing but the feeling of skin between them.

He forces himself to slow down and curves himself over Holmes’ prone form, resting his hands on the desktop, either side of Holmes’ head, and covering his red and swollen mouth with his own.




Holmes’ moans reverberate inside his mouth as he rolls their hips together, finally brushing his cock against Holmes’ own. Pleasure floods through Watson and it’s been so long since he was last with someone that he’s almost forgotten how good it feels to have a body under his. Holmes arches his back, pushing his lower half harder into Watson’s. Watson rocks his hips and at the movement, Holmes wraps his legs around his waist and pulls them closer together. Holmes’ body is warm against his own and nothing like anything he could have imagined.

Watson breaks their kiss and pulls back, just far enough so that he can wrap his hand around both of their cocks and begin to stroke, their precome mingling and slicking Watson’s fingers, allowing for the easy slide of skin upon skin. He keeps one palm flat on the desk as he watches Holmes’ face while he brings them both closer to the edge.

Holmes’ cheeks are tinged red from exertion and Watson believes the colour is becoming on him; Holmes’ ghostly form has been far too pale for his liking. He remembers how Holmes used to blush after a particularly kind compliment from Lestrade and he realises now how much he misses seeing it. He dips his head and drops kisses against the flushed skin; Holmes shuts his eyes and breathes unevenly against the side of Watson’s face.

Watson presses onwards, speeding his hand up, and watching as Holmes’ face twists in ecstasy at a particularly strong curl of his wrist. Watson is balancing on the edge of orgasm, hanging in the void between nothing and everything. His heart is pounding and he can feel sweat building up across his shoulders. Holmes’ fringe is plastered to the damp skin of his brow, and Watson can’t help it as he pushes his nose into the hair. It smells exactly like the Holmes he once knew, all musk and tobacco, with hints of lemon soap.

“Watson,” Holmes moans, tightening his legs around Watson’s waist, “Watson, are you close?”

Watson twists his hand around the head of Holmes’ cock and curls his neck enough that he can whisper in his ear.

“So close,” he breathes, licking at the skin of Holmes’ jaw.

Holmes shudders against him, moaning as his body tenses and he comes warmly over Watson’s knuckles; Watson follows seconds later from the sight of Holmes below him, gasping for breath, clawing at the smooth wood of the desk with his fingertips.

He slumps against Holmes’ body, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, while dropping intermittent kisses along Holmes’ collarbone. Holmes hums beneath him, dragging his fingers up and down Watson’s spine in a distracted fashion. Watson pushes back into the touch, wanting more from Holmes’ warm hands, while he can still have it.

After a minute, Watson leans forward and slips his mouth back over Holmes,' kissing him with clumsy lips and a lazy tongue; he’s far too exhausted for finesse, but Holmes doesn’t seem to care. Holmes wraps his hand around the back of Watson’s head and keeps them together for a moment longer. Watson rubs his thumb along Holmes’ jaw line and gently pulls their mouths apart, though Holmes presses small kisses over Watson’s lips before he can pull away altogether.

Watson pushes himself upright, despite his body feeling like lead, and watches as Holmes sits up and swipes at a few stray sticky spots of come on his stomach with his fingers. He plays with the substance between his thumb and forefinger, before Watson finally captures his hand and brings it up to his mouth, licking away the mess. Watson cleans the rest of their bodies up with just a thought, while Holmes regards him with a languid expression, swinging his bare legs gently.

Watson places his hands on Holmes’ thighs, rubbing lightly over the flesh and allowing himself the pleasure of feeling living skin and lean muscle beneath his hands.

“It’s all right if I stay here, then?” Holmes asks with an innocent expression on his face.

Watson pretends to consider the question then softly runs a hand over Holmes’ shoulder.

“I suppose,” he says, before Holmes brushes his fingers up the side of Watson’s face and Watson finds himself falling backwards into the feeling of waking up.

*

Part of him knows it’s morning. He can feel the coolness of the room around the foot that has escaped from under his blankets and he’s conscious of the fact that there’s no longer a fire burning. Faint yells drift from the street outside through the thin glass of his window and he doesn’t need a clock to tell him it’s already gone eight. It feels like he’s slept for half a lifetime and he knows it has been many hours since he woke after his dream with Holmes and fell back asleep, with his limbs heavy and shaking from release.

As he rolls over to bury his head under his pillows and block out the streams of sunshine that have escaped the thick curtains, he finds part of his nightshirt adhered to his thigh. He groans tiredly when the hairs on his leg pull painfully as the cotton fails to let his skin go; he finally opens his eyes and lifts his head from its hiding place. The first thing he sees is a small basin of water and a sponge resting on the stand near his bed; the second thing he sees is Holmes slouched across a wing-backed chair, his legs dangling over one of its arms.

Holmes is slowly rearranging the books on his shelves with lazy hand gestures and he fails to notice Watson observing him. At least, that’s what Watson believes until the sponge lifts into the air and then dunks itself in the faintly steaming water.

“You slept well, I presume.”

Watson slowly sits up, pushing the covers back with his feet and throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. He unsticks his nightshirt from his body with a quick tug and a gentle hiss of pain before glancing up at Holmes.

“No thanks to you,” he retorts without venom.

Holmes finally stops what he’s doing - which is really just making a mess of Watson’s neatly organised things - and turns to smile at him.
Watson can’t help but curl his lips upwards in return, though he blinks and breaks the moment as he hears the sponge wring itself dry.

Holmes hasn’t moved, but Watson knows it’s him. He watches Holmes’ face for signs of emotion, but is distracted as he feels the edge of his nightshirt push its way up his body, bunching along his thighs, and slipping over his waist. He flushes, though he knows Holmes has seen it all before, and flicks his gaze back towards the ghost. He imagines Holmes’ hands following the moving material and flushes even more.

Holmes is now sitting up in his seat, watching him intently with a bright shine of excitement in his eyes. Their eyes meet and a thrill runs through Watson’s body; he doesn’t know what’s got into him, but he raises his arms and his nightshirt quickly tugs itself completely free from his form, falling into a heap on Watson’s pillow.

Watson can’t hide his arousal; he can feel his cock filling and rising between his legs.

The sponge lifts from the basin and moves to gently rub over the dried stain on his inner thigh. Without thinking, Watson shifts his body, leaning back on straightened arms with his palms flat on the bed behind him; his knees fall open and he knows that from where Holmes sits he will be able to see everything.

The sponge cleans him easily, removing all signs of dirt and grime from his body with steady motions and all Watson can do is keep his breathing even as he tries to stop his hips from lifting to grind against nothing but air. The sponge slides tenderly down the side of his neck, down his collarbone, to brush against his left nipple and Watson finally lets out a small breath of pleasure.

The sponge drops to the floor and Holmes quickly vanishes, appearing seconds later kneeling beside him on the bed; he leans close to Watson’s ear.

“Does it make you want to touch yourself?” he breathes softly.

Watson shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back. He moans quietly, his mouth falling open and his teeth dragging in his bottom lip.

“Does it make you want to stroke yourself until you come?”

Watson opens his eyes again, meeting Holmes’ gaze and watching helplessly as Holmes moves a hand and presses it against the side of Watson’s face. Heat and desire and need flood through his body, racing through his veins and thundering across his nerves; it makes his toes curl, and his cock leak without it ever having been touched.

“Do it, Watson; wrap your fingers around your flesh. Do it for me.”

Watson doesn’t waste a minute; he moves so he rests on only one hand, while he curls the other around his erection and slowly begins to bring himself off.

“Imagine it’s my thumb that rubs over the head and spreads your precome; pretend your hand is my mouth slipping down around you, my tongue swiping along the heavy underside of your cock,” Holmes instructs, and Watson does exactly as he’s told, picturing it so vividly that he can almost feel the heat and softness of Holmes’ lips.

He rolls his hips and thrusts into his own palm, needing anything and everything, but getting not nearly enough. He swallows, his throat clicking from its dryness and exhales something that sounds a lot like Holmes’ name.

Holmes stares down at him, his features soft with longing, then leans in close. Watson can suddenly feel the fingers Holmes has cupped around the side of his face and knows Holmes has sent them spiralling into a dream, but Watson is glad of it, for it means he can push his face upwards to press their mouths together.

Holmes smiles languidly against his lips, slipping his tongue carefully into Watson’s mouth, deepening and heating up their kiss. Holmes’ hand suddenly wraps around the one Watson has gripping himself tightly, stroking firmly, and the increased pressure makes Watson arch against Holmes’ body. Without thinking, Watson bends his arm and lets himself fall backwards into the soft duvet below, dragging Holmes with him, who makes a noise of surprise, but continues kissing and touching him.

Holmes pushes his knees underneath himself and moves to straddle Watson’s waist. He sits heavily upon Watson’s upper thighs, keeping his back curved forwards enough that he can trail his mouth down Watson’s throat. Watson loses his rhythm and Holmes takes the opportunity to bat his hand away.

He groans at the loss of touch, but finds he’s okay with it when Holmes lifts himself up and positions himself over Watson’s cock. Watson, still cautious of Holmes’ well-being, raises his head enough to get Holmes’ attention.

“You will hurt yourself without any preparation, Holmes,” he explains, his voice hoarse with pleasure.

As a reply, Holmes takes Watson’s hand and brings it to his entrance. Watson’s fingers slip easily inside, the opening already slick and loose.

Watson groans in understanding and unable to stop himself, he thrusts his middle and index fingers into Holmes. Holmes pushes down against the sensation and tilts his head back.

“At this rate, you will prefer your dreams over reality; and the best part,” Holmes says, rolling his neck and locking eyes with Watson, “is that this cannot be considered illegal.”

Watson snorts gently in amusement. “Would that stop you anyway?”

Holmes smiles wickedly. “No, of course not.”

Watson twists his fingers once more, drawing a grunt of pleasure from Holmes, then pulls his hand away, and lets Holmes move back to hover over his cock.

With a sigh, Holmes lowers his hips, filling himself with more and more of Watson, until he finally rests upon Watson’s hips. Watson can hardly breathe for the blinding pleasure that swallows his body whole. Holmes’ brow creases with a mixture of pleasure and pain at being stretched so wide, but after Watson begins to rock his hips upwards, the expression morphs into one that is only bliss.




Holmes rests his palms against Watson’s chest and uses the position for leverage as he rises and falls little by little. Watson watches Holmes slowly lose control, observes the sheen of sweat that glistens on Holmes’ forehead and imagines the salty tang that would fall onto his tongue were he to lick a stripe across it.

He curls his hand around Holmes, enjoying the tremor of shock and pleasure that causes the muscles surrounding him to tighten, and meets Holmes’ dark gaze as he lifts his head. Their eyes stay locked upon each other as they continue to move together, bodies rolling and sliding, their skin growing slicker with sweat by the minute. Holmes is the first to fall, with Watson’s thumb swirling around the head of his cock. He clenches around Watson as he tumbles over the edge, spurting warmth onto Watson’s chest.

Watson continues to thrust upwards into Holmes’ body as Holmes goes slack, his chin dropping to his collarbone, and his hair hiding his face from view. Watson lets go of Holmes’ softening cock and uses his other arm to pull Holmes down to him, so he can call out his pleasure into Holmes’ open mouth as he kisses him. He comes inside Holmes as Holmes finally collapses against his chest in exhaustion.

The high never seems to end; his body thrums with sensations and his mind reels from his orgasm. Holmes mouths nothingness against his skin, but it feels like everything Holmes has never told him, like the time he disappeared for two days after leaving a note that said only Be back soon and never revealed where he’d gone when he returned; or the time Holmes was drugged to the teeth after breaking his wrist in a scuffle, and he had started a very deep and profound speech about his feelings, before he’d fallen asleep, using his snores as punctuation, while Watson continued to care for him.

Watson knows he would be more than happy to remain dreaming all day, but he also knows he has duties to attend to, and it’s with a sigh of unhappiness that he gently rolls Holmes off his chest and into his pillows. Holmes looks at him as though he’s done the most awful thing in the world and tries to wind himself back around Watson’s body.

“Holmes,” he says quietly, but it’s enough to garner Holmes’ attention; it earns him a grunt and a coldness that comes as Holmes untwines their limbs.

Without saying a word, Holmes gently runs his thumb along Watson’s jaw and Watson is suddenly blinded by the whiteness of late morning sunshine and the harshness of reality, as he lies alone in his bed.

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