A/N: So. Saw the movie on Christmas Day. Loved it, although many people complained about all of its action sequences, etc. The moment the two characters came on screen, I knew I would slash them. And rightfully so, if you haven't caught all of the innuendos in the movie. I loved writing this, so I hope you will enjoy it just as much.
It was another cloudy London morning, and Watson was up earlier than usual.
Holmes had not received a new case in months, and his demeanor had gone down the drain, sitting in the dark, strumming the violin. Watson, although having accompanied the man to many near-death experiences and alarming brushes with hell, was always a bit unnerved at times like these because he grew considerably and thoroughly worried both as a doctor and as a friend. But he had learned to disguise it and live with it to a certain degree.
Watson found the said man in the sitting room, staring blankly off into the spiraling smoke of his pipe. He found that Holmes was still breathing, as his chest heaved up and down, every deflation resulting in another puff of smoke out of his thin lips. He watched in pity and incomprehension as his companion appeared damned well purposeless when they both knew that he was anything but. He approached with caution, cane tapping as softly as possible against the floors. He cleared his throat pointedly. Holmes gave no sign that he had heard or even recognized his presence.
"Holmes, I think it's about time that you and I go out into the sun," he watched as the man addressed inhaled the sweet taste of tobacco once more, without looking at him, "You know, as most nature-made creatures should occasionally do so in order to survive." Watson examined the slowly deteriorating man with a quizzical face. Well, he had always expected Holmes to become despondent although he never quite gave up the idea of trying to cure him of his emptiness that occupied him during certain periods. He sighed a little involuntarily and stood there with bouts of resentment for a few moments before deciding to meet up with Mary again as originally planned. He began to turn away toward the door before the poor detective's voice stopped him from completely doing so.
"Watson, I have come to the conclusion that the exponent of the concern in your voice, which is, no doubt, derived from our undying love for each other, is counteracting with your individual desire to seek out your future," he paused, seeming to swallow some bitter grudges, "wife. And it is here, in this moment that I wonder why that is. Would you care to explain?"
Watson turned towards him fully again, brows raised in curiosity. His deduction was accurate as always, probably telling through the clothes he wore, the cufflinks he used, and the pocket watch he had been looking at awhile ago. He no doubt felt an unmistakable pull towards this question as Holmes himself was a person who had a natural gravity about his persona that pulled everything toward him. At the moment, the man was proposing something that would lead to the kind of danger Watson had wanted to avoid. "Holmes, you know that I am not leaving you. It is simply your refusal to respond to your surroundings that worries me. Quite naturally." Watson smiled.
That was when Holmes turned his head to meet his gaze. His pipe was askew, still burning with tobacco. Then he looked slightly away, eyes seemingly glazed with what Watson could only perceive as deep cogitation. With a few more moments of silence, Holmes continued speaking. "I suppose I should accept things the way they are," he leaned forward a little, hunching his back, "I should."
"So will you come with me outside? Perhaps we shall have lunch."
"Will she be there?"
Watson chuckled lightly. "No."
The doctor was met with silence of words and the shuffling of a body that had been sitting in one room for several months. He needed no verbal answers.
"Another one of your crucial investment for the case, I suppose?"
"It had to be done, my dear Watson, for you have a gambling issue and I a financial issue."
Watson only glared at Holmes and purposely pulled the gauze a little harder than necessary during the ligature. The detective in turn grunted a little under his breath, out of pain. Apparently, the rather large brute that had taken upon himself to fight the gaunt Holmes had a knife in his person. Fortunately, Holmes saw it coming, although he could not help but become battered and bruised nonetheless. The cut was also rather deep, but only in the arm, which somewhat calmed the doctor a bit. He continued treating the injury in silence, and Holmes did not seem to mind. Or so he thought, until he decided to break it.
"Watson, I have considered and weighed many aspects our partnership and I have found that you are of great help in resolving crimes and such." Holmes had somehow very quickly grabbed his pipe and lit it in a matter of seconds. He watched the smoke rise up again, eyes a lot less intense and uptight. He spoke around the shank of the old-fashioned briar wood pipe, seemingly more relaxed than before. "And I believe that this partnership would do much better if you were not married."
The doctor's eyes flashed with anger, a steep fury that was, decidedly, somewhat misplaced. In spite of that, he yelled at him. "I thought that you said you would accept things the way they are!"
"No; no, I said that I should."
Watson growled in hopeless frustration and was about to let Holmes simply receive an infection from the rotting of gauze and dead blood cells by becoming happily married and living far, far away from Baker Street, perhaps in Afghanistan, when his wrist was grabbed. His immediate reaction was to snap at the insolent detective, without a convenient reason for doing so. "Let go of me!"
"No, because that would result in an abandonment by a good friend of mine."
"And he would have a very good reason to do so."
He began to turn away but could not entirely complete the task as his wrist was still attached to the detective's hand. The acid-eroded hand that worked restlessly on an obsession for solving, piecing, and deducing. Watson felt his decision and position falter under the bleeding man's touch and cursed himself for becoming so weak to his demands. But was it his desire for freedom from Holmes that brought him to Mary, or was it really simply love? He watched his friend, mouth slightly parted, pupils a bit dilated.
Suddenly, his medical thoughts flooded into him, referring back to dilated pupils. An excessively dilated pupil would often be a result of a serotonin-increasing drug although Holmes did not seem to have pupils dilated to that extent. Of course, eyes reacted to the dark, but it was rather illuminated in here, was it not? Then the only other plausible explanation would have to be…
Watson's observation lapsed for only about three seconds in real life, but it had an effect on him so great that he was forced to rip his wrist out of the man's grip, and walk out of the door within another five or six seconds. He spared no time to look back.
He continued to walk toward the local pub in a forced speed, unable to stop his mind from replaying his recent, hopefully imagined revelation. The thought was just so… absolutely…
Holmes definitely was not feeling sexual arousal towards him.
Watson woke up to the sound of the violin.
It was a song he did not recognize although he had to admit he was too groggy to access it fully. He thought about yelling at Holmes for playing in the middle of the night again but decided that he did not have enough energy to do so. Groaning, he sat up on his bed, running his hands over his face. Holmes did not slow down or halt his musical practice, so he thought that maybe he did not hear the doctor groan. Or maybe he simply ignored it. It was not beyond Holmes to do such a thing, and he knew it. He chuckled slightly, probably out of sleep deprivation more than anything else.
A yawn escaped him involuntarily, and he swung his legs over the bed, standing. Normally, Watson would simply force himself back to sleep, but he felt beckoned toward his calm violin playing. So he walked towards the sitting room where he was bound to be found, listening very carefully. As he approached closer, the signature smell of tobacco permeated throughout the room, and Watson was sure that the scent would probably hold onto the furniture and drapery for the next century or so. The detective's back was to him, and his silhouette was slightly visible with the illumination of a few lamps.
The tempo of the unknown song picked up speed, and Holmes swayed with the crisp melody. Watson stopped walking, as it felt somehow rude to intrude him. He listened tentatively to it, eyes half-lidded although not necessarily out of drowsiness. Then, before the doctor could even register, the song had come to an end. His trance was broken by none other than Holmes himself.
"And why are you up during this ungodly hour, Watson?" His head was looking over the violin, trying to meet the doctor's gaze.
Watson let on an upward curling of his lips. "And why are you asking that question, Holmes?"
Holmes cleared his throat and turned away, setting down the violin and the bow next to a chair. He straightened himself up and fully faced Watson. He stared for a second too long, eyes glinting with something different in particular, and he looked away, speaking toward elsewhere. "Well, I suppose I should get some sleep since I am dangerously deprived of it." He pretended to stretch out of exhaustion, and Watson simply stared with seriousness.
"I know you are not going to sleep, Holmes."
He glanced at Watson and sniffed. "Maybe I will go take a walk out in the rain." He began walking towards the door.
Watson approached after him with automaticity. "Not if I can help it."
"You of all people should know that I rather enjoy becoming cold and drenched." His hand was on the doorknob.
"Holmes!" Watson pushed the man against the wall, slamming his hands on either side of his head, and forced him to face him completely. His eyes were indifferent, steady, and… dilated. He mentally shook himself. It was the darkness. It had to be the darkness. Holmes began speaking again.
"I hope you know that I am letting you do this."
Watson gritted his teeth and nearly yelled at him. "I don't know what's going on," he glared at Holmes with resentment, but the man only seemed to stare, rapt with fascination at his face, "but you have to say something, Holmes—" the man under him reached out his hand to graze the side of Watson's cheek with his knuckles, "—or else I really can't do anything about—"
He felt the world stop as Holmes gently pressed his lips against his.
Watson froze, and he tried to pull away. "No, I can't, Holmes; it simply cannot—"
"But you want it, my dear Watson." The hand caressing and holding his face made him stop for a moment.
Holmes kissed him again, lips meeting in passion and a rawness that was hard to place in his befuddled mind. Watson felt heaviness on his eyes that made them flutter closed. He was trying so hard to fight back the guilt and the desire in one attempt.
He also wanted to sob, because he had wanted this for such a long, long time.
The detective then kissed him on the cheek, his ear, his jaw, and the curvature of his neck. "Holmes…" he murmured in a guttural tone, as his friend's head was buried at the crook of his neck, "I can't, Holmes… I can't…"
At that, the detective raised his head and pushed his lips so hard against his own, he was sure there would be bruises. Holmes seemed to clear his head of any residual thoughts about the world around him, as a tongue was quickly pushed into his mouth. Watson could not help but respond, his own tongue meeting his friend's in natural entwinement. He breathed heavily through his nose, and a faint moan reverberated into the room. Holmes ran a hand down Watson's body, and the man shivered in response. He leaned forward and grazed his teeth against the doctor's clavicle, eliciting a gasp from him.
He then moved down his chest, lips trailing down his sternum, speaking at irregular intervals between kisses and bites. "I believe—" he moved upwards again, teasing the poor doctor by sliding his hands over his body, "—that acceptance would be—" the hand roughly rubbed against his straining erection, a cry from Watson elicited, "—quite—" Holmes came up to him, face to face; his friend's lips swollen into a puckering red, eyes hooded with desire, "—elementary, my dear." Watson moaned in response, as Holmes continued to distract him with his roaming hand. The detective smiled and kissed his cheek chastely, making his way down again.
And this time, Watson did not stop him.
"I'm yours, Holmes. Do you hear me?"
Holmes grinned into his naked chest, working his way downwards. He had no need to respond verbally.
He would show him exactly what he heard.
A/N: Ah, yes. I would do a sexy blow-job scene, but I am simply not talented enough with explicity. Please drop in a review if you will.