Disclaimer: I own nothing

Warnings: Slash. And really crappy writing. And this is my first Sherlock Holmes fic. But mostly it's just crappy writing

The house Mary and I had purchased was a modest little house, right outside of London. Close enough to my old house on Baker Street for a visit now and again, but far enough away from Holmes that the gun fires and violin playing in the middle of the night would not wake us. It was five days before the wedding and Mary and I decided to take a final look at the house as it now held all of our belongings. It was for all intents and purposes ours; the only thing that we had not done yet was sleep in it.

In order to make a clean break from Holmes I had stayed the past week at a hotel, Mary had decided that it would only be proper for us to move in on the wedding night. However, I was anxious about the atmosphere; it does take me some time to get accustomed to sleeping in new places, so I had made the decision to stay that night.

"Oh John, it's perfect!" Mary had sighed as we walked in that afternoon. She has overseen the decorating, so it was not the first time she was seeing it, but it was the first time we were seeing it together, I suppose that was why she found it necessary to coo over every detail that she already knew was there.

I gladly listened to her gush over the drapes and urge me to see my own private sitting room. I must admit it was all quite exciting. I let her give me a private tour, her showing me every nook and cranny of the house. I could not quite call it my home, there was something off, and though I was sure I would shake it after a few nights there, I still felt that something was looming over it, something impersonal.

Perhaps it was that the house was far too neat, I was used to Holmes's natural clutter. This house was pristine, organized, every little feminine detail was in its exact spot for a reason, whatever that reason may have been.

"Come dear, sit down at the tea table! I want to see how the room suits you!" I honestly had no idea what she had meant, however I eagerly obliged her, and that was when things went a bit wonky.

The table set was lovely, and the china was all set up though there was no actual tea in it, and judging by my future wife's high pitched reaction the room "suited" me well. But there was one tiny detail that I could not get past.

There, on the table, beneath all of the tea time china, were lace doilies.

I hardly had anytime to process it, because Mary had begun to shuffle me around once again. The rest of the day was spent eating out, where Mary obsessed over our new house and I pretended to be affected by her outrageous excitement. I then gave her a small kiss goodbye and walked alone back to what was soon going to be my home.

In the dark the house had a rather sinister feel, all the knick knacks and trivial decorations seemed to be mocking me, and right there, illuminated by the moon shining in from the windows were the lace doilies. I sat down and stared at them for a while, thinking about what I was getting myself into.

Holmes was absolutely, positively right. Who knows maybe in a few years Mary would have an insurmountable amount of warts. I tried telling myself to get over it, they were insignificant, they were simple doilies for goodness sake and they were not a matter to question my love for someone over.

Yet I was.

I was sitting there, in the dark in the house I would begin my married life in, questioning my engagement over doilies. Clearly Holmes had gotten to me by paying that gypsy woman off. I tried convincing myself that I was just thinking to deep into it. Holmes was just jealous, he couldn't have really known, he was just doing everything he could think of to get me to stay. The doilies were just something he knew would get to me.

After a while I decided that there was no use in dwelling on it and I decided to go up to my bedroom. The bed was slightly smaller than the one I was used to sleeping in, and as I slide into it I found the duvet to be slightly scratchy and in general it was far too soft. My old bed had well worn sheets and the mattress had been hard but with my own particular spot worn into it.

I must have spent an hour tossing and turning to get comfortable and when I finally found a decent spot, I lay there just thinking about the coming week. Soon enough I would be sleeping in this bed every night. The deafening silence that surrounded me would only be broken by Mary's quiet breathing and I would eventually come to terms with that. I had no choice really.

But as the night dragged on, I kept waiting for something to break the silence, perhaps a gunshot from the next room, or the slight plucking of a violin. Maybe Holmes- or anyone- walking into the bedroom to open the windows for no reason, but there was nothing. Just silence.

The hours passed by and I couldn't so much as close my eyes. Why was I having so much trouble? And even more curious, was why I could not shake the little bit of hope that maybe Holmes would make an appearance. Obviously that was a silly thought, he was across town, and for all I knew he was mad at me and happy to have the house to himself.

That thought struck me and I suddenly felt horrid. I always knew Holmes would eventually get bored of me, but since he had made such a scene at me leaving when I first told him, it made it even worse. Did he have no emotions at all?

It was then I realized that I had been embellishing my own thoughts and more likely than not, Holmes was sitting in his chair, smoking his pipe. Or worse, perhaps he was drinking himself into oblivion. Or even worse injecting himself with cocaine again.

It would be my fault entirely if he had become addicted again, and who else would be able to pull him away from it if not me, and if it was my fault in the first place than how could I possibly help him. Holmes really did need me, I suddenly became sure that he would fall into one of his moods and never come out and I would have been wholly responsible.

Then I began thinking even more, any thoughts of sleeping had long since left me, I needed Holmes too. I couldn't very well ask Mary to keep hold of my checkbook for me. And though I was not nearly as much of a gambler as I once was, occasionally the mood struck me, but I owe that mostly to Holmes. He held me back from it just as I pulled him away from the needle.

I sat up in the bed, and one last musing came into my mind, why was I about to leave the one person on the planet that knows me better than I know myself? The answer: sex. I was leaving Holmes to satisfy myself. But it wasn't really going to satisfy me. I was starting to realize that if Holmes was everything to me, and he was, and the only reason I was getting married was because it was decent and proper, then there really was no point. I would never be contented living a quiet life with Mary. In fact the only thing I would be content with would be living a dangerous and sometimes infuriating but very adventurous life with the person that I truly loved.

I was half way out the door by the time the thought that perhaps I actually loved Sherlock Holmes crossed my mind. And I was near running down the street when the thought that perhaps, if Holmes loved me back, then my other needs would be satisfied. Holmes never showed any true interest in women, or men either, but I didn't see why he wouldn't share in the more physical nature of a relationship if he did indeed return my new found feelings.

The walk to 221b seemed to go fast as I was quite caught up in my own thoughts, and I used the key that Holmes had not taken back and I entered into our rented space with no reserves about the indecency of the hour. Holmes would be awake.

My mind had taken me too far into the dark because Holmes was simply sitting in his chair, puffing on his pipe. No bottles or needles were in sight.

"Watson. I've been expecting you." He said simply before he even turned around.

"You have?" I asked curiously. Though knowing Holmes, he would have some far-fetched, but correct, reason why I would be back.

"Yes, I knew that it would only be a matter of time before you got cold feet and realized the error of your ways." He turned to look at me and stood up as he did.

"Well, you may have been right about the married life not suiting me." I began, and I felt him sizing me up.

"Judging by the disheveled attired I am assuming you have not been able to sleep. You got out of bed and due to the slight increase in your heart rate and the heavy breathing; you have ran here to tell me something very important." He pulled the pipe from his lips. "So I suggest you don't beat around the bush, I haven't got all night."

I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it again because I realized that I truly had no idea what I was going to say.

A slow smile played across his face. "So, you've finally figured it out then, old boy." He walked closer to me so that we were mere inches apart and facing each other.

I gave a small nod hoping that he was talking about what I was thinking about, which was very likely because Holmes could read me like an open book.

Without a moment's hesitation Holmes was on me, his lips met mine in a harsh clatter of teeth and tongues that neither one of us minded. For a good while it was a collaboration of mouths and hands and hair. I didn't dare pull away first, but finally we both needed a small break.

"I am assuming that was what you had to tell me." He said, panting.

I just responded with another heated kiss.