Fic: Broken Substitutes - Part 2 (2/4)
Full headers & Part 1 are [ here].
Holmes/Watson (past Mary/Watson); NC-17; 7’622 words for this part, about 33’000 overall
Summary: “I have a proposition for you, Watson. A mutual exchange, if you want to call it that.”
Note: This is still for purelyironic, and all my gratitude still goes to my Fab Four. It really doesn't get more exciting than this author's note, does it?
Tired: Yes.
Disclaimer: I totally disclaim.
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Broken Substitutes
Part 2
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They circumvented each other for most of the following day, Watson alternating between patient appointments and the sitting room, Holmes flitting in and out of the periphery of his vision. The entire situation reminded Watson too much of those days when he was sharing the rooms with only ghosts, when their unreal presence had been weighing down his thoughts.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Holmes barely raised his gaze from his plate, and Watson forced himself to remain silent and indifferent, or at the very least to project just that. After dinner, Holmes went back to play with the pieces of what was to become a device for receiving wireless signals, the concept of which was still lost on Watson. He stayed in his armchair for a while longer, pretending to read when his entire body was straining for something to calm the incessant stream of thoughts and questions and memories. Twice had the bells tolled, half past eight and a quarter to nine, before Watson’s discipline ran out.
He used a short piece of wire that Holmes had left on the table earlier to mark his place in the book, setting it down in the armchair before he quietly left the room. His coat was where he’d hung it last night, no money in its pockets. Striding over to his desk, he retrieved the wallet from a drawer just as the door swung open to reveal Holmes, looking more than a little irritated. “Where are you going?”
“I’m taking a walk.” Watson slid the wallet into the pocket of his coat, meeting Holmes’ stare with a blank smile. “Not that it is of any consequence to you.”
It was barely a second later that he found himself trapped against his desk, Holmes’ hands gripping his wrists, the edge of the desk cutting into the back of his thighs. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Holmes said, perfectly even, “but as far as I know, there is no need to bring your wallet if you are merely going for a walk.”
It was a moment before Watson found his voice.
“I’m not leaving my money here to have you buy drugs with it,” he countered. He flexed his muscles, just to test the strength of Holmes’ grip on him, and found that Holmes’ fingers didn’t loosen at all. Holmes was using his own body to crowd Watson in, their legs pressed together, and despite Holmes’ thinness, he’d always known where to put his hands to break any attempt at resistance. The angle twisted Watson’s bad leg in a way that made him suppress a gasp of pain.
“I would never steal from you,” Holmes hissed, “and you know it very well.”
Watson shifted slightly, their chests colliding, but Holmes gave him just enough leeway for the leg not to ache quite so much. “Addictions are tricky things.”
“Yes, wouldn’t you know.”
“Pot and kettle, Holmes.”
“I told you I won’t let you do this to yourself.”
“Yet I have to watch in silence as you die a slow death by your own doing?”
“It is of no consequence to you.”
“It is of every consequence to me,” Watson exploded, vision white-hot at the edges, muscles trembling with the strain of their positions. “You think it doesn't matter to me whether you're dead or alive, you think I could take it if I lost-” He cut himself off, following the declaration up with another attempt to shake his wrists free. It only resulted in bringing Holmes to stand on tiptoes, less than an inch separating their mouths, and Holmes' eyes were dark and intent, his hip rubbing up against Watson’s groin, thighs bracketing Watson’s body.
Watson felt Holmes' quick, hurried exhalations as a rush of warm air on his mouth. He froze.
For what felt like an eternity, they stared at each other, close and yet not close enough, everything in Watson swaying towards Holmes even as he held himself motionless. It was Holmes who tipped forward. The tight circles of his fingers loosened as he, very deliberately, kissed Watson.
It was a slow kiss, Watson’s response delayed by a tangle of conflicting emotions before his lips parted for Holmes. Instantly, Holmes' tongue pushed into his mouth, and Watson was powerless to resist, tilting his head for better access as Holmes let go of his wrists. One hand lifted to sort through the short hair at the back of Watson’s head, the other clenched around his waist, providing just as much support for Watson's suddenly weak body as did the desk against his thighs.
When Holmes pulled back, Watson needed a moment to blink his eyes open and focus his gaze. Holmes’ smile was brilliant, but his voice was low, almost uncertain. “Stay here.”
It was dangerous, dangerous and illegal, falling within a dark realm that Watson had never dared to ponder too closely. Even more, it was a betrayal of his marriage, and he shouldn’t have wanted this. He shouldn’t want to push his hips forward, seeking more contact; he shouldn’t have wrapped his arms around Holmes’ shoulders to keep him close, closer, as close as humanly possible, shouldn’t have felt for the bumps of Holmes’ spine with his fingertips.
Watson swallowed, his throat dry. His lips dragged over Holmes' cheek. “Yes,” he whispered.
The word got lost in the shadows of the room, but not before Holmes leaned back in, his lips demanding instead of gentle, tongue flickering over Watson’s bottom lip in a manner that was almost playful, made Watson’s fears fade into the background. For the first time in months, there was nothing but perfect, complete silence in his mind.
--
It was stiflingly hot when Watson woke, the air thick with a smell he didn’t want to analyse as it brought back (darkened impressions of Holmes’ hands on his body, fingertips ghosting over his stomach before a thumb pressed into the dent near his hipbone, reminded him of tracing the ripples of Holmes’ spine down to the curve of Holmes’ arse, an errant rhythm building up between their naked bodies, friction hot between them, skin slick with sweat.
The memory shouldn’t have sent a thrill of desire coursing through him. It shouldn’t have made him long to repeat it, to consider more, even; it shouldn’t have made him want to turn around and wake Holmes by pressing his lips to that spot behind Holmes’ ear that made Holmes groan and twist closer, hands grappling at Watson’s shoulder.
What had they done?
Taking care not to upset the mattress, Watson slipped out of bed, shivering when the cool air hit his naked body. In the unsteady light of dawn, he couldn’t tell which clothes on the floor were his and which belonged to Holmes, but it was likely that the majority of items had originally belonged to him anyway. He blindly gathered up whatever was convenient, listening for any sign of movement from the sitting room before he tugged the door open and noiselessly left Holmes’ bedroom behind.
He dressed with shaky hands, fingers fumbling with the buttons. The waistcoat turned out to be something Holmes had bought in Italy, so Watson couldn’t button it up. He left it hanging open, escaping to the bathroom before Holmes could wake and find him gone, find that Watson wasn't lying beside him, wasn't in Holmes' bed even though it was where Watson had spent last night, where they'd both spent last night, where they had-
Repeatedly running through the memory really didn't help. It didn't change the fact that Watson hadn't been able to resist Holmes, had taken what was offered with barely a moment of hesitation. His own distressed face stared back at him out of the mirror.
Above the collar of his shirt, a dark mark was visible. The sight turned his stomach in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It became unpleasant only when he caught a glimpse of the chain that held Mary’s ring, and he stumbled back, turning away from the mirror.
For once, Watson was first to take his breakfast. He was on his second cup of tea by the time Holmes stumbled out of his bedroom, hair a mess and clothes hardly better. Watson's waistcoat was too big for him and hung loosely on his thin shoulders. For a moment, their eyes met across the table. Then Watson shamefully hid behind his newspaper, mumbling something about, “Good morning” and, “Your bacon is growing cold.”
Holmes didn’t immediately sit down, his reply coming with a noticeable delay. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, and it might as well have been the answer to another question Watson couldn’t bring himself to ask.
He lowered his newspaper for a quick nod, feeling his cheeks grow hot, before he turned a page and feigned interest in an article on foreign policy and terrorist attacks in a British colony. The letters swam before his eyes, but he kept his gaze fixed on them until he heard the familiar sound that accompanied Holmes adding honey to his tea, then the clink of the spoon that was followed by Holmes raising the tea to his mouth. Only then did Watson allow himself a quick glance at Holmes’ face, but Holmes’ head was bent, his attention on the cup.
Their eyes didn’t meet again for the remainder of breakfast.
--
Watson wasn’t in the habit of questionings Holmes’ methods - not very often, anyway. However, when Holmes appeared to settle in for yet another day mulling over electronic pieces and books, Watson couldn’t keep quiet any longer. It was possible that the tension thrumming in his bones played a role in his protest.
“Shouldn’t we try to find this Professor instead of rebuilding a device you thought the world wasn’t ready for?”
For the first time since breakfast, their gazes connected and held for a moment. It was Watson who averted his eyes, but not before he'd noticed the slightly contracted state of Holmes’ pupils, raising the question of whether Holmes had also been under influence last night.
Watson didn't want to know the answer. Even more so, he wished the question had never occurred to him.
“Finding him won’t be the hard part,” Holmes said. “He’ll find us soon enough, Watson. What matters is that we’re ready for him.”
“Hence the device.”
“Hence the device.” In the doorway to the study, Holmes halted abruptly, his back to Watson as silence spread between them. At the sudden, tense line of Holmes’ shoulders, a sense of trepidation washed through Watson. Just for something to do, he turned a page of his book.
Holmes turned. “It’s in the crystal,” he declared. “A piezoelectric effect.”
“Once more, in a language I can understand?” Watson asked.
“Never mind.” A wide grin burst across Holmes’ face, and its brilliance vibrated in Watson’s chest, made a feeling like molten lead settle in the pit of his stomach. He watched as Holmes strode away with a new bounce in his step, a clear sign that he was on a promising track. Watson wished he could have said the same for himself. The wedding ring around his neck felt heavy, and everything in him contracted at the reminder. In a fit of fury at himself, he pulled the chain over his head and threw it into the flames of the ingle. He doubted it would be hot enough to melt the gold, and already he knew he’d search through the coals later on to retrieve the ring stained and dull, but it put an action to the shame lurking in his mind.
He was oblivious to Holmes’ presence until Holmes’ voice shook him out of his contemplation of the fire. “What did you do that for?”
Watson twisted around in the armchair to find Holmes leaning against the doorframe, his book open in his hands. His expression was unreadable, but he didn't look away when Watson attempted to stare him down, maintaining eye contact with seemingly no effort. Sometimes, Watson hated that he would never, ever get the upper hand.
He cleared his throat. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“You threw your wife’s wedding ring into the flames.” Holmes closed the book with a snap, advancing by a step. “Now the only question is, why?”
Watson pushed himself out of his armchair. His first patient of the day should arrive fairly soon, and there was comfort in the thought, a grounding sense of duty, of normalcy. “You’re the genius around here,” he said roughly, turning towards his study. “I’m sure this is a riddle you can solve.”
--
When Watson returned to the sitting room three hours later, both chain and wedding ring were lying in the middle of the table, gleaming softly as if they had never landed amongst red-hot coals.
--
Watson made no effort to be inconspicuous about searching Holmes’ rooms for chemical substances that altered the mind. He had his findings lined up on the table in the sitting room, bottles emptied, when footsteps could be heard on the stairs. The door opened to allow an aged woman inside, grey hair held back by a shawl, small drops glittering on her ears, eyes framed by kohl that contrasted with her sickly grey skin. Watson needed three seconds to recognise Holmes in the colour of the eyes and the familiar line of the upper lip.
“Quite convincing,” Watson said, his tone icy. “It’s only your eyes and the line of your mouth that betray you.”
“A very keen observation.” Holmes’ gaze skittered to the exhibition on the table. His eyes returned to Watson’s face with no visible reaction as he tugged the wig off, curling hair emerging. “However, few people know me as well as you do, my dear Watson.”
It was certainly not the first time Holmes addressed him like that, yet last night’s closeness made the endearment echo in Watson’s chest, lungs contracting. He turned to nod his chin at the display on the table, crossing his arms. “There are some things I’d rather not know,” Watson said evenly.
On the periphery of his vision, he caught Holmes moving over to the mirror, starting to remove the disguise. “You can always choose to ignore them.”
When Watson glanced back over his shoulder, Holmes was dabbing at his face, upper body bare. He was too slight, too small, and something in Watson unexpectedly tightened at the sight. He stood up to full height, drawing closer. Holmes didn’t flinch when Watson gripped his wrist; he merely straightened and looked around with a quizzical expression.
“I told you I wouldn’t.” Watson pulled Holmes’ arm closer for examination, stooping to see clearly in the light of the flames. He thought that the faded marks might outnumber the recent ones, but it wasn’t enough. Consolation would only come if Holmes stopped entirely, stopped destroying himself without a care for what it would do to those around him. He’d been strong enough to stop once, his physical dependency surprisingly weak. Keeping his quick mind engaged had proven to be the main cure, Watson’s constant presence by Holmes’ side having ensured that Holmes hadn’t fallen back into old habits as soon as a case had been closed. If that was what it took, Watson was more than willing to go through it again.
After a second in which their gazes connected, Holmes’ eyes dark and strangely altered by the kohl lining them, it was Holmes who looked away, off at the fire. His forehead furrowed. “You emptied my reserves into the flames? Are you aware of how much those cost?”
Watson let go of Holmes’ wrist and affected a twisted smile. “As you know very well, I am rather poor with financial matters.”
It took a short moment before a vague smile curled Holmes’ lips. “So you are,” he said fondly. “Is this how you repay me for keeping you from losing money in the Punchbowl last night, then?”
Unbidden, the memory of Holmes’ unusually low voice, Stay here and Yes, touch me, surfaced in Watson’s mind. He cleared his throat and found Holmes’ gaze focused on his mouth. The air seemed thick, smoke biting when Watson inhaled, and this hadn’t featured in his plan; he hadn’t expected Holmes to break their unspoken agreement of silence. Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, he shook his head. “The two are entirely unrelated.”
“Is that so.” Holmes used a wet towel to wipe remnants of paint off his face, peering at Watson from behind the cloth and seemingly unconcerned by the fact that he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was startling to see him clean-shaven. “Because if you ask me, your habit is just as self-destructive as mine.”
“So you admit that it is self-destruction.”
“You’re deliberately missing the point, Watson.”
“That is the point, Holmes. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the only point.” Watson shook his head, dropping his shoulders. On the table, the empty bottles were lined up in a straight row, reminding him of a solemn vigil. “Don’t you even want to stop?”
Holmes’ eyes were sharp and unrelenting. “Don’t you?”
Turning away, Watson sunk into the armchair, feeling tired down to the very core of his being. He tipped his head back to study the white-washed ceiling. “You wouldn’t understand,” he told the empty air above his head.
“Try me.” Holmes sounded closer.
“I find that it rather… softens the blow of reality.” The wedding ring lying against Watson’s chest felt colder than it should. He balled his hand into a fist until the strain cut off the circulation of his blood, knuckles white.
“You think I wouldn’t understand that?” Holmes’ laugh was dry, bereft of all humour, laced with a curious edge of desperation. It hung in the room for a suspended moment, chased away when Holmes stepped around Watson to inspect the display on the table, touching the needle with an almost tender expression on his face. Without looking up, he added, “Trust me, I do. You are a fool if you see no connection between our vices.”
“Holmes…” Unsure what to say, Watson trailed off. Once again, he wanted to inquire about Holmes’ time in Italy, but Holmes had never shared information before he chose to, and an unnamed fear in Watson told him that maybe he didn’t even want to know. He refused to avert his eyes when Holmes turned and caught him looking. Holmes’ face twisted with something indefinable. He leaned back against the table, gripping its edges.
“I have a proposition for you, Watson. A mutual exchange, if you want to call it that.”
Watson didn’t move. “Go on.”
Holmes shifted against the table. His stomach curved in, the sharp cut of his hipbones hinting at his careless eating habits, and yet Watson wanted to brush his fingers along the edge of Holmes’ ribs, lower, follow the trail of dark hair-
Holmes’ voice stopped Watson’s descent into madness. “What would you be willing to do in order to make me stop?”
The first, instinctive reply of Everything died halfway between Watson’s brain and his tongue. He inhaled and looked away, but even when he considered it, his answer didn’t change significantly. “I think the better question is what wouldn’t I?”
“Would you give up gambling?” Holmes countered, quick as a lash.
This time, Watson didn’t have to ponder his reply. “Yes.”
Holmes’ smile was bright and immediate. “Well, Doctor. In that case, I think we have a deal.”
“All right.”
They didn’t shake hands on it, but Watson found that he could breathe easier when he allowed his mouth to twist up into a small answering smile. He attempted to keep his voice light. “I like the earrings, by the way. They really do bring out the colour of your eyes.”
“They do, don’t they?” Holmes’ smile widened into a grin that was very nearly convincing, and he touched a finger to one of the glittering drops. “I borrowed them from Mrs Hudson.”
Watson lifted a brow. “Does she know?”
“No. And you’re not going to tell her because they’ll be back in her sitting room, right where she left them, by the time she gets back.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“Thank you.” Holmes sketched a rough bow from the waist up, inclining his head and looking up through his lashes with a roguish expression that made the breath hitch in Watson’s chest. It took him three heartbeats too long to formulate a reply.
“It wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.”
Instead of a reply, Holmes gave him another broad grin. Then he pushed away from the table, chancing a glance at the empty bottles and the needle before he turned towards his bedroom. Goose bumps from the chilly air rose on his bare arms, marred by too many red dots. The first time Holmes had given up on chemical alterations of reality, it had taken a couple of weeks for the marks to fade. Watson still remembered the golden thrill of delight he got from finding Holmes’ arms white and unmarked.
Everything, indeed.
--
Once Holmes had found something to dress in that didn’t involve frills or laces, he first returned the earrings, then disappeared into his study yet again. Watson had to fight his instinctive urge to follow him into the room, to watch over Holmes’ every move even though he trusted Holmes not to lie to him.
It was Mrs Hudson who gave him an excuse. She knocked and entered with a dinner that was more than generous for two people, arms straining under the weight albeit fighting not to show it. Quickly, Watson got up to help her. Despite her initial protest, she appeared relieved when he took the tray from her hands, acquiescing with a dignified, “Thank you, Doctor.”
“You’re very welcome.” Watson set the tray down on the table and took a step back to let her arrange the plates. He wasn’t certain how they’d come to deserve a bottle of wine, but suspected that Mrs Hudson truly was glad to see Holmes alive - not that either she nor Holmes would have ever admitted to anything like a mutual feeling of affection for one another.
“Where is he?” Mrs Hudson asked, glancing around furtively as she straightened. “He isn’t preparing another one of those awful experiments of his, is he? I don’t know how he does it, but it always takes me days to get the stench out of my curtains.”
“You know it is his purpose in life to irritate you,” Watson told her, biting down on a smile.
“Oh,” she said, “it certainly is. By the way, there was someone inquiring about him yesterday.”
Watson jerked his head up, controlling himself just in time to suppress an anxious reaction. “What did you tell them?” he asked evenly, uncorking the wine to occupy his hands.
“Nothing, of course. That his whereabouts are still a mystery. I mentioned I might get a new tenant.” Mrs Hudson sounded offended at the mere idea of her revealing anything she’d been asked not to disclose. “That man had a strange air about him, if you ask me. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the criminal Mr Holmes spoke about.”
“Maybe it was.” Watson’s hands were steady as he poured the wine. “What do you mean by strange air? Can you describe him?”
“Just something about his eyes that I didn’t like,” Mrs Hudson said. “Rather evasive, if you know what I mean. As if he was always looking over his shoulder to make sure that no one was after him. A small man who would come up to your chin, if that, reeking of cigarettes. His jacket didn’t fit.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Watson set the second wineglass down and glanced around. The curtains were already drawn, thick enough to prevent anyone outside from detecting Holmes’ silhouette.
Mrs Hudson left with a furtive look towards Holmes’ study. As soon as her steps faded down the stairs, Watson crossed the room to knock on the ajar door to Holmes’ study, waiting for a cursory three seconds before he entered. He didn’t immediately spot Holmes, only an empty chair in front of the desk, pieces of metal strewn about, a crystal amongst them that caught the light of a lamp.
“Holmes?” Watson asked. His eyes were drawn to the divan where Holmes was curled up, a blanket thrown over his body. At Watson’s voice, he stirred and rolled onto his back, face rather pale underneath his tan, sweaty hair sticking to his skull. It took Watson a moment before he remembered how to breathe around the tight knot lodged in his throat. He was with Holmes in two long strides, kneeling down by Holmes’ side and reaching out to feel his forehead. He was frighteningly cold.
Watson slid his hand down to feel for Holmes’ pulse. It was accelerated, fluttering against his fingertips. “How long?” he asked.
Underneath the blanket, Holmes lifted a shoulder, eyes very wide. His voice was rough. “Not that long, I think. The divan was rather tempting.”
“You could have said something.”
Holmes averted his eyes, a small tremor running through his body. “Nothing you can do,” he mumbled. He seemed utterly unaware of hooking his fingers into Watson’s collar, tugging the shirt down so it bit into the back of Watson’s neck. “I am merely cold, Watson, not dying. A passing phase.”
“We’ll find a way to warm you up,” Watson told him, keeping his voice steady despite the distractingly cold press of Holmes’ hand against his collarbone. His chest ached dully.
“Nothing you can do,” Holmes repeated. It sounded weak, and his eyes were dark and trained on Watson’s mouth again, his fingers tugging Watson forward. A part of Watson was aware that he should at least try to resist, that Holmes wasn’t in his right mind and, maybe, neither was Watson himself. That part diminished to nothing when Holmes gave him a frayed smile and said softly, a hoarse whisper, “Watson.”
“I’ll heat some stones for you.” Watson didn’t move, or if he did, then only in a way that brought their faces closer, Holmes’ unsteady breath ghosting over his lips.
“Yes,” Holmes said, and then he lifted his head and they were kissing, soft gasps and careful brushes of their mouths, too few hours after Watson had promised himself he wouldn’t end up in the same position again. Holmes’ lips were cool against his, skin unexpectedly smooth without the stubble. Watson brought a hand up to cup Holmes’ cheek and felt him tremble into the touch, Holmes’ fingers still icy where they clutched at Watson’s collar.
It was an effort for Watson to turn his head away. “I won’t take advantage of your disposition again,” he whispered into the terse silence.
“No, Watson, no. Your logic is flawed.” Holmes’ voice was scraped raw, like dragging a nail over stone. “I am taking advantage, and I will, I do.”
“You’re delirious.”
“That is one possibility, yes.”
Too weak to resist, Watson didn’t fight the insistent pull of Holmes’ fingers, let Holmes guide him around until he was braced above the divan, hands on either side of Holmes’ head. The only points of contact were in the touch of Holmes’ fingers and the warmth of their exhalations meeting in the barely existent space between their mouths, and Watson wanted more, wanted to feel Holmes tremble against him, wanted Holmes in any way he could even though it was wrong.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Watson managed because this wasn’t fair to Holmes’ deranged state, it wasn’t, and yet Watson couldn’t gather the strength to withdraw.
“I know perfectly well what I’m doing, Watson.” A vague smile tugged at the corners of Holmes’ mouth. Without warning, he wrapped an arm around Watson’s shoulder and drew him down, upsetting Watson’s precarious balance. Watson toppled onto him with an embarrassing lack of grace. Any excuses Watson might have formulated were stifled by Holmes’ lips.
He didn’t remember why he would have wanted to protest. Holmes made it hard to think, and Watson didn’t want to think, he didn’t want-He wanted this.
When Watson lifted himself off the divan, Holmes’ eyes flew open. Whatever he intended to say died when Watson crawled underneath the blanket, spreading it out over both of them and tucking the sides in to preserve warmth. Holmes was still shivering, skin cool to the touch, and maybe that was why he twisted closer, blanket crumpling as he wrapped a leg around Watson’s waist, sabotaging Watson’s efforts to keep the cold air out. With Holmes’ hips pressing to his, Watson couldn’t bring himself to care.
“I lied,” Holmes murmured, lips damp on Watson’s cheek. His hand skimmed down Watson’s back, tugging the shirt out of Watson’s trousers. “There is something you can do.”
Since Watson couldn’t think of a reply, couldn’t think at all, he ground his hips down and felt Holmes’ gasp feather over his skin. Holmes’ thighs fell open even as he arched up against Watson. Holmes’ cool fingers dipped below the waistband of Watson’s trousers, Watson down once more, too much need and too little finesse behind the rhythm they were attempting to build. Watson felt a fingertip slide over the crack of his arse and he shuddered forward just as Holmes pushed up, bodies colliding with too much momentum.
Gripping Holmes’ shoulders, Watson caged him in and bent his head, covering Holmes’ mouth with his own while he felt Holmes’ hands urge him down. He resisted for only a moment before he gave in, twisting his hips down with enough emphasis to make Holmes slide up an inch on the divan, a weary spring creaking softly underneath them. “Watson,” Holmes whispered.
Watson brought their bodies together once more, sucking Holmes’ bottom lip into his mouth. Behind his lids, perfect darkness spread and enveloped him; all that remained was Holmes’ body and voice and the hands clutching at Watson’s back, drawing him in.
He felt it when Holmes’ release hit, felt it in the slow shudder that started in Holmes’ thighs and travelled up Holmes’ spine until he was gasping into Watson’s mouth. Watson swallowed the sounds eagerly, grinding down another time, and another, until the darkness in his head became all-encompassing and drowned out his last spark of awareness. The only thing that mattered was the way Holmes’ arms remained tight around him, holding on even as he slumped forward, the words Holmes and here on the tip of his tongue.
They got lost in Holmes’ mouth.
When Holmes turned his head, Watson’s breathing was still accelerated, chest rising rapidly as he fought not to burden Holmes with his entire weight. The cool tip of Holmes’ nose brushed Watson’s cheek. His breath feathered over the corner of Watson’s mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m not-I’m too weak, Watson. I tried.”
“It’s just a phase,” Watson said quickly. He rolled to the side, aligning them so that Holmes’ body was trapped between Watson and the back of the divan. The closeness allowed Watson to notice the shivers Holmes’ ineffectively strove to suppress. When Watson attempted to catch Holmes’ eyes, he found that Holmes’ lids were still shut, his face ghostly pale. “It’s just a phase,” Watson repeated. Holmes’ hair was tangled, and he didn’t shy away when Watson brushed it away from his forehead in a helpless gesture of…
He didn’t want to think about it.
“It is more than that,” Holmes mumbled.
“It is not.” Watson slid his hand down, digging his knuckles into the back of Holmes’ neck to relieve some of the tension there. “One bad night, Holmes. It’s just the effects of withdrawal.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Holmes burrowed further against the back of the couch, his arm still wrapped around Watson’s waist, almost too tight for comfort.
“Enlighten me, then,” Watson said.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Watson sat up, Holmes’ arm freeing him only after a moment’s hesitation. He peered down at Holmes’ face to find Holmes’ jaw clenched, a slight tremble in his fingers where they were twisted in the fabric of Watson’s ruined shirt. It was clear that given his vulnerable state, Watson would have a much easier time eliciting answers from him. It wouldn’t be fair, precisely, but it would be easier, much easier than it normally was.
Watson inhaled deeply and ran his hand down Holmes’ chest, intending to straighten his rumpled shirt.. “Mrs Hudson brought dinner.”
Holmes lay gazing up at him for too long a moment, long enough to make Watson’s throat tighten. “I am not hungry.”
“Then keep me company.” Watson smiled and, with a brief delay, Holmes’ lips twisted into an answering smile, too uncertain and weak. It took everything in Watson not to reach for him again and forget about dinner, about the world outside in favour of staying here until the morning, until forever, for as long as we both shall live. He pushed the thought away as soon as it had formed, the bitter taste of panic rising in his throat. The last time he’d made a promise like that, forever had lasted less than a year.
He was halfway across the room by the time he’d regained control over his body, his grip so shaky that he didn’t quite dare to look back at Holmes. “Come along, then,” he muttered.
It took several seconds before he heard the blanket rustle behind him, signalling that Holmes would follow.
--
Watson barely slept that night.
He had begun it watching over the bed from an armchair, marvelling at his curious lack of need to leave the house, but Holmes had been cold in spite of three hot stones tucked in between his blankets, had continued to shiver even when Watson’s blanket joined the mountain of covers. Only when Watson had abandoned his principles and climbed in with him, instantly sweltering, did the tremors shaking Holmes’ body subside gradually, his skin warming under Watson’s hands. The issue of how it was inappropriate for them to share a bed, despite or maybe in particular because of recent occurrences, had weighed on Watson’s mind for only a short while; propriety losing all importance when the idea of Holmes going through this alone was unbearable, even more so when it was due to a deal Watson had struck with him.
It wasn’t until the first hint of dawn outlined objects in Holmes’ bedroom that Watson himself drifted off into a light doze, always too aware of Holmes’ thin body behind him, seeking warmth even in sleep.
--
When Watson woke, his bedclothes stuck to his skin in a most unpleasant way, damp with sweat. His sleep-confused mind needed a moment to realise that Holmes was no longer plastered to his back, but once his mind had caught up, he sat up with a start, throwing the covers away.
“Don’t overexert yourself,” Holmes drawled. He’d retreated to the foot of the bed, his back against the wall and a book in his lap even though most of the morning light was blocked out by heavy curtains, making reading difficult. His face was still pale, but compared to last night, he looked considerably better.
“How are you feeling?” Watson asked. He slid back against the headboard, studying Holmes intently even as he tried to will away the pounding behind his eyes. The room didn’t seem completely steady.
“Better.” Holmes’ lips quirked upwards, an attempted smile that turned out rather weak. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, his crossed legs twitching from time to time. “Would you like to inspect my body for new marks?”
Watson’s mind stumbled over what could only be an unintended double meaning that came with Holmes’ question, and he was entirely too aware of Holmes’ shirt gaping open, the sharp line of his collarbones. Looking away required some effort, but it was what Watson had to do. He was a doctor, after all; he knew that chemical substances - or a withdrawal from them - had a tendency to lower a person’s inhibitions, heighten the need for physical contact and dull even the most logical of minds.
Watson wouldn’t take advantage of that fact yet again. It wasn’t fair to either of them.
“No,” he said. “If you wanted, you could just as well find a different way to ingest the poison. It is your promise I trust. You might deliberately withhold information from me, but you’ve never lied.”
Holmes inclined his head, grey morning light glinting on his forehead and the tip of his nose. A blanket that Watson recognised as his own was wrapped around Holmes’ chest, tucked in underneath his armpits, ends piled up in his lap. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something soft about his eyes. “I wouldn’t.”
“The art of omission?” Watson asked, trying for a light tone.
“Yes, well. Unfortunately, the formulation no mind-altering substances doesn’t leave a lot of leeway. Strictly speaking, I would have had to refuse that glass of wine from last night.”
“You drank barely half of it.”
“My hands were shaking too badly.” Holmes said it easily, no particular weight attached to the statement, yet the truth of it made Watson take a quick breath. Looking at Holmes’ hands now showed that while his fingers still twitched from time to time, not yet steady enough to grasp a revolver or continue reconstructing the device, it was nothing compared to last night.
Watson drew his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees as he nodded, not bothering to hide his relief. “Yes, but it’s not as bad anymore, is it? Do you feel strong enough for breakfast?”
“I’m still not particularly hungry.”
“I could feed it to you,” Watson offered without thinking, delight making him fall back into the bickering habits of a time when certain lines had still been firmly drawn between them.
Holmes gave him a bright glance. “That,” he said, “might make the thought of food slightly more appealing.”
It wouldn’t be fair to either of them, Watson repeated to himself. “Right.” he cleared his throat and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, refusing to look at Holmes so the struggle wouldn’t be obvious on his face. He glanced down at his shirt, damp and reeking of a night spent under covers that were too hot. “I need a change of clothes, then I’ll call for Mrs Hudson. Shall I bring you some clean clothes as well, or are you planning to wear your own, for a change?”
“Thank you, but I prefer yours.” The blanket rustled as Holmes threw it back, climbing to his feet.
“You do know my clothes are too loose on you, these days?” Watson carefully didn’t glance at the gaping collar of Holmes’ borrowed shirt. It didn’t help that the shirt slid further askew when Holmes shrugged.
“Then maybe you should buy some that fit me,” Holmes said.
“You only like them because they’re mine,” Watson pointed out. It was true; the fonder he was of a particular article of clothing, the more likely that article of clothing was to end up on Holmes’ body. Watson blamed it on Holmes growing up as the younger of two boys - sibling rivalry was a fascinating phenomenon.
“True.” Holmes’ smile shone through his tone. “I do like them because they’re yours.”
“Thief,” Watson said.
Holmes tilted his head, a strange twist to his grin. “I’d call myself an opportunist.”
“Do you always need to have the last word?”
“Yes.”
Watson snorted in what was probably a most undignified manner, but he was tired and hungry and didn’t feel quite composed. Things would improve once he’d had his first cup of tea and shared his concerns about Mrs Hudson’s visitor.
--
Watson left Mary’s wedding ring in a drawer of his nightstand. He’d failed her twice, had allowed loneliness to get the better of him and been too weak to resist the comfort and temporary refuge Holmes personified. It added up to the fact that Watson no longer deserved to keep her memory that close to his chest. He felt oddly naked without the chain around his neck.
When he sat down at the breakfast table, Holmes’ gaze rested on his face for a blessedly short moment, then slid away. Holmes had already piled some egg and bacon onto his plate, fork hovering in the air while he waited for Watson to serve himself. “Hungry, after all?” Watson asked.
“My stomach woke up to the fact that I haven’t had dinner, it appears.” Holmes stabbed a piece of bacon, lifting it up for a thorough inspection. The sight caused Watson to snort softly.
“You know Mrs Hudson wouldn’t really poison it, don’t you?”
“She’s a woman,” Holmes replied, his tone petulant. He scowled down at the perfectly fried bacon before finally putting it in his mouth, chewing with an expression that suggested he was making a sacrifice.
“I’m most certain there is a reason behind your haphazard rush to judge all women.” Watson shook his head and reached for his own fork. “However, I’m not so certain I want to know what it is.”
“Mary never tried to poison your tea?” Holmes asked, shooting a swift glance across the table. “Or your wine?”
The question tightened Watson’s throat for an instant. He swallowed against it and said evenly, “No. I suppose I never gave her a reason.”
“And I did?” Holmes sounded outraged. “Not Mary, obviously, but I do recall more than one occasion when refusing drinks from Irene was the best course of action.”
“Well. Irene Adler is certainly a different matter. And let’s just say that all things considered, I wouldn’t blame Mrs Hudson.” Watson managed a faint grin and added quickly, before Holmes could continue to harp on the topic, “Speaking of Mrs Hudson, she told me she had a visitor who inquired about you.”
“A visitor?” Holmes dropped his fork and leaned forward, clasping Watson’s elbow, presumably to stop him from taking a bite that might delay his reply. “Who was it? When?”
Watson shot a pointed look at Holmes’ hand. He waited for Holmes to release his hold and then took a bite of his eggs, chewing thoroughly while Holmes was glaring at him, clearly impatient. The faint tremors that shook his body had subsided to almost nothing.
After gulping the peppered eggs down, Watson shared what he’d learned from Mrs Hudson the evening before. It wasn’t a lot, anyway. Once Watson was done, Holmes sat back with a thoughtful look in his eyes, taking an absent bite of food. His only comment was, “Interesting.”
Unlike Holmes, Watson found he’d lost his appetite; he leaned forward. “When Moriarty finds us… How are we ready for him? I don’t see how we’re even remotely ready.”
“Actually.” Holmes’ voice was bright and unconcerned. “I think he might be aware of my return already.”
“He-what?” Watson pushed his plate away and lifted his eyes to Holmes’ face, finding no trace of humour, only the intense concentration Holmes displayed when he was figuring out a puzzle. “How?”
“I don’t know how, but it’s been curiously quiet, my comings and goings almost too easy, as if the watch his man has on us is only for show.” Holmes paused to shove another bite of food into his mouth, not quite swallowing before he continued. “That man who spoke to Mrs Hudson, it strikes me as… clumsy. Moriarty’s actions are anything but.” Setting down the fork, Holmes leaned forward to clasp Watson’s arm once more. His cool fingertips were gentle on Watson’s wrist. “He’s highly intelligent, Watson. A worthy adversary.”
“So what you’re saying is...” Watson studied the contrast between Holmes' skin and his own, the months in the sun having left their mark on Holmes' while his own was pale, hinting at long nights and short days. The only thing he'd never neglected was physical fitness, if only because it had eased his sleep. He looked up and met Holmes' gaze. “You're saying that he knows you’re here, and that he’s biding his time.”
“Yes. I expect he wants me to finish my little scientific project first, rebuild the device.”
“And we are not ready for him.”
“No.” Holmes pulled his hand away. He got out of his chair, walking a circle around the table as if incessant energy made it impossible to keep still any longer. His tone was thoughtful. “But he has one big flaw which we may use against him, Watson.” Pausing behind Watson's chair, Holmes was silent for a moment, and when Watson twisted around to look at him, he found that Holmes was staring up at the ceiling and didn't blink as he continued, talking fast. “He knows enough to be certain that your loss would bring me right back to England, yet I doubt he is capable of wrapping his mind around what it means to trust another person. Trust them with your life, if necessary. The only people he trusts are those he can control because he knows their darkest secrets.”
“What if he knows yours?” Watson interrupted. The question made Holmes' eyes focus on him again. Holmes' reply came with a noticeable delay.
“It is quite possible he already does.” A curious note swung in the statement, but Holmes shook his head and turned away before Watson could ask for clarification. “But what matters is that he doesn’t know you.” Homes paused briefly before he added, “He would have difficulties wrapping his mind around the idea that I trust you with my life, and that I trust you to be there when I need you, right where I need you.”
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>> Part 3