Title: A Good, Respectable Man
Warning(s): Slash! Don't like it, don't read it darling ;)
Summary: Holmes' feelings towards Watson become evident, but what will Watson make of it all?
A/N: Apologies if this is a load of rubbish. I have seen Sherlock Holmes the movie 4 times now, but still I feel I won't be able to do it justice at all... however, the nagging plot bunnies I continued to conjure each time I saw the film, would not be abaited until I cast my apprehensions to the wind and threw my own approximation of Holmes/Watson into the mix!
I do tend to swap tenses without noticing and I only got a C at GCSE in English Language, so let me be the first to say; my punctuation, semantics and use of large complicated words may be somewhat inferior compared to the skill and brilliance of many of the other fanfics I have read so far.
This story is based soley on the Holmes and Watson as portrayed in the film.
All that being said, hope you enjoy and please, please do comment! :)
He sits there, totally oblivious of my feelings toward him. Only because I wish it to be this way you understand. If I let Watson know of the thoughts and desires that course through me everytime the doctor enters my personal space, he would most certainly pitch a fit.
So bound by the morals and laws of our society. What a respectable man should and should not do. Well I damned the respect of our tainted and self-serving "society" years ago. I do not wish to be respected by that which I find most irksome.
I understand, of course, where this desire to be socially acceptable has formed. Instilled from birth by parents of upper-middle class status, Watson cannot help his nagging conscience or his rigid scruples.
Good education, become a doctor, a spell in the army, honorable discharge, back to London... you can almost see the checklist his parents layed out for him. Hmm... what could possibly be next? Ah yes, stop aiding the ingenious, if slightly mad, Holmes then find a woman, move out of Baker Street, marry her and raise a family.
It's not that I'm bitter or jelous... such emotions cloud ones judgement far too effectively. But why must Watson marry and raise a family? This man is not built for such things. It is a waste! A waste of a sharp mind and a most able fighter. A man like Waston should not be domesticized, surrounded by lace doyleys and babies.
He should be enthralled and invigorated, enlightened and excited.
I notice a sigh and realise I have begun plucking at the strings of my violin. I smirk and look over at the man sitting across from me at the breakfast table. As always he is reading the paper, but has lowered one corner to make eye contact with me. Those grey-blue eyes have caught and held my attention since the moment we first met. No mean feat given that was 4 years prior.
"Holmes..." Watson says gently but with a hint of weariness. "You kept me up half the night with that, do you think perhaps you could give it a rest for a while?"
"I didn't realise my playing had woken you, dear Watson. Had I been informed, I may have ceased." I reply, continuing to pluck at the strings.
It's not that I wish to be awkward or childish, but I love how those usually calm and friendly eyes change in times of extreme annoyance or mortal peril. Steely, intense and really quite exquisite.
"Yes, the operative word in that sentance being 'may'." The doctor counters, "I am inclined to believe you would have continued playing anyway, Holmes. So let me say this; I am extremely tired both physically and mentally thanks to you. A tired man has a notably lower tolerance to things that irk him, as I'm sure you know. So if you continue to 'play' that violin, do not be suprised if you find it has been used as fire wood before too long." Watson concluded, his eyes intense and piercing.
"Ah, I see." I reply with a smirk at having got the reaction I desire. "Well, perhaps I will leave it for now." I concede, glancing over at Gladstone, he really should have woken up by now. But I don't let my worry show, I return my gaze to Watson who has no qualms about letting his concern paint itelf across that handsome face of his. "He'll be fine as always, old boy." I remark.
"Yes, well I still wish you wouldn't do this to him Holmes. It can't be good for him."
"I'm sure he's in perfect health, Watson. I dare say he'd be most pleased if he knew how he'd aided me in my endeavours over the years."
"Oh yes...most pleased." The doctor replies somewhat sarcastically, his eyes hard.
"Something's wrong." I assume.
Watson's eyes were never hard.
Yes, quite wrong. I lean forward in my chair, propping my elbows on the table, fingers laced in front of my face, my eyes focused, further reading his expression.
"My mother called yesterday. She wishes to see me." Watson admits, knowing I would figure it out sooner or later.
"I see. No doubt to inform you what's next on her list for you."
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Watson raises an eyebrow at me.
"You seem almost bitter, old cock. I can't stay here forever, Holmes."
My stomach churns and my heart twists in it's cage. I steel myself for what I'm about to say. This can go in one of two directions, I deduce. One being very good, the other catastrophically bad.
"Why?" I ask evenly, not letting my nervousness show. My pounding heart, my breathing altering it's tempo to suit my sudden need for extra oxygen.
"Why what?" Watson asks incredulously.
"Why must you leave?"
"Why? Because I intend on having a family Holmes, I don't want to be chasing criminals, endangering my life and living like this for the rest of my days." The doctor states.
"Your mother's words, not your own." I shoot back.
My stomach must have tied itself into knots by now.
"Excuse me? How dare you--" he begins, anger making his cheeks flush slightly.
"You love the thrill of the macabre, Watson. It's written all over your face, every time I mention a new case. You cannot hide it, so don't bother to try." I interject with a smirk.
"Fine, yes I admit, I enjoy our cases Holmes. That does not mean I wish to be chasing murderers and rapists into my fifties."
"I'm not asking you to, old boy. I'm asking you to stay." I say, my intentions and feelings for the doctor as blatant as I dare to make them.
"What?" he asks, voice quiter and more unsure. Eyes softer but his confusion evident.
"I'm asking you to stay with me, Watson. You don't need a family. The life of the domestic man would not suit you nearly as well as the life of crime-solving and excitement has. You know this." My voice is somehow calm and steady.
"Holmes..." he starts, a hint of realisation creeping over him. "Am I to understand that you're asking me to stay with you for more than crime-solving purposes? As you know very well that, even as a family man, I could and no doubt would, occasionally, still aide you in your exploits."
"You have developed your skills of deduction well since we first met, old boy." I reply, effectively confirming the doctor's own deduction. "I hesitate to admit that perhaps, were you to leave, I would be at something of a loss."
I cringe inwardly at my own words. Never have I been this open with my emotions, I feel vunerable and it's something I'm most unaccustomed to.
Watson seems to be floundering, lost for words at my proclamation. So I make the decision to fill in the void our, somewhat awkward, silence is leaving in it's wake.
"I know you'll be a little adverse to the idea at first, natrually. All your life you've been moulded and shaped into the realisation of an ideology; a good, respectable man. I on the other hand, take such ideologies with a grain of salt, for even the most respectable men are riddled with unsavoury details and surrounded by dubious activity. Good and bad, right and wrong are all subjective, Watson. A reputable front, if that is what you desire, is easily achieved using a facade of charm, wit and cunning."
Watson sputters slightly. "Are you suggesting that we partake in indecent and may I remind you illegal activities and then you expect me to cover them over with smiles and lies? You are beyond belief, Holmes!"
"Your elovated voice, dialated pupils and rapid breathing tell me that your id is somewhat intrigued by this idea, my dear Watson." I state, still keeping as calm as I can.
"You are insane. I should have spotted it years ago. For the sake of argument, say I agreed to your little charade, you do know what could happen if we ever got found out?" he asks me.
"Of course I know, but you hit the nail on the head there, Watson. IF we ever got found out. Do you really think that anyone stands a chance against us in a battle of intellegence and cunning? I highly doubt it. The facts are clear, my dear friend. If we wanted to, we could partake in whatever 'indecent activities' we wished to and no one would be any the wiser." I reply honestly. "The Yard are as useless as a soleless shoe and ignorant enough to have to call me to solve cases that should be blazingly obvious to even a dunce. They are no threat to us."
"Fine, you argue your point well. But I'm not interested in doing anything of that nature with you Holmes. I have no idea what led you to believe I would." Watson counters.
It's a slightly unexpected but not unthought of twist in the direction our argument was taking. I expected Watson to be all morals and indignation, not personal preferences and attacks on my logic.
"Oh many things, old boy, over the years..." I say honestly, my mind sorting through the times I have wondered whether relations beyond the professional and loyal comradery were, in fact, possible between my dear friend and I.
"Like what?!" Watson asks a little to loudly, his own tone and pitch of voice giving him away. The slight flush in his cheeks and avertion of his eyes tell me such a realisiation has dawned on him, if a moment too late.
I smile and continue, "Why old boy, is that blushing I observe?" I jibe, furthering my argument before the other man can reply, "The time you got drunk, and insisted on sleeping in my bed, with the contention that my room was closer to where we were standing at the time, comes to mind."
"I don't recall. Where were we standing?" Watson asks, a facade of airy indifference attempting to cover the worry I see in his eyes.
"In the hallway, meaning your room was closer to us. I also neglected to mention that while I eventually agreed with this line of reasoning for a quiter life, you had no qualms about stripping-"
I observe Watson closely at this point. Eyes widening slightly - shock. Cheeks flushing darkly - embarrassment. Eyes downcast slightly - guilt.
"-and pressing up against me most inappropriately throughout the night." I reply.
"I take it you did not try to stop me in my actions? I was drunk, therefore that piece of data is corrupted. Of course I would do or say things I wouldn't normally whilst drunk--" he begins to counter.
"Ah yes, the old, I was drunk and it didn't mean anything, routine. But Watson, it has been acknowledged for some time now that alcohol is merely a reducer of inhibitions, giving it the appearance but not the status of a controlling substance. When merely drunk you act on your own will, but without conscience, rational thinking or fear of consequence." I reason.
Watson looks on the brink of defeat. The man has never been so stubborn as to ignore the facts when they are put to him logically and without bias.
"Still, one drunken event cannot have brought you to the conclusion that you could pursuade me into your bed without the use of alcohol." he says, one eyebrow raised almost challengingly.
"It did not." I agree, "The fact that over the years numerous women, some of them really quite attractive have shown interest in you, but all have been either ignored or politely refused."
Watson opens his mouth to reply, but I continue undeterred.
"The fact that your gaze often drifts down to my mouth when I am speaking, much as it is now," I smirk as his gaze then pointedly looks into my own, "and your eyes dilate along with frequent moistening of the lips are all tell-tale signs of, albeit that you aren't consciously aware of, your physical attraction toward me." I add, hoping my cockiness pays off.
Watson stands and paces slightly, my trick for when I wish to avoid a question or prolongue in giving an answer.
I wait for a few moments, my friend is acting a little on edge...and putting Watson on edge can lead to sudden outbursts of mild but effective violence, I know from past experience.
Eventually the silence is unbearable and I have to speak. I stand and put a hand on my friend's shoulder to stop his pacing. His gaze is exquisitly intense again and I have to remind myself to breathe.
"Watson, if what I'm saying has no truth to it, then why pray were you so upset at the prospect of having to see your mother? The list to which I previously referred was not denied either, leading me to conclude that that is exactly the reason she wishes to see you, and the next thing to be 'crossed off' as it were, is that you find and marry a woman--"
I am cut off rather abruptly by soft, warm lips on my own as I feel myself being pushed a few feet back and pinned against our living room door. My brain ceases to function correctly, but through the fog I realise that Watson is kissing me...and none too shyly either. I kiss back, opening my mouth to that invading tongue, unable to help the quiet moan it elicits.
As suddenly as it began, it ends. I am rather roughly shoved backwards and before my mind clears and eyes refocus, the door slams in my face, leaving my breathless and alone.
A smile creeps onto my face, Watson only ever storms out when he's unable to face the truth. In short my friend has only stormed out 3 times out of our 4 year stretch. He'll no doubt go and gamble then get drunk, but as far as I can see that can only work in my favour from now on.
A/N: Hi again! Please comment! I am considering a sequal of the somewhat smutty variety, but with a bit of plot to boot. Oh and if anyone out there would be kind enough, I'd love a beta reader! :)