Mind. Rebels. Stagnation. *essplodes*
So! So! There are about a trillion things I could and should do right now (including plotting Merlin/Arthur fic for Haiti). Instead, even though I haven’t even yet posted the BB!Holmes story I very definitely didn’t write, my brain has fallen in love with a plot that mixes book and movie canon, and, okay.
In that fic, Mary died and Holmes is missing. Poor Watson is lonely and grieving. Since he can barely stand to set foot in the empty flat that was Mary’s and his, and since he also fears Mrs. Hudson may let Holmes' rooms to someone else, he moves back into Baker Street and takes up gambling again. And then, on the night of Holmes' birthday, Holmes comes back because he's been informed of Mary's death, finding Watson in a crowded pub, about to place another bet. The last one for that night, Watson promises himself.
At first, when Watson turns and sees Holmes, he doesn't trust his eyes. His body feels frozen because it can’t be, it can’t, but… And then he launches himself at Holmes because how dare Holmes leave him in the dark, didn't he know Watson was going mad with worry, couldn’t he have sent a note, wasn’t Watson worth at the very least a note, and, and-- And the thing is, Holmes doesn’t even try to defend himself, so it’s one punch, then a half-hearted attempt at another, and then Watson reaches out and pulls Holmes close and clings to him.
“Happy birthday,” Watson mutters eventually, straight into Holmes’ ear because the noise around them would swallow it otherwise.
“Thank you,” Holmes replies.
"I'm so glad you're back." Watson can’t bring himself to let go just yet. Holmes’ body feels small, as if the time away made him lose weight he can’t really afford to lose. It takes a moment before Holmes says, his expression serious and earnest in the dingy light, “I am deeply sorry about your loss, Watson. Truly, I am.”
And then Holmes shares his suspicion that it was Moriarty who had Mary killed and made it look like an accident, to lure Holmes out of hiding. So they hunt Moriarty, and also take care of each other because Watson is gambling again and Holmes is back to doing drugs.
The first time they have sex is sort of an accident, Holmes stopping Watson from going out, telling him to at least leave the money at the flat because if he’s really just going for a walk, he doesn’t need money, does he? “I’m not leaving my money here to have you buy drugs with it,” Watson counters, and then they grapple over the wallet until Watson backs Holmes into a desk. They’re both breathing hard with the strain, and something shifts in the air when Holmes tilts up and kisses Watson, very deliberately, and follows it up with, “Stay here.”
Watson does.
At first, the sex is a vehicle, a means of distraction that keeps Watson from gambling and Holmes from his needle - until it becomes so much more. Also, there is Moriarty to hunt. Uh, yes. That.
Sherlock Holmes is addictive, people. Seriously, don’t even start watching it. Movies and TV are bad for you!
In that fic, Mary died and Holmes is missing. Poor Watson is lonely and grieving. Since he can barely stand to set foot in the empty flat that was Mary’s and his, and since he also fears Mrs. Hudson may let Holmes' rooms to someone else, he moves back into Baker Street and takes up gambling again. And then, on the night of Holmes' birthday, Holmes comes back because he's been informed of Mary's death, finding Watson in a crowded pub, about to place another bet. The last one for that night, Watson promises himself.
At first, when Watson turns and sees Holmes, he doesn't trust his eyes. His body feels frozen because it can’t be, it can’t, but… And then he launches himself at Holmes because how dare Holmes leave him in the dark, didn't he know Watson was going mad with worry, couldn’t he have sent a note, wasn’t Watson worth at the very least a note, and, and-- And the thing is, Holmes doesn’t even try to defend himself, so it’s one punch, then a half-hearted attempt at another, and then Watson reaches out and pulls Holmes close and clings to him.
“Happy birthday,” Watson mutters eventually, straight into Holmes’ ear because the noise around them would swallow it otherwise.
“Thank you,” Holmes replies.
"I'm so glad you're back." Watson can’t bring himself to let go just yet. Holmes’ body feels small, as if the time away made him lose weight he can’t really afford to lose. It takes a moment before Holmes says, his expression serious and earnest in the dingy light, “I am deeply sorry about your loss, Watson. Truly, I am.”
And then Holmes shares his suspicion that it was Moriarty who had Mary killed and made it look like an accident, to lure Holmes out of hiding. So they hunt Moriarty, and also take care of each other because Watson is gambling again and Holmes is back to doing drugs.
The first time they have sex is sort of an accident, Holmes stopping Watson from going out, telling him to at least leave the money at the flat because if he’s really just going for a walk, he doesn’t need money, does he? “I’m not leaving my money here to have you buy drugs with it,” Watson counters, and then they grapple over the wallet until Watson backs Holmes into a desk. They’re both breathing hard with the strain, and something shifts in the air when Holmes tilts up and kisses Watson, very deliberately, and follows it up with, “Stay here.”
Watson does.
At first, the sex is a vehicle, a means of distraction that keeps Watson from gambling and Holmes from his needle - until it becomes so much more. Also, there is Moriarty to hunt. Uh, yes. That.
Sherlock Holmes is addictive, people. Seriously, don’t even start watching it. Movies and TV are bad for you!