A/N: Heyo! So uber blooper on my part...this chapter was written back like a year ago to fill a request for someone. I can't even remember who requested it now because I completely forgot to post it! ." So OOOPS. Sorry! It was based on the first movie, but actually meshes with the second movie quite nicely as well I think.
Also, I've been looking over this story from start to finish, re-reading reviews and ideas. It really has reminded me how much you guys all seriously rock! I'm totally dating myself by saying this, but virtual cookies for all! (Kids don't do that no more, eh? What do you have like, gratification apps on your iPhones or something?... haha. I digress again).
So thanks for sticking with me through this all, always offering uplifting feedback, and being awesome friends. Long live RDJ Holmes and Hotson! :D
Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc
"After this, therefore because of this"
To be honest, I often question how in the world I came to be so blessed as to know him. Discoursing with him is invigorating; watching him at work: fascinating. Hearing the swell of his Stradivarius when he's feeling musical is inspiring, and witnessing his explanations as to how he has solved cases makes my heart race.
Kissing him is sublime.
I don't want to sound like an addict, because I certainly am not. But my heart skips when Sherlock Holmes cups my face in his strong, rough, calloused hands, and my legs become weak when I feel his breath ghost over my own lips. I find myself imagining his touch at night, dreaming of his kisses (although I assure the reader that said dreams remain innocent). In short, the simple action of pressing my lips to his drives me wild.
It was Sunday last that I found myself on Baker Street, rather than the considerably less-cluttered Cavendish Place. I had longed to see him, and had finally earned myself a bit of free time.
Our conversation drifted with the lackadaisical and charming effortlessness it always did from the well-being of Gladstone, to recent cases, to more obscure but equally valued topics like the health concerns involving eating fish caught in the Thames.
Alas, somehow our conversation faded away as he crossed the room and leaned close, and my fingers threaded their way through his messy hair quite unconsciously. In a brief moment, our lips touched and I ceased to be on Earth, suddenly adrift in the unconfined bliss of the Heavens.
I sighed contentedly and he hummed in response, leaning close and tilting his head so that our mouths meshed at a new angle, becoming slightly more damp in the process. I shuddered at the feeling of his rough stubble rubbing against my cheek and tea and tobacco married deliciously on the tips of our tongues, our tastes mingling and filling both our hungry mouths. There was increasing urgency in Holmes' actions, as though a simple taste was awakening his real hunger, and he needed to satiate it as soon as possible. My own cheeks began to burn as I mussed his hair beyond its usual style, and allowed his thumb to stroke my neck, pressing against my pulse point.
And suddenly, there was an unexpected click—
A voice that I regonized all too well. My wife, Mary.
With the speed of a flash of lightening, Holmes and I jumped apart.
"I…" The poor woman blushed deeply and looked quite flabbergasted with the scene upon which she had unwittingly entered, "I just came to see if you were ready to go…"
"Ah," Holmes brain was already compiling explanations, I could tell by the deep tone (although I wondered if the husky edge to it had other foundations as well…). "I was just disclosing a very confidential piece of information involving a case to your husband." He lied smoothly.
"Informa…tion?" she looked confused, that good, trusting, naive nature of hers immediately beginning to question whether or not she had seen things incorrectly. A mere misunderstanding? Her eyes seemed to be searching.
Again, Holmes leaned close to me and I must admit that for a split second I flinched with dread that he was about to advance upon me again. Instead, he leaned close, then tipped his head to the side a bit, as if to whisper something in my ear. It's a rather desperate save, but I could imagine how it may have looked from Mary's angle: as though our lips were touching. Catching on, I pretended to look shocked by some random tidbit of information.
"My dear Holmes! Surely the case is yours!"
"Oh!" She exclaimed with considerable surprise from across the room. "I misunderstood…erm…but we really should be going, John."
"Yes," I rejoined. "Be well, Holmes."
"Always well, my dear Watson," he responded with a sly look.
Hastening my still-flustered wife downstairs, I cast only one brief glance over my shoulder as a form of proper goodbye. The consulting detective seemed quite at ease, lighting his oily black clay pipe and humming to himself. Mary laughed lightly as I turned to look ahead stonily.
"To think," she giggled, "I thought that you two were kissing when I first walked into the room before. How silly of me!"
"Indeed you were being quite silly, Mary; my heart belongs solely to you."
"Ah, John," she sighed.
I can hardly understand how or why, but at that moment, I could swear that there was a shade of disappointment in her bonny blue eyes and vague tone. Certainly she desired not to see me illegally involved with another man! But then, that look…
Ah, how curious and capricious are women!
Hope you liked! Ah, Watson doesn't understand: Shwatsonlock is better than 50 Shades of Gray! *gets shot* review?... not after that last comment...? OK...
More soon, kiddos! :)