My first Holmes/Watson fic I've uploaded on , but not my first one, so hopefully it's not TOO AWFUL!

Disclaimer: I have the displeasure of informing you that I do not own a single letter of Sherlock Holmes, neither the films, books or TV series'. However I do LOVE them ALL.

Rainsoaked Apologies

The rain thunders down like lead pellets upon the windows of 10 Cavendish place as John Watson stalks across the tiled entrance hall to discover who on earth could be knocking at this time of night, and in this dreadful weather.
Unfastening the latch with hands that are not yet skilled at the work, he slowly and carefully eases the heavy door open and steps forward a pace, right onto the threshold of where his house meets the dark shadows of London's wet streets.

Standing on the doorstep, trousers splattered half-way up the leg with mud and dark hair plastered in a sodden mess against his forehead, is a most familiar face; those dark, soulful eyes peering up from beneath thick, feathered, coal-black lashes. He shivers in the doorway, bullets of water assaulting his face as he tilts his chin up with a melancholy gaze that turns Watson's stomach inside out.

"H…" only the first letter is able to escape the lips of good doctor before he is rudely cut off by something warm and wet, tasting of salt and scotch. Eyes fluttering instantly closed he feels it move teasingly against his lips, covering the entirety of his mouth as if trying to drink in his soul. Fingers claw greedily at the hair at the back of his neck, while his own arms twist themselves around something he knows to be sturdy, even though it shakes beneath his light touch. Inside his mouth something tenderly explores the recesses between his teeth, and the arch of his palate. Time slows to nothing as electricity shoots like bolts of lightning through his muscles with every tiny touch; and his body is singing and burning and arching towards the radiant warmth it can sense so close.

Eventually the welcome intruder draws back, mouths unsealing with a sloppy sound, and Watson is finally able to gain enough control over his electrified body to peel apart his eyelids and gaze once more at the fellow in the rain.
With deliberate slowness his lips pucker together in the process of forming words, and one foot lifts slightly from the white tiles as if he is about to join the man outside in the downpour.


He draws back, foot retreating to its original position and mouth falling open in a sad display of realisation. The other fellow notes the sudden change in his counterpart, and he glances over the other's shoulder into the brightly lit hall behind with an expression of deepest regret and sorrow, and then too takes a step back.

Watson stretches out his hand, fingers brushing the cool, slick skin of the man he knows better then himself with an affection he has never felt before; the emotion wells up inside him, threatening to burst though his chest and throat, threatening to send him in a great leap into the arms of the one he loves and never let go as long as he lives.


But that voice, that womanly tone, suggests a very different end to the evening.
One in which he will again choke down his own sentiments and return to the one he is supposed to love, an ending his friend has seemingly already deduced is inevitable.

And so, he removes his hand with a final, slow stroke of his friend's cheekbone and retreats another step into his house, his ribs feel as if they are being tugged viciously from his chest by the growing distant between the two of them and he hopes for the other's sake such thoughts are as plain on his face as they are in his heart.
A hand darts out; fingers soaking, icy and calloused wrapping themselves around Watson's warmer digits.
A lump forms in the man's throat but he swallows it down with the strongest willpower he has ever possessed, allowing the cold comfort to spring up within him for a moment, before pulling back his hand and giving a defeated bow of his head.

"I'm sorry."

He closes the door swiftly before he can change his mind and follow the advice that his body and heart are screaming at him.

Mary strolls casually into the entrance hall, and he suddenly finds himself despising her perfectly coiffed hair and exceptionally clean garments. Her lithe arms coil around his own, which hang limply at his side and she leans her head gently upon his shoulder.

"Who was that darling?" she questions lightly, drawing him as she does so into the adjoining living room.

As they pass the small window John Watson casts a furtive glance out into the grey, ill-lit street.

It is empty.

He bites down on his lip as he wraps an arm lightly about her waist.
"No-one my dear."

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