Fic: A Hypothetical Question (Holmes/Watson, PG-13)
Dear Bandom portion of my f-list, I hope the news haven’t hit too hard. I can offer hugs? Many of them?
This idea caught me in a weak moment and demanded to be written. Who am I to leave a poor, homeless idea shivering outside on the streets in the winter? I hope I found most mistakes and apologise for any that remain.
Holmes/Watson
PG-13
~1’700 words
>> Watson’s lips twisted in amusement, and his eyes were bright on Holmes’ face. “I’ve seen worse, Holmes. Although I really must find out one day how you learn about these places. Did you notice the embroidered curtains?” <<
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
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A Hypothetical Question
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Dear God, were those frills? Was that a shirt with frills, on a grown man? Was it a shirt with frills, on a grown man, who was also wearing lipstick?
After an apprehensive glance at the rest of the room - plush armchairs, patterned tablecloth, cosy lamplight and too many suspiciously dressed men - Holmes selected a table in a removed corner, Watson close behind, almost close enough to be pressing to Holmes’ back. Holmes didn’t miss the numerous looks cast their way, more than one pair of eyes lingering on Watson’s fine figure. All but one man had the decency to turn away when Holmes stared them down.
This was a horrendous idea. Clearly, Holmes should have put some research into the location instead of relying on what was the word on the street.
They sat down on opposite sides of the table, Watson’s expression giving no indication as to what he was thinking. It made Holmes fight the nervous urge to twitch; he leaned forward to inquire softly, “Shall we leave?”
Watson’s lips twisted in amusement, and his eyes were bright on Holmes’ face. “I’ve seen worse, Holmes. Although I really must find out one day how you learn about these places. Did you notice the embroidered curtains?”
As a matter of fact, Holmes had. What he’d also noticed was the lack of kissing men - a rather unfortunate lack, given that it was why Holmes had brought Watson here, hoping to learn a thing or two from Watson’s reaction. On the other hand, Holmes didn’t particularly care to see any of the men gathered in here involved in an act that might end in the removal of clothing. It rendered the whole excursion futile, but Holmes could hardly admit as much out loud.
“I noticed that, yes. Along with the frills and the admiring glances thrown your way.”
“Is that so?” Watson raised both eyebrows and yet, curiously, his gaze didn’t stray from Holmes’ figure. He appeared intrigued rather than disgusted by the idea.
“Most certainly.” Holmes smiled, a derogative curling of his lips, and nodded his chin towards the bar. “Would you like me to point them out one by one, or should I just name the ones who didn’t glance this way? That might be easier, come to think of it.”
Watson set both elbows on the table, his head tilted at an angle that brought his cheekbones out quite nicely. It was fascination that coloured his voice. “Are you jealous?”
“Your question,” Holmes said evenly, albeit he didn’t quite manage to hold Watson’s eyes, “is missing its object. There are several things I might be jealous of, for instance the cup of what smells like very fine tea in the hands of that gentleman over there. The one with the rose-coloured scarf.”
Watson didn’t even spare a glance at the man Holmes had alluded to. His gaze remained fixed on Holmes, and he appeared on the verge of a reply when his eyes narrowed, just an instant before a hand settled on Holmes’ shoulder. Holmes twisted his head to find that the hand belonged to a waiter who was dressed quite normally; the only thing that set him apart from a waiter in any other tearoom was the smudged kohl around his eyes. His voice was cheerful. “Afternoon, my boys. What can I get you?”
It might be a product of Holmes’ imagination that the waiter cast a lingering look at Watson. Or maybe it wasn’t.
“Cream tea,” Holmes said shortly. “Devonshire.”
“With pleasure. What about your companion?” The waiter’s hand slid off Holmes’ shoulder, and it certainly wasn’t Holmes’ imagination that the man had the audacity to step around the table and rest a hand on the back of Watson’s neck, a touch that was far too intimate and certainly not what Watson should have to endure from a stranger. Holmes covertly reached for the revolver in his pocket, only to find that it wasn’t there.
Obviously. He’d taken it out when he and Watson had begun to examine the dead man.
“He’ll be taking the same.” Holmes’ voice was sharp. “That will be all, thank you.”
“My, my. Quite possessive, isn’t he?” Infuriatingly, the waiter grinned at Watson and appeared in no hurry to withdraw his hand.
“He is,” Watson said easily; it was only because Holmes knew him so well that he detected the hint of steel underneath the lightly spoken words. He thus wasn’t surprised when Watson’s fingers closed around the waiter’s wrist, firmly removing the hand from his shoulder before dropping it and tilting his head back with a faint smile playing about his mouth. “As a matter of fact, so am I.”
The waiter didn’t linger, and he didn’t look back when he went to transmit their order.
“Nice,” Holmes remarked, for lack of a better thing to say. He wasn’t certain what, precisely, just had passed; it might have been Watson staking a claim as openly as Holmes would have liked to stake one of his own, or it might have been a clever attempt by Watson to make everyone back off and leave them alone.
“Thank you.” The smile hadn’t faded, Watson reclining in his armchair with his legs parted, casting a sidelong look at Holmes. “Now, Holmes, I’m starting to wonder about this hypothesis of yours.”
The dreaded words. Holmes kept his expression blank. “I told you I couldn’t guarantee that it wouldn’t be a shot in the dark.”
“Indeed.” Watson nodded slowly. “However, you’ve never quite shared your hypothesis with me. If I remember correctly, you’d identified the scent of almond on the victim’s lips, and then you announced you had an idea and dragged me,” a quick glance down at the embroidered tablecloth, “here.”
“It was really no more than idea,” Holmes stalled. He’d never lied to Watson and he wouldn’t start now, but Watson wasn’t exactly making it easy.
“An idea about what?” Watson asked, his gaze straight, and Holmes knew he’d lost. There was no way he could pretend it had been a hunch about the victim’s background when he’d already, if only in his head, identified the man as a marine with the initials J.H. who appeared to have returned home at an inopportune moment - chances were he’d been dumped in the sewers by his wife and her affair. It was an easy case, and Holmes would need to have a word with Lestrade about the police at least making an effort before consulting Holmes.
Unfortunately, he’d have to come up with an explanation for Watson first.
“Several things.” Holmes cleared his throat and twisted his fingers in the bottom of his jacket, where Watson wouldn’t be able to see it. “It was more of a hunch, if you want to call it that.”
“You don’t rely on your intuition when it comes to solving cases.” Watson inclined his head, warm lamplight playing on his features. The one comforting aspect was that he was still smiling, if a little carefully.
“Maybe I just don’t admit to it.” This had been a bad idea from the start; Holmes should never have followed through with it and he wouldn’t have done so if Watson hadn’t bent over in the very instant it had occurred to Holmes, examining the victim’s throat while Holmes, his mouth dry, took in the tempting line of Watson’s back. There might be a morbid element to it, or maybe it was just that Watson had always, from the very start, been more interesting to Holmes than any other puzzle he’d had to solve.
“Holmes.” Watson’s voice was low, alluring, and his lashes were slightly lowered. It was an impossible feat to look away from him. “Since you called it a hypothesis, you must have a precise wording in your head, an if and a then. Tell me.”
“You are not playing fair,” Holmes accused, before his mind caught up with the mistake he’d just made.
“How am I not playing fair?” Watson asked quickly. He appeared to be leaning forward, over the table, still studying Holmes from beneath lowered lashes, and it was in that moment that Holmes realized he had all the clues at his disposal, had maybe been faced with them for a long while, yet blinded himself to the brilliant opportunity they presented. He’d never been wise in matters of the heart, had considered emotions a barrier to logical thought.
“Because,” he said, keeping his voice quiet so he wouldn’t draw attention to their table, “you are perfectly aware you make it hard for me to resist.”
He didn’t have time to prepare himself for Watson’s hands grabbing the front of his jacket to pull him forward and into a hard kiss. Watson’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip, a sharp point of pain that Watson soothed with his tongue a second later. Holmes had just gathered enough focus to grip Watson’s shoulders, the edge of the table digging into his stomach, when Watson suddenly pushed him back, the momentum enough to have Holmes sprawling in his chair. He didn’t think he’d fallen back in a particularly dignified manner, but Watson’s intent expression told a different story.
A silent second ticked by and Holmes was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of their audience. With a smug grin at him, Watson straightened and crossed his arms. “I hope you know that next time, you’ll have to ask.”
“I’m asking,” Holmes hurried to assure him. “I am.”
It only served to make Watson’s grin widen and then, in a most unfair move, Watson grabbed his hat off the table, turned and strove away towards the door. Holmes scrambled to his feet and would have caught up with Watson before he’d stepped out onto the street - if it weren’t for the waiter stopping Holmes with a glare and the demand that he pay for their order. By the time Holmes had counted out the money and pushed his way outside, cold air sneaking underneath his clothes and cooling his heated face, Watson was already gone.
At first, it was disappointment that settled in Holmes’ bones. Then he caught sight of what was most certainly a button of Watson’s jacket, lying in a puddle just before the road took a turn, and Holmes’ disappointment made room for pleasant anticipation.
He should have known Watson wouldn’t deliberately torture him. At least not in a way that Holmes didn’t enjoy, and there was no doubt in his mind that the next hint Watson had left behind wouldn’t be anywhere near as obvious.
In the end, the trail would lead back to Baker Street.
=== .finis. ===