Fic: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Eleven
Title: Letters, or the Case of the Cerulean Syringe, Part Eleven
Author: sarisa_rahe & agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours.
Summary: To quote starjenni : “the midden has hit the windmill now!”
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: Dudes makin’ out, language.
Word Count: 9,237
Author's Notes: Part 11.
Previous Sections: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten
~~~~~
By the time Watson ascends his front steps at Cavendish Place, his stomach is tangled in a knot that would rival any produced by Captain Tanner. But he continues onward, unlocking his front door and letting himself into the cool, dimly-lit hallway. He'd left earlier without a word to Mary about anything at all, and he winces with guilt when he sees his pillow and blankets piled neatly beneath the settee in the sitting room, with Mary herself perched upon it, basket of crocheting set beside her. She's creating something lacy and white, and he has a brief, surreal suspicion that she might be crocheting a doily. Christ, he thinks numbly. He's come full-circle without even meaning to. If he'd listened to Holmes, then, instead of only becoming more determined to forge his own path, make his own damned decisions and marry the woman he loves... well.
Things would have worked out a great deal better, wouldn't they? Yes, his friend had used ridiculous and idiotic methods to try to convince him that marriage was a foolish idea, but he should have been able to see beneath those, to the emotion behind the sharp-edged humor and general outrageousness.
He crosses to the window, setting aside his overcoat and swordstick, but does not sit in his usual chair, and he can feel Mary's eyes on his back, waistcoat still stained from the fight the night before. "Are you well this morning?" he asks quietly, staring out at the passers by on the street below.
"I'm fine, John." Her voice sends a knife through the center of his diaphragm.
"Are you?" The question pops out before he can stop it, but he doesn't take it back, and she doesn't answer aloud. No, she's not all right, not really. Physically, she's hale. In other senses... no. No, she is not.
There is quiet for a few minutes, her crocheting needles clicking away, as Watson gathers his courage, wondering if he's about to be stabbed with one of the small steel points. Finally, though, he reminds himself that this... this is right, for Mary. That he cannot continue this deception without hurting all three parties involved. And yet... he cannot simply walk away from her, either. Aside from Holmes, she is his closest friend and companion, his lover, and his chest and head feel hollow at the knowledge of what he must do, now. "Mary," he says quietly, swallowing. "I love you."
Her voice is very even, and the sound of her needles clacking fades, first losing its even, quick rhythm and then stopping completely. It hits Watson suddenly that he will probably never here that sound again. "And I love you, John." Pain takes up residence in the hollowness that is his ribcage. There's a rustling sound as she sets aside her work and stands. When he forces himself to turn, he sees relief on her face. Relief that he isn't angry for the night before? That he has something so pleasant to say? He doesn't know, swallows again, and watches her expression shift slightly as she sees his own. Sees the guilt.
"But..." He chokes, forges onward. "I am in love with someone else."
For a long moment, the room is silent. Watson stares at Mary, forces himself to, and Mary stares back, but... doesn't see him, not right now. She just... stares at him, shocked. She supposes, dazedly, weakly, that she should have known, seeing his face a moment ago, seeing him as he walked in a minute ago... she should have known it would be something like this. Should have known...
But... how could she possibly have known? Yes, she saw that something was wrong. But how could she ever have known that it would be this? She is a logical, mature woman, she knows this sort of thing happens. But there had been no signs... this can't be happening. It takes Mary a long time to get beyond pure shock, disbelief. Her John... they just married. He couldn't love someone else, he loves her. He married her. Surely if there was someone else... if he'd been... unfaithful... she would have noticed something was amiss. He would have been sneaking around, or... something. Anything. This simply... it just can't be.
He hasn't done anything strange, not really. The only strangeness has been his running off at all hours to... get into fights with Mr. Holmes. She knows all about that, now, much more than she would ever really care to know. But that... she followed him, knows where he's been. Who could he possibly be in love with? Did he meet someone after they married? Before? But whom? He's never even mentioned... never...
All of the color slowly begins to drain from Mary's face as she stares at her husband; he takes a step towards her, obviously worried, and that seems to drag Mary back to reality. Immediately, she steps back, away from him, and he freezes, guilt written all over his face. Guilt that, suddenly, Mary detests. Guilt is what brought him here, to have this conversation with her. She doesn't want his guilt. Which is why she continues to stare at him once she backs away. The color is still gone from her face, but now she's staring at her husband and actually seeing him, her mouth pressed into a thin line, almost disappearing on her face.
There are a million questions she could ask him, a million things she could scream at him, throw at him, demand of him. But only one matters. "Who?" she asks quietly.
Watson is silent for a long, long moment, staring back at her. He has explanations, an entire speech that he'd half-thought through in his mind while he'd waited for her to react, reasons, excuses, a way, any way to reassure her... but there is none. There is no way to make this better, and the best he can give her is the truth. Which is why he's here.
He meets her eyes steadily, unable to erase the guilt on his face despite the whiteness, the terrible pain on hers. Just as quietly, he replies, "Holmes." His voice is steady, despite its low volume, despite the guilt he feels for causing her so much pain. He isn't afraid to admit it, and he won't be ashamed.
Maybe it's a good thing that Mary has no color left to lose, because that simple answer has her so stunned that she very nearly needs to sit down. But Mary is nothing if not stubborn, and she refuses to so much as twitch in reaction to anything said from here on. Except... except it's nearly impossible not to react to this, to this... admission. It's so ridiculous, so outlandish, so... absolutely insane, possibly the most insane answer he could have given, that Mary has absolutely no doubt that it's the truth. This... is not the sort of thing anyone would joke about, or lie about. For many reasons, not the least of which being that he could be thrown in jail for just that admission. Not to mention if he and Holmes were caught... doing... being...
Suddenly, Mary's resolve not to respond to any of this outwardly is gone, because she feels that she needs to sit or she's going to faint, and she would rather die than faint in front of her husband right now. Slowly, she sinks back down on to the settee, still staring up at him, still deathly pale and shocked. Shocked and hurt. Hurt so deeply, she thinks, that she isn't certain she's feeling it completely just yet. She won't, she decides, until John is gone. And he will be gone. She knows that now, despite the horrible pain in her chest at the thought.
Mary tries to be disgusted, to hate him, both of them, for what this means. But she can't. Even now, the only thing that she can feel is numb, and slowly creeping in, worry. Worry for the man who is in the process of breaking her heart... and worry for the man that man is in love with. Should they be caught... Christ. What they might be caught at, she can't even bring herself to think the words. It's wrong. It's wrong, it's evil, against not just the law but against God... John has always been such a righteous man, maybe not the most religious but always a good man. This makes no sense. It's... wrong. They must know that. Maybe Holmes doesn't, God knows that man would hardly care even if he did know, but surely John knows...
Of course he knows it's wrong. That's why... that's why he married her. Everything is suddenly starting to make a terrible sort of sense... their romance, the fights with Holmes, John's distancing himself, his moods...
Unaware that she's been staring off at the wall across the room for some time now, Mary doesn't lift her head to look up at her husband- John- when she speaks, flatly and without feeling. "This would have been bad enough..." she begins blankly, unable to look up at him. Her husband, the man she'd fallen in love with, who had been like a dream come true after a life that had gone so awry. "Was it all a lie?" Now she looks up at him. His face is awful. She wishes she could feel some sort of relief or satisfaction, seeing him in so much pain from this. Wishes that saying awful things to him would make her pain go away. "Don't answer that. I don't believe I actually wish to know." She has no idea which would be worse. The lie... or the truth, that he loves her, but not enough.
But Watson can't keep from answering. "It wasn't a lie!" he bursts out, pain making his voice hoarse. "It was not a lie. I didn't... this is a revelation to me, these feelings... The cruelest thing in the world right now would be for me to try to express how I love you. But if things remain as they are, I will make everyone miserable. You deserve better than me, Mary. Better than this. Someone who deserves you."
He swallows hard around the lump in his throat. "I'll abide by your wishes, Mary. Whatever you want... if you wish never to see me again, after this, I understand." His chest feels as though it's contracting, but he pushes it aside. He can't possibly be feeling as much pain as she is, right now.
Mary stares back at him now, expressionless. "Will you?" she asks, voice emotionless from shock and a flat refusal to cry. She won't cry now, not in front of him. Not to spare him the guilt, but to spare herself the shame. "And if I asked you to stay?"
He doesn't respond right away, not having expected that, but Mary can see the pain in his expression. Perhaps he would stay, if she asked him to stay, to leave Holmes alone, to pretend. Maybe guilt would give him the strength. But she couldn't. Not knowing... not knowing that he was in love with someone else, it doesn't matter who. Not knowing that she was second best to him. Not knowing that he would be happy elsewhere and miserable with her. Mary couldn't do that to herself... or to him. Much as right now she wants nothing so much as to strike him, Mary knows she couldn't be that to John, couldn't be the chain that ties him down instead of the wife she thought she was... wanted so badly to be.
Mary shakes her head. "I won't," she says quietly after a moment. And then, even more quietly, "I couldn't."
They're silent for another long moment, until finally Mary looks away again, down at his feet, wondering if she really does wish to never see him again. Right now, it seems possible. Right now, she just feels numb. This all seems so unreal, and yet... makes so damn much sense. It answers every question. Solves the case, she supposes, very neatly. She shies away from that thought, though, not wanting to think of Holmes. She doesn't know what she thinks about him now. She wants to blame him for this, but finds that she cannot. She remembers him, his face, after John had been injured by the explosion during that whole Blackwood affair. She recalls her own words to him, that he loved John as much as she does. It's only now that she realizes how very true those words must have been.
"You'll be going back to live with him, I suppose," she says blankly after another pause, finally raising her eyes to meet her husband's. "It's madness. I can believe that H...Holmes doesn't care about the consequences of his actions the way most people do, that he doesn't care or realize what might happen. But you're not like that, John, you must know it's madness at best, immoral at worst-" Here she chokes, looking down again. She doesn't know if it's wrong. She's never thought about it much, the idea of men loving one another as men are meant to love women. It had never been relevant to her except as something that is wrong and illegal. But now... suddenly it is relevant, and she finds that she doesn't care. All that matters is that John loves someone else and he is leaving her. And then... beneath the shock and anger, beneath the betrayal and pain... fear. Perhaps she is uncertain about these things, but the law is not. "You could be put in prison. You could be killed. Both of you."
Watson nods slowly, forcing himself to look up at her. It's true. What they're doing... it has consequences. The sorts of consequences that involve multiple years in work gangs, or in prison. Thankfully, the legal punishments no longer involve death, but the police aren't the only ones they need to worry about.
"I know," he says quietly. "Discretion is all... that can be strived for. But it's worth--" He cuts himself off, closing his eyes. "Christ, Mary, I cannot say this to you and know it will only cause you more pain. And I cannot ask..."
He swallows hard, his jaw muscles flexing. "If you must have your vengeance against me, if the cards fall that way for you, I understand. Turn me in. But just... leave him out of it. I beg of you, Mary, please. I'll take whatever punishment you deem appropriate. But it's I that's hurt you."
At that, Mary shakes her head, looking away. John's eyes are closed, but Mary doesn't dare close her own, for fear of letting tears fall. She is a strong woman. Some had told her too strong. She'd always thought it was an asset, but secretly had known it would make finding a husband difficult. And after her first engagement... she'd thought she would never have the life she'd dreamed of. But then... John had appeared in her life, and the dream had been right there, within her grasp... and now it's taken away again, just as swiftly. She shouldn't have let herself hope... shouldn't have let herself love him so much. But she couldn't have known, and what's more she doesn't think she could have stopped it if she'd tried.
"Do you really think me so cruel?" she asks after a pause, voice pained for another reason now. "So... petty? An eye for an eye? What punishment would be appropriate for falling in love?" She shakes her head. Her voice is hoarse, the tears that are still unshed trying to remedy that. "I don't wish vengeance upon you, John. I love you still. I suppose that's the tragedy of it." She nearly laughs, but it comes out as more of a choked sigh, an exhalation of breath. "It's funny. I don't think I blame him at all, despite the great effort he went to to keep you from me. He was right all along. I imagine he's pleased by that." She draws in a breath, but it's shaky. Holmes had been so against John marrying her... hadn't wanted to meet her... it all makes such terrible sense. "I worry that you'll be found out. I wonder if I should worry for your soul. But I will not be the reason either of you are discovered. I won't be responsible for ruining your chance at happiness."
And now, Watson realizes, he may lose his battle against the tears. Unmanly or not, he doesn't care. "Mary..." But how can he argue? To do so would be foolish, and cruel to her. Despite everything he's done to her, of which she now knows the full extent, she still won't be responsible for ruining his happiness. For causing him that pain.
And he is the lowest of the low, not least because... he does love her. But the more cruel he, for he doesn't love her enough to stay. "What can I do? What should I do, Mary?" His voices sounds almost helpless. He has no idea what to do in this situation. How do they proceed? Should he leave her? Will he make everything worse for her by remaining here, worried as he is for her?
"I don't know, John," Mary says blankly, looking away again. That's all she seems to be doing, looking at him and then looking away, but she feels right now as though she couldn't move any more than that. She's frozen on the settee, color drained from her face and trying with all of her will to keep from bursting into hysterical tears. That's what she's expected to do, she's certain. Perhaps that's why she refuses. Or perhaps she simply cannot accept all of this, is in too much shock for this to be quite real.
Yet. It's becoming more and more real by the moment, and Mary can barely think for the effort it takes to keep from crying. How dare he ask her what he should do? How dare he, when it's obvious that he already knows very well what it is he'll be doing? When coming here to tell her this is a decision in and of itself? He knows very well what he's going to do. He's going to leave her. There are no other options, not anymore. Not after telling her this. "Leave," she says quietly, not looking up at him, not moving at all. There's nothing he can do to help but leave. She can't sit here and have this discussion anymore. It hurts to say it, it hurts to breathe, but it would hurt more to endure this any longer. "Just go."
Jaw tight with the effort not to respond, Watson nods slowly. There's nothing more he can do. Turning, he walks slowly out of the room... then more quickly up the stairs to the bedroom, taking his valise from beneath the bed and beginning to pack it quickly. He tries to go slowly down the stairs, is too much of a coward to look into the sitting room on his way to his office, where he packs what he'll likely need of his medical supplies. The entire process doesn't take more than ten minutes.
As he leaves, valise in hand, he risks a glance in at Mary. She's facing away from him, bent forward, but her shoulders aren't shaking. Somehow, that is even worse than it would have been were she weeping.
~~~~~
An hour and a half after he'd left, Watson returns to 221B, this time carrying a valise. He'll have to send notes to his patients to inform them that he won't be able to keep his appointments for a few days, as well as of the fact that his practice has returned to Baker Street... well, unless Holmes disagrees, but Watson doubts he will.
His mind is very firmly stuck on the everyday particulars of his current situation, and of what he'll have to do, and most definitely not on Mary's face when he'd confessed the truth to her, that he loves her, he truly does, but... that he's in love with Holmes. Another man. Holmes. She'd stared at him in shock… and then with pain, so much pain… he’d rather she’d thrown things at him. Anything but the quiet grief, the sight of her sitting there as he’d left.
And the burning behind his eyes... that doesn’t seem as though it will go away in the near future. He'll have to... arrange for his things to be moved back to Baker Street, he supposes, his work materials the most important, of course. But just now... it's over.
More dazed and in shock than anything else, he walks slowly back up to the sitting room and pushes open the door, blinking over at Mrs. Hudson and then at Holmes on the couch. "Hello," he says quietly, suddenly not wanting to speak to anyone at all. Because it doesn't matter if this is the right thing for everyone, the thing that will make them all happy in the end (or so he hopes, and he admits to some trepidation regarding that after his most recent failure at making everyone happy)... it still hurts. He still feels like utter scum.
Mrs. Hudson stands, concerned. "Doctor?" she begins, but he waves her off.
"My wife and I have separated, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid... if I could inquire as to..."
"You do not even need to ask, Doctor." She rests an affectionate hand on his shoulder on her way to the door. "I'm so very sorry." And clearly she means that; she's come to view these two as more family than tenants, which she supposes isn't so very unusual, her own children long grown and gone.
"Thank you," Watson manages quietly, staring at his boots, and she takes the hint, leaving the two men in silence. But after a few minutes, Watson raises a brow at the back of the settee, which is all he can see from his chair. "You'd better not be goddamned sleeping."
“No, but I may be bleeding out from stab wounds inflicted by Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes mumbles in return, frozen suddenly in place even as he speaks. If he turns and looks at Watson, one of two things will happen: he will not be there, and thus Holmes will have hallucinated this entire ordeal, or he will be, and he will look every bit as horrible as Holmes is imagining right now from the sound of his voice.
Holmes cannot, for the life of him, decide which would be worse. For a long moment, he debates this, not certain what he would do should he look and find no trace of Watson, or should he look and find a heartbroken Watson. Holmes doesn’t know how to deal with a heartbroken Watson, hasn’t a clue if he should even be allowed to deal with that sort of Watson at all.
But in the end, as always, curiosity wins out. Holmes decides that he has to know, and that’s all there is to it. So slowly, the movement painful but at the very least distracting, he lifts himself up; a moment later, his head appears over the back of the settee, and visible from only the nose up, Holmes stares at Watson. Who is quite real, just over there, and looks somewhere between ready to cry and as though someone had hit him in the face with a hammer, which he hadn’t been expecting and still hasn’t quite come to terms with.
Holmes fights a wince, for once at a loss. He knows this wasn’t really his fault... not really... but in a way, it was. He could have just left well enough alone, could have stopped trying to get Watson to realize... he doesn’t know what he could have done but there were undoubtedly a million things he’d done wrong and now Watson looks like that and Holmes recalls suddenly that he is not very good at reassurances in any sense of the word. So he stares at Watson instead, silent, for a very long time, wracking his brain for any words of comfort or consolation.
But Holmes has none of those, not really. And so in the end, he determines that it’s a lost cause. All he has to offer is normalcy, which Watson can take or leave at his pleasure. “I had no idea knitting needles made such effective weapons.”
Watson snorts at that, knocking his hat from his head and reaching down to say hello to Gladstone, who has trundled over to greet him, having woken up from his mid-morning coma. "I requested that she use any means necessary," he admits, standing with a small groan and stretching out his back. Everything feels rather numb at the moment, and he has no idea how to distract himself from the events of the past few hours, even though he would desperately like something to catch his attention.
He would go up to his old room, possibly curl up on the bed and weep unashamedly (so long as Holmes and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be able to hear him), but he can't leave Holmes alone with a concussion, not when the man is so close to falling asleep. "Make it to suppertime and I'll let you sleep for an hour at a time, with my waking you up," he offers, moving over to sit on the carpet in front of the settee, staring over at the table full of letters and laboratory equipment.
There is a sizable stack of letters, and he crawls up onto his knees to retrieve them, setting them back down and lowering himself to lean back against the front of the settee, of which Holmes has rather impressively managed to take up every inch. He struggles out of his jacket and waistcoat as well, unknotting his tie and dropping it on top of the pile and picking up the letters instead.
"A Mr. Perry of Bath has been robbed of a ruby necklace and matching earrings," he announces after a moment, glancing up over his shoulder at Holmes. "Worth a half-million pounds, apparently." Of course, they had just done a case involving jewelry. "Also, Lady Talbot claims she is being blackmailed by an unknown gentleman."
Eyes only half-open now that he’s given up holding himself up (since Watson has moved), Holmes nevertheless is paying attention, forcing himself to perhaps pay a little more attention than he normally would so as not to fall asleep. He’s completely certain Watson would beat him mercilessly to keep him awake, but that’s not what has him worried.
Plus, now he has a goal in mind. Suppertime. Make it to suppertime. How far away is that? He would like it to be suppertime now. But at the same time, he really wouldn’t, because... well, Watson has returned and looks horrific and even so Holmes can’t fight off the sense of relief at his return.
So he waves off the ruby necklace, sure that that would take all of ten seconds were he to look into it. “No more jewelry,” he says, affirming Watson’s suspicions. Watson moves on to the second, and Holmes holds in a sigh. “And Lady Talbot is indeed being blackmailed, by her ex-lover. Who is not, in fact, a gentleman at all.” He pauses, considering just how horrifically two women could completely muddle things up between one another, and barely withholds a shudder. “Needless to say, no thank you.”
Blinking down at the letter, Watson sets it aside after a moment, his eyes wide. "Oh," he says succinctly, quite glad Holmes had naysaid that one. He sighs, looking through the rest of them, but doesn't see anything else of interest. few mildly entertaining ones involving affairs and double-crosses, and one lost dog... "Damn, then."
Sighing, he sets them aside and leans his head back against the settee, but he hadn't realized how close Holmes is lying to the edge of the cushion, as his head promptly bumps into the other man's torso, provoking a hiss of pain from his patient. He winces, lifting his head immediately. "I do apologize..."
He'd apologized to Mary, as well, for hurting her. That hadn't earned him a positive reaction. He sighs again, wondering how long his thoughts will continue to return to Mary. It's... not pleasant. Looking down at his hand, he slowly slides off the wedding band, tucking it into his pocket and swallowing hard. "I suppose this means I'm a free man," he points out, clearly still thinking about his confession. "I do wonder if her mother is going to hunt me down and stab me to death in my sleep."
Holmes’ eyes widen slightly at that suggestion, not in surprise, but rather in mild concern. She actually... very well might. Especially if Mary tells her the exact reason Watson had had that discussion with her... oh, dear lord. Holmes dearly hopes she does not. It would be almost fitting payback, if Mary were very angry still... and cruel...
Deciding not to worry about it, as it’s unlikely at best, Holmes also determines that he should set the Irregulars to watch out for Mr. or Mrs. Morstan, just in case. Prior warning would be very nice. Possibly so that he can get Watson out and away so that the man doesn’t have to deal with them. After all, all things considered, Holmes knows it wouldn’t be very difficult to determine where Watson had gone when he’d left.
Well, odds are not for Watson being murdered in his sleep. But still, it is a valid fear, considering the woman in question. “We’d best hide all of the knitting needles,” he says dryly, although he is watching Watson remove his wedding band, eyes wide. This should feel better; he got what he had wanted, what he’d hoped for and thought was impossible. But all Holmes can feel is sad, sorry for all of the trouble that had been caused. No matter how many times he determines that he himself is not to blame, he can’t find it in himself to blame only Watson for all of this.
Especially not when Watson looks so dreadful. He looks, honestly, a bit like a kicked puppy. It’s horrendous. Tugs on the heartstrings. Holmes assures himself that he is above such shows of being completely pitiful, and that if he wasn’t so unwell right now he’d probably smack Watson. But he is unwell, and so it’s okay that instead he puts a hand on Watson’s shoulder, which is conveniently just within reach.
What he really means to say then is that he’s sorry and thank god Watson is back. What comes out is, “If you‘d like, I shall trap the front doorway.” But it’s said quietly, his tone much gentler than normal.
"Please don't," Watson says with a small groan. "I would be the one to walk into it." But his complaint isn't as emphatic as it normally would be... because Holmes' hand is on his shoulder. He'd had to restrain himself from jumping when it had first appeared there, from surprise more than anything else. It's not as though they had never touched one another before all of this. In fact, they'd always been quite tactile, now that he realizes it, always touching one another's arms and shoulders, and leaning in close to speak.
He hopes that doesn't change, now that he's become aware of it. He doesn't think it will, though, and he appreciates the comforting gesture. It does more to ground him than anything else could at the moment, he's certain.
With that in mind, he reaches up slowly across his chest and rests his hand over Holmes' on his shoulder, smiling a little to himself. He can't manage a full-blown grin right now, but this... this is pretty close.
Relieved despite himself, Holmes spends a good minute or so pretending that he hadn’t been afraid Watson was going to pull away or move or... something, that he himself hadn’t been about to pull off and pretend as though nothing had happened. And then he spends a few minutes likewise pretending that he isn’t inordinately pleased just at the fact that Watson’s hand is now on his. He’s about halfway through being pleased with himself (and Watson, he supposes) when he has to remind himself that sleeping is bad before Watson hurts him, forcing his eyes open halfway to stare at the ceiling.
It’s official. This concussion is going to cause him more pain than all of the other bruises and broken bones he’d taken the night before put together. He can only behave so long, and, an important fact he thinks: he hasn’t slept in three days. It’s really only a matter of time before Watson has to hurt him to keep him from passing out, and Holmes knows this quite certainly and yet can do nothing about it.
So instead he spends a few minutes refusing to move, very tentatively basking in the fact that Watson is right there, even if he’s depressed, and his hand is on Holmes’. Certainly they’ve had close contact of this sort before, but... well. It seems a bit different now, doesn’t it? Of course, now his mind has latched, quite against his will, onto the idea of trapping the front door, and it isn’t long before Holmes is seriously considering several tentative blueprints in his mind, sure he would look thoughtful if he could just keep his eyes open.
Watson looks up after a few minutes when there's no vocal response from Holmes, craning his head around to find Holmes' eyes closed. Swearing softly, he shakes the hand that's on his shoulder, making the other man's eyes pop open. He busies himself reading through the letters again, reaching for a nearby chemistry book and glancing through it after a while when he runs out of letters, having to wake Holmes every few minutes.
But there comes a point when shaking his hand doesn't work, nor does poking, and Watson considers briefly before removing his own hand from atop Holmes so that it's not in the way... and leaning over to bite down gently on the other man's wrist. Holmes' eyes snap open at that, but by the time he can focus on Watson, the doctor is once again absorbed in the text, looking as though he'd never stopped reading in the first place.
"Still awake?" he asks calmly, not looking up for a minute and then meeting Holmes' wide eyes with a confused look of his own. "What?"
For a moment, Holmes can only blink back at Watson, eyes wide with severe confusion- not an atypical expression when he is first waking up- and maybe something else, except he’s not sure what exactly just happened. He was considering a pulley system from the window in the sitting room out to the front door, a trip wire and perhaps sulfuric acid. Not for Mrs. Morstan of course, for potential burglars, not that anyone has ever been quite so foolish. And then he was... probably sleeping. And then...
And then Watson may or may not have just done that. Did he dream that? Of course it’s entirely possible that he had, Holmes has had dreams featuring the doctor doing much more than just that on occasion. And for a moment, Holmes is a bit angry that he’d woken up except then he realizes that that makes absolutely no sense- if he’d woken up, something would have to have woken him and Watson has his innocent face on.
Confusion turns to narrowed eyes and suspicion in less than a second, then, and Holmes frowns down at Watson, who is putting on a good show of confusion. Holmes is not convinced. Watson knows perfectly well what. “Unfortunately,” he mumbles. “As I was apparently having a very pleasant dream.” And back to sleep; Holmes very purposefully closes his eyes this time, quite determined to cause as much trouble as humanly possible. Good luck keeping him awake, doctor.
"You're not supposed to be dreaming at all," Watson says in his doctor's voice, but when this doesn't work he raises his brows, staring down at the apparently sleeping detective. Hm. Well, he'll just have to find another way to keep him awake, won't he?
Best watch out, he'll pull out the knitting needles, soon. Or real needles, if he's feeling vindictive. After all, Holmes had kept him awake in the wee hours of the morning for years... Thus, feeling quite justified, he leans over and this time licks the inside of Holmes' wrist with just the tip of his tongue, tasting sweat and copper from blood he'd missed, earlier. The act makes his stomach tighten into a rather pleasant knot, and he goes back to the book more slowly, smirking a little now.
Completely awake very suddenly, Holmes has to literally bite his tongue to keep from making any noise; he’s sure whatever noise he managed would be quite unmanly, and he is certainly not prepared to give Watson that satisfaction. He has to fight back the urge to either pull his arm away, so as not to give any more opportunities for such taunting, but that would be letting Watson win too.
He’s drawing blood from biting his tongue, and in the end Holmes can’t help that his hand twitches and then his hand balls into a fist. But he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t need to, because he knows exactly how smug Watson’s face looks without having to do so. And worse, he knows that if he did look at Watson, the effect it would have on him would only make Watson smirk further.
It’s all quite unfair, he decides. He’s weakened. There must be some kind of doctor-patient regulation against this sort of treatment.
"Open your eyes, Holmes," Watson says sternly, finally closing the book a moment later. He sees the tension in the other man's shoulders, though, knows he's not asleep... but he knows how easily that could change. "Now." A flicker of eyelashes, but then mimed sleep again, and Watson sighs.
"This is only encouraging you to fall asleep. I see. I've used the wrong tactic." He nods slowly, lifting Holmes' hand from his shoulder and setting it down on the cushion next to his torso, sitting up on his knees with a grunt and facing the settee so he can lean over the other man.
Musing for a moment, he raises his brows again. "As it so happens, I did remember to bring my suture needles." That gets Holmes' eyes open, and Watson smirks again. "Good man."
“I never do give you enough credit, Watson,” Holmes declares after a moment of sulking in Watson’s general direction (well, not really after, the sulking continues but is dampened because it is hard to sulk and sound vaguely arrogant all at once, although Holmes is quite skilled at sounding arrogant and/or patronizing in just about any situation). This would all be much more convincing, too, if he could breathe, and thus speak, properly. “You can be quite devious when you put your mind to it.”
Of course, that is hardly a compliment, but then Holmes knows Watson is quite enjoying himself in this situation. The smirk has hardly left his face at all for half a second. Holmes scowls at the smirk on Watson’s face for a moment before spending another moment wondering why in God’s name the man would think first to bring his suture needles and deciding that Watson’s priorities are simply baffling.
And of course, not surprisingly, he not only can’t sleep, he can’t run away even if he should want to. Oh, he’d make it a couple steps if he timed it right. Maybe. So his only way of fighting back is to be horribly insufferable. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t sleeping at all,” he informs the doctor, one eyebrow raised. “I was contemplating the many uses of sulfuric acid and a trip wire.”
Watson raises his brows. "Right." He leans forward against the settee, his leg unable to support his weight for too very long in such an awkward position, and grits his teeth when he feels the familiar agonizing scrape. "Hell," he growls, falling back on his arse and then clenching his jaw shut on what would have been an extremely pained noise, not to mention a loud one, as his knee bends as far as it will go, straining the pain already in his thigh. Hellfire and bloody buggering--
He wills himself to stop swearing, even mentally, his face going intentionally blank as he carefully lifts his weight up so he can straighten out his legs, the bad one in particular. It never stops hurting, not really, but is always in degrees, the small chunk of iron lodged against his femur scraping against muscle and bone and causing enough pain to make a man scream. It's not quite that bad at the moment, but he's afraid if he unclenches his jaw he'll let out an extremely unmanly whimper.
"Christ," he manages finally, eyes still squeezed shut. But he doesn't say a word about it, continuing the conversation from a moment before. "That sounds... extremely unpleasant, please don't actually put a trap on the door, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson or I would undoubtedly set it off, not an intruder."
Certain that Watson would indeed manage to set off any trap he set on the door in one way or another, probably because he would set it to be tested on Watson in the first place (but with water, not sulfuric acid), Holmes does not argue with this, but then he is distracted by the obvious pain on Watson’s face. By now, Watson is of course very good at keeping most people from noticing when he’s in pain, but certainly never Holmes. Even if his face wasn’t sort of scrunched up in that manner, Holmes would know. He knows by now what movements are going to hurt Watson, even if it won’t be immediate pain such as this.
Of course, it would also be easy to tell that Watson is in pain because of the way he shifts around until he’s seated facing the settee, legs actually underneath the thing. It isn’t particularly commonplace for Watson to sit in such strange positions (whereas Holmes can often be found hiding on the floor or underneath furniture at all hours). Holmes watches as Watson stretches out his leg, his own expression suddenly serious although Watson, with his eyes clenched shut, certainly cannot see him.
Holmes has always had a difficult time dealing with Watson’s pain; Watson doesn’t want to be reminded of it, and he certainly doesn’t want to be babied or pitied about it. Typically, Holmes seems to have resolved to simply treat it as though it doesn’t exist until Watson behaves differently. But it’s more difficult than he could ever admit. He worries. To himself. Watson doesn’t quite appreciate worry, and aside from offering Watson drugs (which he has tried, with so little success it often makes things worse), Holmes has no way to help him, which is exceedingly frustrating.
...or at least, he had no way to help him.
If Watson dared open his eyes, he would surely notice the suddenly terribly contemplative look on Holmes’ face, the one that is distinctive because it is the look he gets when he has an idea that typically ends in disaster in one form or another. But Watson is not looking at him, and so the look and Holmes’ subsequent smirk goes quite unnoticed.
“I suppose I won’t,” he says, too lightly, which of course indicates that he will. Of course, that will worry Watson, but he is still recovering, and so doesn’t manage to open his eyes in time to catch Holmes leaning in (fighting a grunt of pain at the movement) until their faces are level, and then leaning in to run his tongue up the line of Watson’s jaw to his ear so quickly it might not have happened... except for the wet line he leaves behind, and of course the evil smirk on Holmes’ face as he pulls back just a little to stare at Watson with innocent eyes (completely at odds with the smirk). “Or perhaps I’ll test it with water as a precaution.”
"Fuck," Watson hisses, his eyes snapping open to meet Holmes', drawing in a sharp breath. His leg is throbbing, but he is now far too distracted to care, nor does he notice the much harsher curse than he typically employs..
Can't. Cannot do what he's thinking. Leg will not cooperate, shoulder will not cooperate, and he'd just left his wife that morning, if he tackles Holmes back against the settee he'll regret it afterwards. Not during, no, certainly not, but afterwards he will. He'll regret it.
Of course, this doesn't stop him from coming up with a second solution, which is to lean forward and grab Holmes' arm, dragging him down off of the couch so he has a marginally soft landing on Watson, both of them groaning at the contact (both also groaning in pain, not that either one would admit it).
At this point, Holmes declares this tactic a great success, indeed perhaps the best idea he’s had in a week (he has a lot of fantastic ideas). Of course, he had not quite expected to be dragged by one arm down from the settee on top of Watson, but sometimes you simply have to live with the consequences of your actions as Watson has often told him and well, see, he listens.
He lands on top of Watson, eyes widening in surprise for the moment between the settee and landing on the other man, and then he can’t help the groan that he lets out involuntarily, or the slight shiver that runs down his spine at hearing Watson groan in that manner. The last time- the only time- when Watson had kissed him (because that had certainly been an attack by Watson, though Holmes had not been fighting at all), Holmes had been under the influence of his solution, had been shocked and convinced that it wasn’t happening. Now, he has a concussion, but this is real and he knows it and if he passes out this time he’s going to scream.
That is Watson beneath him, not just him imagining things, it’s better than imagining things and yes, kind of painful because he hurts just about everywhere but that’s fine, as Watson is a doctor. A doctor who is maddeningly unaware of how attractive he is, or of his affect on Holmes. Especially when Holmes leans back down, completely unable to help himself, and repeats his earlier action, only this time slowly and deliberately, and Watson squirms and Holmes is certain this is going to kill him and just as certain that he would be happy to die in that fashion.
The detective is seriously considering biting down just to see what would happen when he hears the tell-tale sounds of footsteps coming deliberately up the stairs. Footsteps that by now he of course knows by heart: Mrs. Hudson.
Holmes has half a second to reconsider maybe using the sulfuric acid just for her before, slightly panicked, he rolls off of Watson with a muffled groan of pain (and frustration), and immediately crawls behind the settee and underneath a nearby chair, hidden by several stacks of papers and a globe with half of Africa melted away.
Watson is still recovering from Holmes doing... that... again, trying to think, by the time Holmes is under the settee and hidden beneath a chair, as well, and when he hears the knock he sits up with a small grunt, eyeing Holmes' feet still sticking out, and shaking his head, glancing down at his lap... and quickly moving the chemistry text to cover it as Mrs. Hudson opens the door, carrying yet another tray.
"I thought the two of you might enjoy some dinner, since you were so hungry at breakfast," she says with a kind smile for Watson (and a raised brow for Holmes' feet).
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson says immediately. "He's... er... looking for something." His expression is helpless, conveying that he has clearly given up long since on trying to explain Holmes' actions at all. He just goes along and tries to clean up the mess; that's his primary function.
"Ah." The landlady manages to convey a world of sentiment into that one syllable. "I wish you luck with that endeavor, Mr. Holmes."
“I apologize if my system of organization does not meet your standards, Mrs. Hudson. It can be very difficult to understand my system if your mind is unprepared, and as such I can hardly expect either of you to see the simple wisdom behind my methods,” Holmes tries to shout back, half indignant, half amused. It comes out muffled from beneath the chair, certainly not aided by his inability to breathe properly (for multiple reasons, now).
Dinner. She interrupted them for dinner. Holmes is frankly feeling quite proud of himself for not throwing anything at her. She does treat him a bit like a child, so he might as well behave like one, is the way he looks at it.
Mrs. Hudson is quite unbothered by Holmes’ insults and oddities by now, and as such simply shakes her head, putting the tray of food carefully down and ignoring Holmes’ attempts at shouting (“Not that table!”) to give Watson a commiserating look before she smiles and makes her exit, obviously having wanted to mother Watson a bit after that morning, but just as obviously not wanting to pry or annoy him.
Watson does manage an honest smile for her as she leaves, shutting the door behind herself, and they both wait until they hear her going down the stairs before Watson lets out a sigh of relief, moving the book out of his lap with a grimace. That had been rather uncomfortable, and even Mrs. Hudson's presence hadn't been enough to cure his current condition, which had been frankly enhanced by the thought that they'd just been... well. Doing that just before she'd come in. And besides the ribs, that's part of the reason Holmes had sounded so hoarse...
"You know, she's likely just downstairs in her sitting room, knitting," he points out, fighting back a shiver. Swiveling, he falls backwards with a thump, this time onto the tiger rug, and stares up at the stained and bullet hole-ridden ceiling. "I know she can't hear us speaking unless we yell, but... if... with that sort of thing, we'll have to be careful." This is said very carefully, because it does rather imply that Watson intends for that sort of thing to happen again.
In fact, he'd like for a great deal more than that to happen, but it has occurred to him that doing so on a day where his leg now aches more than usual and Holmes has a concussion, not to mention his myriad other injuries, is probably a poor plan. "In the interest of being responsible, it's probably best she arrived when she did. It would be a bad idea to continue with all of that today."
But then again, if Holmes insists... well, he's not known for having excellent willpower around the detective. And if he does insist, then Watson supposes the best person to have those sorts of explorations with would be a doctor... "Can you get out from there on your own?" he asks, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.
“Of course I can,” Holmes says, indignant again, before considering whether or not that is a true statement. He immediately begins looking around for a way to get out of the strange spot he‘d boxed himself into, determining quickly that he will have to crawl backwards. He does this, of course... and makes it several inches before the chair shifts, falls over on top of him, hits the globe, which then rolls over to smack him on the side of the head.
Thus defeated by a chair, Holmes does not even bother saying one word. Watson will of course now be completely insufferable. More insufferable. Letting out a sigh, Holmes rolls onto his back, the chair still laying on top of him, and stares up at it, refusing now to move. This close to his face, the fabric does make interesting patterns. And Watson had just said they’ll have to be careful. Holmes does not miss the specific way Watson had said that, implying that they will be doing this in the future, these sorts of things that they must be careful with (them being highly illegal and all that nonsense).
That idea has him interested enough that he doesn’t mind so much being covered by a chair, and also is quite enough for him to completely ignore everything Watson had said about being responsible. Not that he needed an excuse.
"Holmes," Watson says with a sigh, rolling to his feet with some effort and then moving over to lift the chair from over the other man's head. He gets a confused look for his troubles, as though Holmes has no idea why he would move the chair so the man doesn't suffocate, but Watson just shakes his head, kicking the globe out of the way and startling Gladstone, who barks half-heartedly and then turns in a circle, going right back to sleep.
Holmes clambers out after a pause, and Watson pushes him back down to sit on the settee (gently, of course, the other man is injured) and then sitting next to him. "Well, that was successful," he says drily. "All on your own, too."
“Hmm,” Holmes mutters, not rising to that bait and arguing, only because he is thinking about other matters entirely. Anyway, he didn’t ask Watson to dig him out. He would have fallen asleep there happily after a minute or so. Granted, Watson is very intent on keeping him from falling asleep, so there is that to take into consideration...
Anyway, the success of his exit from underneath the chair is irrelevant, because what he’d been focused on was not being caught by Mrs. Hudson. The entire ordeal was a bit like being a misbehaving teenager again; fear of being caught by an authority figure making hormones even more exciting. Granted, Holmes had never done anything of that nature when he was a teenager, and he spends a great majority of his life doing things that he tries not to be caught at (typically for a good cause!), but that doesn’t quite take away from the fact that it was exciting.
In several ways. Obviously. It hardly matters, though, because thoughts of that nature lead to thoughts of what they had been doing (or nearly doing) a moment before, and Holmes is not paying any attention to Watson’s dry tone, but rather to what he’d said about responsibility. Holmes looks rather dangerously thoughtful for a moment, eyeing Watson next to him without turning his head to look. “As a physician,” he begins slowly, which is never a good beginning with Holmes, “how important would you say it is for me to remain awake for the next few hours?”
~~~~~
Part Twelve
Author: sarisa_rahe & agaryulnaer86
Rating: R
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Disclaimer: Not ours.
Summary: To quote starjenni : “the midden has hit the windmill now!”
Spoilers: Movie
Warnings: Dudes makin’ out, language.
Word Count: 9,237
Author's Notes: Part 11.
Previous Sections: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten
~~~~~
By the time Watson ascends his front steps at Cavendish Place, his stomach is tangled in a knot that would rival any produced by Captain Tanner. But he continues onward, unlocking his front door and letting himself into the cool, dimly-lit hallway. He'd left earlier without a word to Mary about anything at all, and he winces with guilt when he sees his pillow and blankets piled neatly beneath the settee in the sitting room, with Mary herself perched upon it, basket of crocheting set beside her. She's creating something lacy and white, and he has a brief, surreal suspicion that she might be crocheting a doily. Christ, he thinks numbly. He's come full-circle without even meaning to. If he'd listened to Holmes, then, instead of only becoming more determined to forge his own path, make his own damned decisions and marry the woman he loves... well.
Things would have worked out a great deal better, wouldn't they? Yes, his friend had used ridiculous and idiotic methods to try to convince him that marriage was a foolish idea, but he should have been able to see beneath those, to the emotion behind the sharp-edged humor and general outrageousness.
He crosses to the window, setting aside his overcoat and swordstick, but does not sit in his usual chair, and he can feel Mary's eyes on his back, waistcoat still stained from the fight the night before. "Are you well this morning?" he asks quietly, staring out at the passers by on the street below.
"I'm fine, John." Her voice sends a knife through the center of his diaphragm.
"Are you?" The question pops out before he can stop it, but he doesn't take it back, and she doesn't answer aloud. No, she's not all right, not really. Physically, she's hale. In other senses... no. No, she is not.
There is quiet for a few minutes, her crocheting needles clicking away, as Watson gathers his courage, wondering if he's about to be stabbed with one of the small steel points. Finally, though, he reminds himself that this... this is right, for Mary. That he cannot continue this deception without hurting all three parties involved. And yet... he cannot simply walk away from her, either. Aside from Holmes, she is his closest friend and companion, his lover, and his chest and head feel hollow at the knowledge of what he must do, now. "Mary," he says quietly, swallowing. "I love you."
Her voice is very even, and the sound of her needles clacking fades, first losing its even, quick rhythm and then stopping completely. It hits Watson suddenly that he will probably never here that sound again. "And I love you, John." Pain takes up residence in the hollowness that is his ribcage. There's a rustling sound as she sets aside her work and stands. When he forces himself to turn, he sees relief on her face. Relief that he isn't angry for the night before? That he has something so pleasant to say? He doesn't know, swallows again, and watches her expression shift slightly as she sees his own. Sees the guilt.
"But..." He chokes, forges onward. "I am in love with someone else."
For a long moment, the room is silent. Watson stares at Mary, forces himself to, and Mary stares back, but... doesn't see him, not right now. She just... stares at him, shocked. She supposes, dazedly, weakly, that she should have known, seeing his face a moment ago, seeing him as he walked in a minute ago... she should have known it would be something like this. Should have known...
But... how could she possibly have known? Yes, she saw that something was wrong. But how could she ever have known that it would be this? She is a logical, mature woman, she knows this sort of thing happens. But there had been no signs... this can't be happening. It takes Mary a long time to get beyond pure shock, disbelief. Her John... they just married. He couldn't love someone else, he loves her. He married her. Surely if there was someone else... if he'd been... unfaithful... she would have noticed something was amiss. He would have been sneaking around, or... something. Anything. This simply... it just can't be.
He hasn't done anything strange, not really. The only strangeness has been his running off at all hours to... get into fights with Mr. Holmes. She knows all about that, now, much more than she would ever really care to know. But that... she followed him, knows where he's been. Who could he possibly be in love with? Did he meet someone after they married? Before? But whom? He's never even mentioned... never...
All of the color slowly begins to drain from Mary's face as she stares at her husband; he takes a step towards her, obviously worried, and that seems to drag Mary back to reality. Immediately, she steps back, away from him, and he freezes, guilt written all over his face. Guilt that, suddenly, Mary detests. Guilt is what brought him here, to have this conversation with her. She doesn't want his guilt. Which is why she continues to stare at him once she backs away. The color is still gone from her face, but now she's staring at her husband and actually seeing him, her mouth pressed into a thin line, almost disappearing on her face.
There are a million questions she could ask him, a million things she could scream at him, throw at him, demand of him. But only one matters. "Who?" she asks quietly.
Watson is silent for a long, long moment, staring back at her. He has explanations, an entire speech that he'd half-thought through in his mind while he'd waited for her to react, reasons, excuses, a way, any way to reassure her... but there is none. There is no way to make this better, and the best he can give her is the truth. Which is why he's here.
He meets her eyes steadily, unable to erase the guilt on his face despite the whiteness, the terrible pain on hers. Just as quietly, he replies, "Holmes." His voice is steady, despite its low volume, despite the guilt he feels for causing her so much pain. He isn't afraid to admit it, and he won't be ashamed.
Maybe it's a good thing that Mary has no color left to lose, because that simple answer has her so stunned that she very nearly needs to sit down. But Mary is nothing if not stubborn, and she refuses to so much as twitch in reaction to anything said from here on. Except... except it's nearly impossible not to react to this, to this... admission. It's so ridiculous, so outlandish, so... absolutely insane, possibly the most insane answer he could have given, that Mary has absolutely no doubt that it's the truth. This... is not the sort of thing anyone would joke about, or lie about. For many reasons, not the least of which being that he could be thrown in jail for just that admission. Not to mention if he and Holmes were caught... doing... being...
Suddenly, Mary's resolve not to respond to any of this outwardly is gone, because she feels that she needs to sit or she's going to faint, and she would rather die than faint in front of her husband right now. Slowly, she sinks back down on to the settee, still staring up at him, still deathly pale and shocked. Shocked and hurt. Hurt so deeply, she thinks, that she isn't certain she's feeling it completely just yet. She won't, she decides, until John is gone. And he will be gone. She knows that now, despite the horrible pain in her chest at the thought.
Mary tries to be disgusted, to hate him, both of them, for what this means. But she can't. Even now, the only thing that she can feel is numb, and slowly creeping in, worry. Worry for the man who is in the process of breaking her heart... and worry for the man that man is in love with. Should they be caught... Christ. What they might be caught at, she can't even bring herself to think the words. It's wrong. It's wrong, it's evil, against not just the law but against God... John has always been such a righteous man, maybe not the most religious but always a good man. This makes no sense. It's... wrong. They must know that. Maybe Holmes doesn't, God knows that man would hardly care even if he did know, but surely John knows...
Of course he knows it's wrong. That's why... that's why he married her. Everything is suddenly starting to make a terrible sort of sense... their romance, the fights with Holmes, John's distancing himself, his moods...
Unaware that she's been staring off at the wall across the room for some time now, Mary doesn't lift her head to look up at her husband- John- when she speaks, flatly and without feeling. "This would have been bad enough..." she begins blankly, unable to look up at him. Her husband, the man she'd fallen in love with, who had been like a dream come true after a life that had gone so awry. "Was it all a lie?" Now she looks up at him. His face is awful. She wishes she could feel some sort of relief or satisfaction, seeing him in so much pain from this. Wishes that saying awful things to him would make her pain go away. "Don't answer that. I don't believe I actually wish to know." She has no idea which would be worse. The lie... or the truth, that he loves her, but not enough.
But Watson can't keep from answering. "It wasn't a lie!" he bursts out, pain making his voice hoarse. "It was not a lie. I didn't... this is a revelation to me, these feelings... The cruelest thing in the world right now would be for me to try to express how I love you. But if things remain as they are, I will make everyone miserable. You deserve better than me, Mary. Better than this. Someone who deserves you."
He swallows hard around the lump in his throat. "I'll abide by your wishes, Mary. Whatever you want... if you wish never to see me again, after this, I understand." His chest feels as though it's contracting, but he pushes it aside. He can't possibly be feeling as much pain as she is, right now.
Mary stares back at him now, expressionless. "Will you?" she asks, voice emotionless from shock and a flat refusal to cry. She won't cry now, not in front of him. Not to spare him the guilt, but to spare herself the shame. "And if I asked you to stay?"
He doesn't respond right away, not having expected that, but Mary can see the pain in his expression. Perhaps he would stay, if she asked him to stay, to leave Holmes alone, to pretend. Maybe guilt would give him the strength. But she couldn't. Not knowing... not knowing that he was in love with someone else, it doesn't matter who. Not knowing that she was second best to him. Not knowing that he would be happy elsewhere and miserable with her. Mary couldn't do that to herself... or to him. Much as right now she wants nothing so much as to strike him, Mary knows she couldn't be that to John, couldn't be the chain that ties him down instead of the wife she thought she was... wanted so badly to be.
Mary shakes her head. "I won't," she says quietly after a moment. And then, even more quietly, "I couldn't."
They're silent for another long moment, until finally Mary looks away again, down at his feet, wondering if she really does wish to never see him again. Right now, it seems possible. Right now, she just feels numb. This all seems so unreal, and yet... makes so damn much sense. It answers every question. Solves the case, she supposes, very neatly. She shies away from that thought, though, not wanting to think of Holmes. She doesn't know what she thinks about him now. She wants to blame him for this, but finds that she cannot. She remembers him, his face, after John had been injured by the explosion during that whole Blackwood affair. She recalls her own words to him, that he loved John as much as she does. It's only now that she realizes how very true those words must have been.
"You'll be going back to live with him, I suppose," she says blankly after another pause, finally raising her eyes to meet her husband's. "It's madness. I can believe that H...Holmes doesn't care about the consequences of his actions the way most people do, that he doesn't care or realize what might happen. But you're not like that, John, you must know it's madness at best, immoral at worst-" Here she chokes, looking down again. She doesn't know if it's wrong. She's never thought about it much, the idea of men loving one another as men are meant to love women. It had never been relevant to her except as something that is wrong and illegal. But now... suddenly it is relevant, and she finds that she doesn't care. All that matters is that John loves someone else and he is leaving her. And then... beneath the shock and anger, beneath the betrayal and pain... fear. Perhaps she is uncertain about these things, but the law is not. "You could be put in prison. You could be killed. Both of you."
Watson nods slowly, forcing himself to look up at her. It's true. What they're doing... it has consequences. The sorts of consequences that involve multiple years in work gangs, or in prison. Thankfully, the legal punishments no longer involve death, but the police aren't the only ones they need to worry about.
"I know," he says quietly. "Discretion is all... that can be strived for. But it's worth--" He cuts himself off, closing his eyes. "Christ, Mary, I cannot say this to you and know it will only cause you more pain. And I cannot ask..."
He swallows hard, his jaw muscles flexing. "If you must have your vengeance against me, if the cards fall that way for you, I understand. Turn me in. But just... leave him out of it. I beg of you, Mary, please. I'll take whatever punishment you deem appropriate. But it's I that's hurt you."
At that, Mary shakes her head, looking away. John's eyes are closed, but Mary doesn't dare close her own, for fear of letting tears fall. She is a strong woman. Some had told her too strong. She'd always thought it was an asset, but secretly had known it would make finding a husband difficult. And after her first engagement... she'd thought she would never have the life she'd dreamed of. But then... John had appeared in her life, and the dream had been right there, within her grasp... and now it's taken away again, just as swiftly. She shouldn't have let herself hope... shouldn't have let herself love him so much. But she couldn't have known, and what's more she doesn't think she could have stopped it if she'd tried.
"Do you really think me so cruel?" she asks after a pause, voice pained for another reason now. "So... petty? An eye for an eye? What punishment would be appropriate for falling in love?" She shakes her head. Her voice is hoarse, the tears that are still unshed trying to remedy that. "I don't wish vengeance upon you, John. I love you still. I suppose that's the tragedy of it." She nearly laughs, but it comes out as more of a choked sigh, an exhalation of breath. "It's funny. I don't think I blame him at all, despite the great effort he went to to keep you from me. He was right all along. I imagine he's pleased by that." She draws in a breath, but it's shaky. Holmes had been so against John marrying her... hadn't wanted to meet her... it all makes such terrible sense. "I worry that you'll be found out. I wonder if I should worry for your soul. But I will not be the reason either of you are discovered. I won't be responsible for ruining your chance at happiness."
And now, Watson realizes, he may lose his battle against the tears. Unmanly or not, he doesn't care. "Mary..." But how can he argue? To do so would be foolish, and cruel to her. Despite everything he's done to her, of which she now knows the full extent, she still won't be responsible for ruining his happiness. For causing him that pain.
And he is the lowest of the low, not least because... he does love her. But the more cruel he, for he doesn't love her enough to stay. "What can I do? What should I do, Mary?" His voices sounds almost helpless. He has no idea what to do in this situation. How do they proceed? Should he leave her? Will he make everything worse for her by remaining here, worried as he is for her?
"I don't know, John," Mary says blankly, looking away again. That's all she seems to be doing, looking at him and then looking away, but she feels right now as though she couldn't move any more than that. She's frozen on the settee, color drained from her face and trying with all of her will to keep from bursting into hysterical tears. That's what she's expected to do, she's certain. Perhaps that's why she refuses. Or perhaps she simply cannot accept all of this, is in too much shock for this to be quite real.
Yet. It's becoming more and more real by the moment, and Mary can barely think for the effort it takes to keep from crying. How dare he ask her what he should do? How dare he, when it's obvious that he already knows very well what it is he'll be doing? When coming here to tell her this is a decision in and of itself? He knows very well what he's going to do. He's going to leave her. There are no other options, not anymore. Not after telling her this. "Leave," she says quietly, not looking up at him, not moving at all. There's nothing he can do to help but leave. She can't sit here and have this discussion anymore. It hurts to say it, it hurts to breathe, but it would hurt more to endure this any longer. "Just go."
Jaw tight with the effort not to respond, Watson nods slowly. There's nothing more he can do. Turning, he walks slowly out of the room... then more quickly up the stairs to the bedroom, taking his valise from beneath the bed and beginning to pack it quickly. He tries to go slowly down the stairs, is too much of a coward to look into the sitting room on his way to his office, where he packs what he'll likely need of his medical supplies. The entire process doesn't take more than ten minutes.
As he leaves, valise in hand, he risks a glance in at Mary. She's facing away from him, bent forward, but her shoulders aren't shaking. Somehow, that is even worse than it would have been were she weeping.
~~~~~
An hour and a half after he'd left, Watson returns to 221B, this time carrying a valise. He'll have to send notes to his patients to inform them that he won't be able to keep his appointments for a few days, as well as of the fact that his practice has returned to Baker Street... well, unless Holmes disagrees, but Watson doubts he will.
His mind is very firmly stuck on the everyday particulars of his current situation, and of what he'll have to do, and most definitely not on Mary's face when he'd confessed the truth to her, that he loves her, he truly does, but... that he's in love with Holmes. Another man. Holmes. She'd stared at him in shock… and then with pain, so much pain… he’d rather she’d thrown things at him. Anything but the quiet grief, the sight of her sitting there as he’d left.
And the burning behind his eyes... that doesn’t seem as though it will go away in the near future. He'll have to... arrange for his things to be moved back to Baker Street, he supposes, his work materials the most important, of course. But just now... it's over.
More dazed and in shock than anything else, he walks slowly back up to the sitting room and pushes open the door, blinking over at Mrs. Hudson and then at Holmes on the couch. "Hello," he says quietly, suddenly not wanting to speak to anyone at all. Because it doesn't matter if this is the right thing for everyone, the thing that will make them all happy in the end (or so he hopes, and he admits to some trepidation regarding that after his most recent failure at making everyone happy)... it still hurts. He still feels like utter scum.
Mrs. Hudson stands, concerned. "Doctor?" she begins, but he waves her off.
"My wife and I have separated, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid... if I could inquire as to..."
"You do not even need to ask, Doctor." She rests an affectionate hand on his shoulder on her way to the door. "I'm so very sorry." And clearly she means that; she's come to view these two as more family than tenants, which she supposes isn't so very unusual, her own children long grown and gone.
"Thank you," Watson manages quietly, staring at his boots, and she takes the hint, leaving the two men in silence. But after a few minutes, Watson raises a brow at the back of the settee, which is all he can see from his chair. "You'd better not be goddamned sleeping."
“No, but I may be bleeding out from stab wounds inflicted by Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes mumbles in return, frozen suddenly in place even as he speaks. If he turns and looks at Watson, one of two things will happen: he will not be there, and thus Holmes will have hallucinated this entire ordeal, or he will be, and he will look every bit as horrible as Holmes is imagining right now from the sound of his voice.
Holmes cannot, for the life of him, decide which would be worse. For a long moment, he debates this, not certain what he would do should he look and find no trace of Watson, or should he look and find a heartbroken Watson. Holmes doesn’t know how to deal with a heartbroken Watson, hasn’t a clue if he should even be allowed to deal with that sort of Watson at all.
But in the end, as always, curiosity wins out. Holmes decides that he has to know, and that’s all there is to it. So slowly, the movement painful but at the very least distracting, he lifts himself up; a moment later, his head appears over the back of the settee, and visible from only the nose up, Holmes stares at Watson. Who is quite real, just over there, and looks somewhere between ready to cry and as though someone had hit him in the face with a hammer, which he hadn’t been expecting and still hasn’t quite come to terms with.
Holmes fights a wince, for once at a loss. He knows this wasn’t really his fault... not really... but in a way, it was. He could have just left well enough alone, could have stopped trying to get Watson to realize... he doesn’t know what he could have done but there were undoubtedly a million things he’d done wrong and now Watson looks like that and Holmes recalls suddenly that he is not very good at reassurances in any sense of the word. So he stares at Watson instead, silent, for a very long time, wracking his brain for any words of comfort or consolation.
But Holmes has none of those, not really. And so in the end, he determines that it’s a lost cause. All he has to offer is normalcy, which Watson can take or leave at his pleasure. “I had no idea knitting needles made such effective weapons.”
Watson snorts at that, knocking his hat from his head and reaching down to say hello to Gladstone, who has trundled over to greet him, having woken up from his mid-morning coma. "I requested that she use any means necessary," he admits, standing with a small groan and stretching out his back. Everything feels rather numb at the moment, and he has no idea how to distract himself from the events of the past few hours, even though he would desperately like something to catch his attention.
He would go up to his old room, possibly curl up on the bed and weep unashamedly (so long as Holmes and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be able to hear him), but he can't leave Holmes alone with a concussion, not when the man is so close to falling asleep. "Make it to suppertime and I'll let you sleep for an hour at a time, with my waking you up," he offers, moving over to sit on the carpet in front of the settee, staring over at the table full of letters and laboratory equipment.
There is a sizable stack of letters, and he crawls up onto his knees to retrieve them, setting them back down and lowering himself to lean back against the front of the settee, of which Holmes has rather impressively managed to take up every inch. He struggles out of his jacket and waistcoat as well, unknotting his tie and dropping it on top of the pile and picking up the letters instead.
"A Mr. Perry of Bath has been robbed of a ruby necklace and matching earrings," he announces after a moment, glancing up over his shoulder at Holmes. "Worth a half-million pounds, apparently." Of course, they had just done a case involving jewelry. "Also, Lady Talbot claims she is being blackmailed by an unknown gentleman."
Eyes only half-open now that he’s given up holding himself up (since Watson has moved), Holmes nevertheless is paying attention, forcing himself to perhaps pay a little more attention than he normally would so as not to fall asleep. He’s completely certain Watson would beat him mercilessly to keep him awake, but that’s not what has him worried.
Plus, now he has a goal in mind. Suppertime. Make it to suppertime. How far away is that? He would like it to be suppertime now. But at the same time, he really wouldn’t, because... well, Watson has returned and looks horrific and even so Holmes can’t fight off the sense of relief at his return.
So he waves off the ruby necklace, sure that that would take all of ten seconds were he to look into it. “No more jewelry,” he says, affirming Watson’s suspicions. Watson moves on to the second, and Holmes holds in a sigh. “And Lady Talbot is indeed being blackmailed, by her ex-lover. Who is not, in fact, a gentleman at all.” He pauses, considering just how horrifically two women could completely muddle things up between one another, and barely withholds a shudder. “Needless to say, no thank you.”
Blinking down at the letter, Watson sets it aside after a moment, his eyes wide. "Oh," he says succinctly, quite glad Holmes had naysaid that one. He sighs, looking through the rest of them, but doesn't see anything else of interest. few mildly entertaining ones involving affairs and double-crosses, and one lost dog... "Damn, then."
Sighing, he sets them aside and leans his head back against the settee, but he hadn't realized how close Holmes is lying to the edge of the cushion, as his head promptly bumps into the other man's torso, provoking a hiss of pain from his patient. He winces, lifting his head immediately. "I do apologize..."
He'd apologized to Mary, as well, for hurting her. That hadn't earned him a positive reaction. He sighs again, wondering how long his thoughts will continue to return to Mary. It's... not pleasant. Looking down at his hand, he slowly slides off the wedding band, tucking it into his pocket and swallowing hard. "I suppose this means I'm a free man," he points out, clearly still thinking about his confession. "I do wonder if her mother is going to hunt me down and stab me to death in my sleep."
Holmes’ eyes widen slightly at that suggestion, not in surprise, but rather in mild concern. She actually... very well might. Especially if Mary tells her the exact reason Watson had had that discussion with her... oh, dear lord. Holmes dearly hopes she does not. It would be almost fitting payback, if Mary were very angry still... and cruel...
Deciding not to worry about it, as it’s unlikely at best, Holmes also determines that he should set the Irregulars to watch out for Mr. or Mrs. Morstan, just in case. Prior warning would be very nice. Possibly so that he can get Watson out and away so that the man doesn’t have to deal with them. After all, all things considered, Holmes knows it wouldn’t be very difficult to determine where Watson had gone when he’d left.
Well, odds are not for Watson being murdered in his sleep. But still, it is a valid fear, considering the woman in question. “We’d best hide all of the knitting needles,” he says dryly, although he is watching Watson remove his wedding band, eyes wide. This should feel better; he got what he had wanted, what he’d hoped for and thought was impossible. But all Holmes can feel is sad, sorry for all of the trouble that had been caused. No matter how many times he determines that he himself is not to blame, he can’t find it in himself to blame only Watson for all of this.
Especially not when Watson looks so dreadful. He looks, honestly, a bit like a kicked puppy. It’s horrendous. Tugs on the heartstrings. Holmes assures himself that he is above such shows of being completely pitiful, and that if he wasn’t so unwell right now he’d probably smack Watson. But he is unwell, and so it’s okay that instead he puts a hand on Watson’s shoulder, which is conveniently just within reach.
What he really means to say then is that he’s sorry and thank god Watson is back. What comes out is, “If you‘d like, I shall trap the front doorway.” But it’s said quietly, his tone much gentler than normal.
"Please don't," Watson says with a small groan. "I would be the one to walk into it." But his complaint isn't as emphatic as it normally would be... because Holmes' hand is on his shoulder. He'd had to restrain himself from jumping when it had first appeared there, from surprise more than anything else. It's not as though they had never touched one another before all of this. In fact, they'd always been quite tactile, now that he realizes it, always touching one another's arms and shoulders, and leaning in close to speak.
He hopes that doesn't change, now that he's become aware of it. He doesn't think it will, though, and he appreciates the comforting gesture. It does more to ground him than anything else could at the moment, he's certain.
With that in mind, he reaches up slowly across his chest and rests his hand over Holmes' on his shoulder, smiling a little to himself. He can't manage a full-blown grin right now, but this... this is pretty close.
Relieved despite himself, Holmes spends a good minute or so pretending that he hadn’t been afraid Watson was going to pull away or move or... something, that he himself hadn’t been about to pull off and pretend as though nothing had happened. And then he spends a few minutes likewise pretending that he isn’t inordinately pleased just at the fact that Watson’s hand is now on his. He’s about halfway through being pleased with himself (and Watson, he supposes) when he has to remind himself that sleeping is bad before Watson hurts him, forcing his eyes open halfway to stare at the ceiling.
It’s official. This concussion is going to cause him more pain than all of the other bruises and broken bones he’d taken the night before put together. He can only behave so long, and, an important fact he thinks: he hasn’t slept in three days. It’s really only a matter of time before Watson has to hurt him to keep him from passing out, and Holmes knows this quite certainly and yet can do nothing about it.
So instead he spends a few minutes refusing to move, very tentatively basking in the fact that Watson is right there, even if he’s depressed, and his hand is on Holmes’. Certainly they’ve had close contact of this sort before, but... well. It seems a bit different now, doesn’t it? Of course, now his mind has latched, quite against his will, onto the idea of trapping the front door, and it isn’t long before Holmes is seriously considering several tentative blueprints in his mind, sure he would look thoughtful if he could just keep his eyes open.
Watson looks up after a few minutes when there's no vocal response from Holmes, craning his head around to find Holmes' eyes closed. Swearing softly, he shakes the hand that's on his shoulder, making the other man's eyes pop open. He busies himself reading through the letters again, reaching for a nearby chemistry book and glancing through it after a while when he runs out of letters, having to wake Holmes every few minutes.
But there comes a point when shaking his hand doesn't work, nor does poking, and Watson considers briefly before removing his own hand from atop Holmes so that it's not in the way... and leaning over to bite down gently on the other man's wrist. Holmes' eyes snap open at that, but by the time he can focus on Watson, the doctor is once again absorbed in the text, looking as though he'd never stopped reading in the first place.
"Still awake?" he asks calmly, not looking up for a minute and then meeting Holmes' wide eyes with a confused look of his own. "What?"
For a moment, Holmes can only blink back at Watson, eyes wide with severe confusion- not an atypical expression when he is first waking up- and maybe something else, except he’s not sure what exactly just happened. He was considering a pulley system from the window in the sitting room out to the front door, a trip wire and perhaps sulfuric acid. Not for Mrs. Morstan of course, for potential burglars, not that anyone has ever been quite so foolish. And then he was... probably sleeping. And then...
And then Watson may or may not have just done that. Did he dream that? Of course it’s entirely possible that he had, Holmes has had dreams featuring the doctor doing much more than just that on occasion. And for a moment, Holmes is a bit angry that he’d woken up except then he realizes that that makes absolutely no sense- if he’d woken up, something would have to have woken him and Watson has his innocent face on.
Confusion turns to narrowed eyes and suspicion in less than a second, then, and Holmes frowns down at Watson, who is putting on a good show of confusion. Holmes is not convinced. Watson knows perfectly well what. “Unfortunately,” he mumbles. “As I was apparently having a very pleasant dream.” And back to sleep; Holmes very purposefully closes his eyes this time, quite determined to cause as much trouble as humanly possible. Good luck keeping him awake, doctor.
"You're not supposed to be dreaming at all," Watson says in his doctor's voice, but when this doesn't work he raises his brows, staring down at the apparently sleeping detective. Hm. Well, he'll just have to find another way to keep him awake, won't he?
Best watch out, he'll pull out the knitting needles, soon. Or real needles, if he's feeling vindictive. After all, Holmes had kept him awake in the wee hours of the morning for years... Thus, feeling quite justified, he leans over and this time licks the inside of Holmes' wrist with just the tip of his tongue, tasting sweat and copper from blood he'd missed, earlier. The act makes his stomach tighten into a rather pleasant knot, and he goes back to the book more slowly, smirking a little now.
Completely awake very suddenly, Holmes has to literally bite his tongue to keep from making any noise; he’s sure whatever noise he managed would be quite unmanly, and he is certainly not prepared to give Watson that satisfaction. He has to fight back the urge to either pull his arm away, so as not to give any more opportunities for such taunting, but that would be letting Watson win too.
He’s drawing blood from biting his tongue, and in the end Holmes can’t help that his hand twitches and then his hand balls into a fist. But he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t need to, because he knows exactly how smug Watson’s face looks without having to do so. And worse, he knows that if he did look at Watson, the effect it would have on him would only make Watson smirk further.
It’s all quite unfair, he decides. He’s weakened. There must be some kind of doctor-patient regulation against this sort of treatment.
"Open your eyes, Holmes," Watson says sternly, finally closing the book a moment later. He sees the tension in the other man's shoulders, though, knows he's not asleep... but he knows how easily that could change. "Now." A flicker of eyelashes, but then mimed sleep again, and Watson sighs.
"This is only encouraging you to fall asleep. I see. I've used the wrong tactic." He nods slowly, lifting Holmes' hand from his shoulder and setting it down on the cushion next to his torso, sitting up on his knees with a grunt and facing the settee so he can lean over the other man.
Musing for a moment, he raises his brows again. "As it so happens, I did remember to bring my suture needles." That gets Holmes' eyes open, and Watson smirks again. "Good man."
“I never do give you enough credit, Watson,” Holmes declares after a moment of sulking in Watson’s general direction (well, not really after, the sulking continues but is dampened because it is hard to sulk and sound vaguely arrogant all at once, although Holmes is quite skilled at sounding arrogant and/or patronizing in just about any situation). This would all be much more convincing, too, if he could breathe, and thus speak, properly. “You can be quite devious when you put your mind to it.”
Of course, that is hardly a compliment, but then Holmes knows Watson is quite enjoying himself in this situation. The smirk has hardly left his face at all for half a second. Holmes scowls at the smirk on Watson’s face for a moment before spending another moment wondering why in God’s name the man would think first to bring his suture needles and deciding that Watson’s priorities are simply baffling.
And of course, not surprisingly, he not only can’t sleep, he can’t run away even if he should want to. Oh, he’d make it a couple steps if he timed it right. Maybe. So his only way of fighting back is to be horribly insufferable. “I’ll have you know I wasn’t sleeping at all,” he informs the doctor, one eyebrow raised. “I was contemplating the many uses of sulfuric acid and a trip wire.”
Watson raises his brows. "Right." He leans forward against the settee, his leg unable to support his weight for too very long in such an awkward position, and grits his teeth when he feels the familiar agonizing scrape. "Hell," he growls, falling back on his arse and then clenching his jaw shut on what would have been an extremely pained noise, not to mention a loud one, as his knee bends as far as it will go, straining the pain already in his thigh. Hellfire and bloody buggering--
He wills himself to stop swearing, even mentally, his face going intentionally blank as he carefully lifts his weight up so he can straighten out his legs, the bad one in particular. It never stops hurting, not really, but is always in degrees, the small chunk of iron lodged against his femur scraping against muscle and bone and causing enough pain to make a man scream. It's not quite that bad at the moment, but he's afraid if he unclenches his jaw he'll let out an extremely unmanly whimper.
"Christ," he manages finally, eyes still squeezed shut. But he doesn't say a word about it, continuing the conversation from a moment before. "That sounds... extremely unpleasant, please don't actually put a trap on the door, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson or I would undoubtedly set it off, not an intruder."
Certain that Watson would indeed manage to set off any trap he set on the door in one way or another, probably because he would set it to be tested on Watson in the first place (but with water, not sulfuric acid), Holmes does not argue with this, but then he is distracted by the obvious pain on Watson’s face. By now, Watson is of course very good at keeping most people from noticing when he’s in pain, but certainly never Holmes. Even if his face wasn’t sort of scrunched up in that manner, Holmes would know. He knows by now what movements are going to hurt Watson, even if it won’t be immediate pain such as this.
Of course, it would also be easy to tell that Watson is in pain because of the way he shifts around until he’s seated facing the settee, legs actually underneath the thing. It isn’t particularly commonplace for Watson to sit in such strange positions (whereas Holmes can often be found hiding on the floor or underneath furniture at all hours). Holmes watches as Watson stretches out his leg, his own expression suddenly serious although Watson, with his eyes clenched shut, certainly cannot see him.
Holmes has always had a difficult time dealing with Watson’s pain; Watson doesn’t want to be reminded of it, and he certainly doesn’t want to be babied or pitied about it. Typically, Holmes seems to have resolved to simply treat it as though it doesn’t exist until Watson behaves differently. But it’s more difficult than he could ever admit. He worries. To himself. Watson doesn’t quite appreciate worry, and aside from offering Watson drugs (which he has tried, with so little success it often makes things worse), Holmes has no way to help him, which is exceedingly frustrating.
...or at least, he had no way to help him.
If Watson dared open his eyes, he would surely notice the suddenly terribly contemplative look on Holmes’ face, the one that is distinctive because it is the look he gets when he has an idea that typically ends in disaster in one form or another. But Watson is not looking at him, and so the look and Holmes’ subsequent smirk goes quite unnoticed.
“I suppose I won’t,” he says, too lightly, which of course indicates that he will. Of course, that will worry Watson, but he is still recovering, and so doesn’t manage to open his eyes in time to catch Holmes leaning in (fighting a grunt of pain at the movement) until their faces are level, and then leaning in to run his tongue up the line of Watson’s jaw to his ear so quickly it might not have happened... except for the wet line he leaves behind, and of course the evil smirk on Holmes’ face as he pulls back just a little to stare at Watson with innocent eyes (completely at odds with the smirk). “Or perhaps I’ll test it with water as a precaution.”
"Fuck," Watson hisses, his eyes snapping open to meet Holmes', drawing in a sharp breath. His leg is throbbing, but he is now far too distracted to care, nor does he notice the much harsher curse than he typically employs..
Can't. Cannot do what he's thinking. Leg will not cooperate, shoulder will not cooperate, and he'd just left his wife that morning, if he tackles Holmes back against the settee he'll regret it afterwards. Not during, no, certainly not, but afterwards he will. He'll regret it.
Of course, this doesn't stop him from coming up with a second solution, which is to lean forward and grab Holmes' arm, dragging him down off of the couch so he has a marginally soft landing on Watson, both of them groaning at the contact (both also groaning in pain, not that either one would admit it).
At this point, Holmes declares this tactic a great success, indeed perhaps the best idea he’s had in a week (he has a lot of fantastic ideas). Of course, he had not quite expected to be dragged by one arm down from the settee on top of Watson, but sometimes you simply have to live with the consequences of your actions as Watson has often told him and well, see, he listens.
He lands on top of Watson, eyes widening in surprise for the moment between the settee and landing on the other man, and then he can’t help the groan that he lets out involuntarily, or the slight shiver that runs down his spine at hearing Watson groan in that manner. The last time- the only time- when Watson had kissed him (because that had certainly been an attack by Watson, though Holmes had not been fighting at all), Holmes had been under the influence of his solution, had been shocked and convinced that it wasn’t happening. Now, he has a concussion, but this is real and he knows it and if he passes out this time he’s going to scream.
That is Watson beneath him, not just him imagining things, it’s better than imagining things and yes, kind of painful because he hurts just about everywhere but that’s fine, as Watson is a doctor. A doctor who is maddeningly unaware of how attractive he is, or of his affect on Holmes. Especially when Holmes leans back down, completely unable to help himself, and repeats his earlier action, only this time slowly and deliberately, and Watson squirms and Holmes is certain this is going to kill him and just as certain that he would be happy to die in that fashion.
The detective is seriously considering biting down just to see what would happen when he hears the tell-tale sounds of footsteps coming deliberately up the stairs. Footsteps that by now he of course knows by heart: Mrs. Hudson.
Holmes has half a second to reconsider maybe using the sulfuric acid just for her before, slightly panicked, he rolls off of Watson with a muffled groan of pain (and frustration), and immediately crawls behind the settee and underneath a nearby chair, hidden by several stacks of papers and a globe with half of Africa melted away.
Watson is still recovering from Holmes doing... that... again, trying to think, by the time Holmes is under the settee and hidden beneath a chair, as well, and when he hears the knock he sits up with a small grunt, eyeing Holmes' feet still sticking out, and shaking his head, glancing down at his lap... and quickly moving the chemistry text to cover it as Mrs. Hudson opens the door, carrying yet another tray.
"I thought the two of you might enjoy some dinner, since you were so hungry at breakfast," she says with a kind smile for Watson (and a raised brow for Holmes' feet).
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson says immediately. "He's... er... looking for something." His expression is helpless, conveying that he has clearly given up long since on trying to explain Holmes' actions at all. He just goes along and tries to clean up the mess; that's his primary function.
"Ah." The landlady manages to convey a world of sentiment into that one syllable. "I wish you luck with that endeavor, Mr. Holmes."
“I apologize if my system of organization does not meet your standards, Mrs. Hudson. It can be very difficult to understand my system if your mind is unprepared, and as such I can hardly expect either of you to see the simple wisdom behind my methods,” Holmes tries to shout back, half indignant, half amused. It comes out muffled from beneath the chair, certainly not aided by his inability to breathe properly (for multiple reasons, now).
Dinner. She interrupted them for dinner. Holmes is frankly feeling quite proud of himself for not throwing anything at her. She does treat him a bit like a child, so he might as well behave like one, is the way he looks at it.
Mrs. Hudson is quite unbothered by Holmes’ insults and oddities by now, and as such simply shakes her head, putting the tray of food carefully down and ignoring Holmes’ attempts at shouting (“Not that table!”) to give Watson a commiserating look before she smiles and makes her exit, obviously having wanted to mother Watson a bit after that morning, but just as obviously not wanting to pry or annoy him.
Watson does manage an honest smile for her as she leaves, shutting the door behind herself, and they both wait until they hear her going down the stairs before Watson lets out a sigh of relief, moving the book out of his lap with a grimace. That had been rather uncomfortable, and even Mrs. Hudson's presence hadn't been enough to cure his current condition, which had been frankly enhanced by the thought that they'd just been... well. Doing that just before she'd come in. And besides the ribs, that's part of the reason Holmes had sounded so hoarse...
"You know, she's likely just downstairs in her sitting room, knitting," he points out, fighting back a shiver. Swiveling, he falls backwards with a thump, this time onto the tiger rug, and stares up at the stained and bullet hole-ridden ceiling. "I know she can't hear us speaking unless we yell, but... if... with that sort of thing, we'll have to be careful." This is said very carefully, because it does rather imply that Watson intends for that sort of thing to happen again.
In fact, he'd like for a great deal more than that to happen, but it has occurred to him that doing so on a day where his leg now aches more than usual and Holmes has a concussion, not to mention his myriad other injuries, is probably a poor plan. "In the interest of being responsible, it's probably best she arrived when she did. It would be a bad idea to continue with all of that today."
But then again, if Holmes insists... well, he's not known for having excellent willpower around the detective. And if he does insist, then Watson supposes the best person to have those sorts of explorations with would be a doctor... "Can you get out from there on your own?" he asks, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.
“Of course I can,” Holmes says, indignant again, before considering whether or not that is a true statement. He immediately begins looking around for a way to get out of the strange spot he‘d boxed himself into, determining quickly that he will have to crawl backwards. He does this, of course... and makes it several inches before the chair shifts, falls over on top of him, hits the globe, which then rolls over to smack him on the side of the head.
Thus defeated by a chair, Holmes does not even bother saying one word. Watson will of course now be completely insufferable. More insufferable. Letting out a sigh, Holmes rolls onto his back, the chair still laying on top of him, and stares up at it, refusing now to move. This close to his face, the fabric does make interesting patterns. And Watson had just said they’ll have to be careful. Holmes does not miss the specific way Watson had said that, implying that they will be doing this in the future, these sorts of things that they must be careful with (them being highly illegal and all that nonsense).
That idea has him interested enough that he doesn’t mind so much being covered by a chair, and also is quite enough for him to completely ignore everything Watson had said about being responsible. Not that he needed an excuse.
"Holmes," Watson says with a sigh, rolling to his feet with some effort and then moving over to lift the chair from over the other man's head. He gets a confused look for his troubles, as though Holmes has no idea why he would move the chair so the man doesn't suffocate, but Watson just shakes his head, kicking the globe out of the way and startling Gladstone, who barks half-heartedly and then turns in a circle, going right back to sleep.
Holmes clambers out after a pause, and Watson pushes him back down to sit on the settee (gently, of course, the other man is injured) and then sitting next to him. "Well, that was successful," he says drily. "All on your own, too."
“Hmm,” Holmes mutters, not rising to that bait and arguing, only because he is thinking about other matters entirely. Anyway, he didn’t ask Watson to dig him out. He would have fallen asleep there happily after a minute or so. Granted, Watson is very intent on keeping him from falling asleep, so there is that to take into consideration...
Anyway, the success of his exit from underneath the chair is irrelevant, because what he’d been focused on was not being caught by Mrs. Hudson. The entire ordeal was a bit like being a misbehaving teenager again; fear of being caught by an authority figure making hormones even more exciting. Granted, Holmes had never done anything of that nature when he was a teenager, and he spends a great majority of his life doing things that he tries not to be caught at (typically for a good cause!), but that doesn’t quite take away from the fact that it was exciting.
In several ways. Obviously. It hardly matters, though, because thoughts of that nature lead to thoughts of what they had been doing (or nearly doing) a moment before, and Holmes is not paying any attention to Watson’s dry tone, but rather to what he’d said about responsibility. Holmes looks rather dangerously thoughtful for a moment, eyeing Watson next to him without turning his head to look. “As a physician,” he begins slowly, which is never a good beginning with Holmes, “how important would you say it is for me to remain awake for the next few hours?”
~~~~~
Part Twelve