Leverage (10/10)
Title: Leverage, 10/10 (complete!)
Author: jenlee1
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, eventually
Rating: R, for this chapter only.
Word Count: 2756
Summary: A past case creates unforeseen difficulties.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; written for fun, not profit.
Author's Note: Special thanks to the lovely and talented ingridmatthews for her cover art :)
-Watson-
Not surprisingly, perhaps, the days following the rather dramatic conclusion of our most recent brush with death passed in something of a blur. Statements were taken, evidence was collected, and Inspector Lestrade assured me, privately, that we would all be happily retired before Thomas Brighton ever saw the light of day. In truth, prison seemed too generous a fate for the villain who had done us such grievous harm; never in my life had I wanted so badly to see a man hang, but I took what comfort I could in the knowledge that he would not cross our path again.
With rest and proper care, Holmes’ strength was gradually returning; the worst of the fever had abated in response to cool compresses and a good night’s sleep, and his injured side was healing as well as could be expected. He was able to dress and leave his bed by the second morning after our return home, and spent long stretches of time smoking quietly in the sitting room or plucking tunelessly at his violin, as was his wont. He had yet to take another case, but in all other respects, life continued in very much its usual fashion.
More disquieting, however, was his oddly subdued demeanor. The case was closed, the villains apprehended, but he took none of his usual pleasure in the successful culmination of his efforts. He haunted our rooms in indifferent silence, submitting to an endless succession of examinations and bandage changes, and even consenting to eat whatever I placed in front of him with far less argument than I might have expected. I should have been grateful - and I was, if only for the fact that his uncharacteristic cooperation had profound implications for his health - but the unaccustomed changes in his behavior were worrisome, to say the least.
His interactions with me, on the surface, were much as they had always been; he took my arm for support when he needed it, borrowed my clothing without permission, and offered his usual wry comments as I read aloud from the newspaper. But there was something else, different and altogether troubling, that I found myself hard pressed to explain; a shadow that seemed to pass over him, at times, as we sat together in the evenings, an invisible barrier between us that I was powerless to overcome.
It was clear that he did not wish to speak of it, but it was there all the same; in the way that his gaze lingered on me when he believed I wouldn’t notice, the accidental brush of his fingers against mine - just purposeful enough to be suspicious - as a tea cup or a piece of correspondence changed hands. There was something he wanted of me, some vital assurance that he needed, hovering just beyond the edges of my understanding despite my best attempts to grasp it.
My forgiveness, I had freely given; though there was nothing to forgive.
******
The days flowed seamlessly into one another, and try as I might, I had made no further progress at discerning what it was that so troubled my friend. I cursed Brighton a thousand times over for his cruel games and the lingering, indefinable damage they had wrought, unable to shake the gnawing certainty that something was very wrong; Holmes was here beside me, safe and whole and improving every day, but I had lost him all the same.
And so it was that, nearly a week after the conclusion of the case, I stood in the darkened hallway outside his room, silent and uncertain, hand hovering indecisively over the doorknob. Even within the confines of our rather intimate friendship, Sherlock Holmes was, and always had been, an intensely private person; save for those rare occasions when necessity demanded it, I had never dared to breach the sanctity of his bedroom without his express permission. It was equally true, however, that desperate times called for desperate measures, and I was left with no other recourse.
The door swung open on noiseless hinges to reveal the motionless figure amidst the bedclothes, cast in moonlight and shadow. Even now, I was loath to disturb his privacy, but the strain of the past several days was becoming unbearable. He was strangely shuttered, closed to me as he had never been during all the long years of our acquaintance, and I needed to see him this way - laid bare, stripped of his defenses; as though I might be able to read something in his features, slack and unguarded in sleep, that eluded me in the daylight.
I padded across the floorboards, silent as a ghost, with a certain amount of trepidation. Rarely had I seen him so still; his body fairly hummed with restless energy, even in sleep, and it was a mark of his continued exhaustion that he did not stir as I settled carefully on the edge of the bed. His face was deceptively peaceful, still too pale in the watery light filtering through the curtains, and I was overcome with the strange, irrational desire to run my fingers once more through the unkempt hair - to soothe, to check for fever; and, if I were honest, for far less legitimate reasons.
My thoughts strayed, as if by accident, to a half-remembered night in Manchester - pushed deliberately to the farthest corner of my mind - when he had shivered against me, trembling hands seeking reassurance in the darkness, and I had given him everything I could. It occurred to me that, quite possibly, the answer I so desperately sought had been in front of me all along. Absurdly simple, perhaps; but, as my friend had so often assured me, the truth often was.
He stirred, at last, at the first brush of my lips against his; feather-light and tentative. Dark eyelashes flickered, scarcely visible in the shadows, and I nearly drew back, courage shrinking at the prospect of the familiar piercing gaze - if he questioned my desires, my intentions, I had no answer to give.
Now or never - the enormity of this final step hovered in the air, tremulous and strangely heavy. I steeled my nerves, lost in the lingering impression of his hands, his breath on my neck, lips brushing tenderly over my jaw as his body pressed itself against mine, and bent to capture his mouth with my own.
He shifted beneath me at the contact, full awareness rushing back as he gasped out a quick, startled breath against my lips, but the time for hesitation was past; my mind had gone curiously blank, rational thought fading into nothingness as I leaned into him, deepening the kiss, eyes drifting closed of their own accord. He offered no resistance, lips and tongue unusually passive under the gentle onslaught, and for a single, blissful moment I lost myself entirely in the welcome sensation of mingled breaths and stubble rasping against my cheek; reveling in the taste of him, strange and familiar all at once, one hand tangled inexplicably in his hair.
It was, in many ways, akin to tumbling headlong over a cliff, and the unavoidable reality of the situation crept in at last, as the initial, intoxicating rush faded; I broke the contact with a certain amount of reluctance, drawing back, eyes sliding open once more to read his reaction. What on earth had I done?
Holmes, as I had suspected, was alarmingly, unmistakably awake; panting into my mouth and staring up at me in wondering disbelief, as though I were a dream that might dissolve at any moment. Doubt must have flickered on my face, as his hands reached for me before I could pull away, and he struggled vainly to sit up; hopelessly tangled in the blankets, hair mussed with sleep, dark eyes wild and impossibly dilated, and God help me, I had never loved him more.
He managed, at last, to prop himself up on one elbow, fingers clutching at my sleeve in a wordless plea - Don’t go.
A flash of pain crossed his face at the ill-considered movement, a jarring reminder that he was far from being fully recovered, and I cursed my carelessness. One hand dropped, seeking out his right side to hover protectively over the tender place where the bandage lay, still healing, hidden beneath layers of fabric. “Let me.”
Confusion showed on his features, but he lay back, unresisting, as I fumbled under the sheet for the hem of his nightshirt, tugging it up past his hips to slide my hands underneath. He hummed approvingly at the friction of skin against skin, a sleepy, contented sound in the back of his throat and I paused, reeling at the sudden, heady rush of sensation, fingers splayed over the smooth landscape of ribs and abdomen just to feel him breathe.
I had touched him before, of course, more times than I cared to count, but never like this - with his head thrown back on the pillow, lips parted, savoring the slight, anticipatory quiver of his muscles with every exhalation. My hands seemed to move of their own volition, exploring his body as something other than a fracture to be set, a cut to be stitched; tracing the lean curve of his flank, encouraged by the subtle changes in his breathing with every minute shift in pressure and direction; dipping lower, gliding over bony hips to cup him tenderly through his underclothes.
His startled gasp was not entirely unexpected, as my touch found this most sensitive of places, but his body tensed under my hands; he clutched suddenly at my wrists, grasping fingers frantic and desperate, almost panicked, and I looked up in alarm. For a terrible, sickening instant, I feared that I had hurt him, somehow.
“What is it?” There was no answer; his face was turned away, pressing into the pillow as he struggled for breath, every muscle taut and trembling. “Holmes.”
A shudder ran through his body at the sound of my voice, even as the evidence of his growing need pressed up against me, and his head gave a single, wordless shake. I drew back at once, but his fingers tightened on my forearms as though he didn’t dare let go, whispering my name into the darkness; and I saw his hesitation, at last, for what it was.
He dodged my gaze no matter how I tried to catch his eye, unable to look for fear of what he would see reflected back - a rush of difficult, inescapable truths threatening to break the surface; everything we were to each other scraped raw and bleeding, thrust under a microscope for scrutiny. He drew a great, rasping breath, struggling to compose himself, and I waited. When he spoke, his voice was startlingly calm and matter-of-fact.
“I thought you were dead,” he said, as if that explained everything.
And perhaps it did; waterfalls and smoldering ashes were not so very different, after all, and I knew what it was to be utterly, achingly alone. His grip slackened, in exhaustion or acceptance, as my fingers trailed reverently over his injured side; to my everlasting regret, there were wounds that ran much deeper, and were not so easily mended.
“I know,” I answered at last. “But I’m home now.” One had reached out, unbidden, to stroke back the tousled hair at his forehead, now blessedly cool to the touch. “And so are you.”
The point was inarguable, of course, but things were never so simple. I waited, staring down at him with all the assurance I could muster, hardly daring to breathe.
He gave no reply, but something had shifted in his eyes; they cleared, softened, the worst of the tension bleeding away from his limbs. The hesitant grip on my wrists became a caress, fingertips tracing aimless, delicate patterns along my forearms. He fixed me with a stare that terrified me; naked and exposed, still trembling, hips pressing up against me in a desperate, wordless entreaty.
“Please,” he whispered. It was all the permission I needed.
Reason fled completely for us both as my hands returned to their task, pressing and stroking with greater purpose than before. His vaunted self-control had slipped at last, his composure in shreds, and each brush of my fingers elicited a deep, muffled groan; he arched his back into the mattress, breathing low and ragged, as his body responded to my touch.
I tended to his arousal as gently and carefully as I had soothed his hurts so many times before, working with hands and mouth as he writhed beneath me, elegant hands fisted in the bedclothes. He clutched helplessly at my shoulders as he found his release, lips parted in a breathy, whimpering half-sob of pleasure, scarcely audible through the rushing in my ears.
Still quivering on the edge, I cast off my dressing gown with shaking hands to slide beneath the sheets. He stirred at the gentle press of my hips against his, reaching for me, striving to reciprocate with clumsy, exhausted fingers and eyes that refused to focus. I caught his searching hand in both of mine, drawing it closer to press my lips softly against his palm. “There’s no need, Holmes,” I whispered. “Not now.”
My body shivered in protest, recalling the touch of his delicate hands, but there would be time for that later; time for everything later, when he was well. I was close, already, and a few quick strokes sufficed; within moments, I was shuddering beside him, gasping incoherently as he huddled against me beneath the sheets.
My senses returned slowly, as the blissful, dizzying rush of heat faded into the darkness. Holmes was frighteningly quiet beside me, still pressed against my side; limp and boneless, utterly spent.
“All right?” I whispered senselessly, as though he were made of glass. Gentle hands - doctor’s hands - ran softly over his rib cage.
He chuffed a laugh against my shoulder, spontaneous and entirely unfeigned, and something loosened in my chest. “Rather better than all right, my dear,” he murmured, voice muffled in my nightshirt, “if you don’t mind my saying so.”
For the first time in many days, I allowed myself to believe it.
******
Sleep followed quickly, as it so often does, and I was aware of nothing more until well after sunrise.
Against my better judgment, I was pulled insistently back to consciousness by the disconcerting impression of something shifting against me, tense and restless. Senses still sluggish, I blinked up hazily at Holmes, squinting in the sunlight to make out the familiar angles of his face, creased in faint confusion. He had drawn back, understandably wary, to regard me with a valiant attempt at his usual detached curiosity - momentarily bemused, no doubt, at waking to find me in his bed.
“Good morning,” I offered carefully, stifling a yawn. Normalcy seemed best, to the extent that it was possible.
He was oddly silent, taking in the situation with quick, darting eyes as though he hadn’t dared to believe it - both of us half-clothed, tangled together beneath the sheets in the glaring light of day.
“I thought - ” He faltered, uncharacteristically hesitant. His eyes raked over my body, and I had known him too long - far too long - not to hear everything he didn’t dare to say. You’re still here.
I am. A soft, chaste kiss, pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth, forestalled any further speculation on the matter.
He considered it for a moment. My continued presence was, clearly, an unexpected development; he examined it from every angle, turning it over in his mind like any other piece of evidence, until he had drawn the only possible conclusion.
“Oh,” he said at last, almost shyly, and I smiled. The Great Detective was rarely at a loss for words, but his tone conveyed everything that was needed; hopeful and tentative, full of possibilities.
“Go back to sleep,” I suggested softly, and his head found my chest with a scarcely audible sigh. I stretched, warm and drowsy, as his long, ungainly limbs tucked themselves against the length of my body. The fit, like so many things between us, was surprisingly natural.
My own eyelids drooped heavily, and in truth, I could see no reason to move; there were no clients, no patients, and no place else to be. Holmes nuzzled hazily at my collarbone, his breathing already deep and even, in silent, unquestioning agreement. Which was, I reflected, a highly promising start for the day.
I shifted a bit to face the window, inexplicably content, allowing the sleepy morning sun to warm us both.