lightconductor | An Unexpected Vacation

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An Unexpected Vacation

Watson's brain hadn't quite caught up with the reality of his situation. That they were in danger, he understood. That Moriarty was behind it, he grasped easily. That it was necessary to flee the country, he could not argue with even if he wasn't happy about. And it was easy to understand why he had to take this convoluted route to the station, separate from Holmes, even if he didn't naturally fall into step with whatever Holmes's latest plans were.

But here he was, at the station in one piece, still with the feeling that he only knew half of what was going on, or even less than half, and there was no sign of Holmes. Their compartment was occupied, too, by some Italian priest who seemed to speak little English, if any at all, and could not be made to understand he was in the wrong compartment.

Where was Holmes? Watson was beginning to feel more than a little desperate. Had something happened? Was this part of their escape plan? Had there been a last minute change? Ought Watson to get off the train and see if he could, somehow, manage to track him down? Should he stay on the train and wait to see if Holmes rejoined him later on?

He had no idea, but his heart was pounding away in his throat.

The train was pulling out of the station, then, and Watson was craning his head, searching for sign of Holmes, and seeing nothing. He hardly looked at the priest across from him, clutching at the sides of the window in his anxiety.

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Watson craned his neck to catch what glimpse he could of this Moriarty person, trying to see him well enough to remember his face, but... well, the man was awfully distant, and growing more so.

He shut the blinds, and turned to Holmes hastily, kissing him briefly but hard. There was no way to explain exactly how desperate he was to greet him properly, how glad he was to see Holmes in one piece, and he could not have waited any longer to demonstrate that fact.

"I did see," he said, sitting back again. "I suppose that's why you had me go to a hotel. Is Mrs. Hudson all right, do you know?"

He's glad, immensely glad, for that kiss, and resists pulling Watson back in for another. Instead, he takes both of Watson's hands in his own and grips them as he struggles not to show too much of his worries.

"She's fine, yes." If these men were to go after his housekeeper too, Holmes isn't sure he could keep his calm so well. "Did you recognize your driver?" he asks instead, a small smile coming to his face.

"No," Watson said, mystified, wondering if he ought to be concerned. "Should I have? I followed your directions exactly."

That he might have done something wrong was very worrying indeed, especially when he had, so far as he was aware, followed his instructions to the letter. He continued stroking Holmes's palm with his thumb, wishing that doing more would be possible. At the first possible opportunity. "You weren't in our rooms when they set it on fire, were you?"

"No, my dear, I was safe," he says, smiling, and he lifts Watson's hand to his lips so he can press a kiss against his palm. The mystified look on Watson's face is what he's eager to chase; he's eager to follow that and leave behind Moriarty and the imminent danger and the precarious nature of their attempts to apprehend him.

"I am certain that you did, especially considering your driver was a stranger to you. That is as it should be, for it would hardly do for anyone to recognize Mycroft driving you through the city."

"Mycroft!" Watson exclaimed. "Your brother, out and about? Good heavens."

This was very serious indeed, then, if it was enough to get Mycroft out of the Diogenes Club. That was more than a little sobering. "Bless him, then." He sagged back against the seat, shutting his eyes for a moment while he tried to sort himself out.

"Very well. We appear to be doing well so far, then. How does our plan go from here?"

Holmes wishes the plan involved pulling Watson into his arms, and holding him, and kissing him, and forgetting about about the world around them; but then, that habit of theirs is partially responsible for the situation they're in now, isn't it? He shakes those thoughts from his mind and instead turns Watson's hand in his own; he traces his fingertips down the length of Watson's fingers, over the pads of his hand.

"From here we must out-deduce Moriarty. We'll get off at the next station, leaving our bags behind -- sorry, old fellow -- and make for Paris. Moriarty will still be on the special he no doubt caught in order to pursue us to our perceived destination."

Watson did sigh a little at the loss of his luggage, but then, he'd been told not to bring anything irreplaceable. He had a habit of packing light in any case. "I suppose it would have been too much to ask for him to be so easily shook off as this," he admitted. "All right. Paris it is. This isn't exactly how I prefer to see Paris, but needs must, I suppose."

He shifted a little closer towards Holmes. It was hard for him to feel too threatened; he always felt very nearly invincible with Holmes, which was perhaps foolish, but he nevertheless had faith in the two of them together.

"And Lestrade will lead things in London?"

With a pang he considers Lestrade, considers Mary, whom he's really grown quite fond of now, and is exceedingly pleased she didn't marry Watson so he doesn't have to hate her. And Robert -- whose name, Holmes will never forget, came on his suggestion -- so small and innocent. Would Moriarty go after them, too? Lestrade is harmless, he ought to know; hardly a true threat to his crime network, but he's certainly in the line of fire.

He smiles at Watson and nods. "Yes, Lestrade can manage."

And then, because he can't resist it anymore, he cups the back of Watson's head and pulls him in for a kiss, slower but no less fierce.

Watson leaned into that kiss, shutting his eys. Such embraces were unwise, here and now, and he knew it, but he didn't particularly care, either. They had escaped danger, were deep in further danger, and that was ever the nature of their lives but they were still, miraculously, in one piece.

"Don't distract me," he chided, though without real ire; his tone was deeply affectionate. "I'm attempting to work out the details of your master plan. How long shall we be away from London?"

"Not long, my dear," he says, resisting the urge to sigh. He ought to be more confident about this, but he finds himself shaken to his core, not just because he's matching an intellectual equal, but because he's coming up against someone who's far more inclined to evil. And evil is, unfortunately, not always predictable. In that, Moriarty has the upperhand. Cruelty is difficult to deduce, as the mind resists it -- even Holmes's. Maybe it wouldn't have, were it not for Watson, but he's a better man now, from the inside out.

"The Yard will overtake Moriarty and his men, and it will be safe for us to return to our housekeeper and our singed carpets."

"In the meantime... we hide in Paris? There are worse things, I suppose."

He exhaled, trying to settle himself. He was feeling excited and anxious and anticipatory, all at once, and it was a lot to process. It was, in a terrible way, rather glorious. "I suppose it's a fortunate thing I have my gun in my pocket," he said, "and not in my luggage."

After a moment's thought, he added, "I shall toast Lestrade when we return."

He laughs, a breathless sound, and lets his eyes close. No, this plan will work. It will. It has to. Moriarty will be apprehended and his life with Watson will be allowed to continue because Holmes deserves this; hasn't he proven himself that he's a good person? Hasn't Watson, too, suffered enough, far too much for someone as good and kind and loyal and devoted as he? He relaxes and sets his chin against Watson's shoulder, close to but not quite nuzzling at him.

"For a job well done, or for allowing us a brief Paris vacation?"

"Both," Watson said, smiling. He tilted his head against Holmes's. Even if the situation was dire, there was a great deal of comfort to be found here and now. He was too much a sensualist to think otherwise, and too much in love.

It would be an uneasy holiday; he had no illusions about that. He would, truly, look forward to getting home again, to seeing Mrs. Hudson, to assessing the damage to their home, to greeting Lestrade and Mary, and playing with little Robert, to having the threat of danger lifted from them.

In the meantime, they were invincible.

"Where shall we disembark, then? Should I avoid getting too comfortable?"

He inhales and leans back, as unfortunately train cars aren't the best place to seek physical comfort for a pair of homosexuals (well, one homosexual and his lover). He leans back against the seat instead, resting his head.

"We'll get off at Canterbury, say farewell to our luggage, and Moriarty, as well," he says, mostly to the ceiling, and he reaches for Watson's hand again. "Hopefully for good."

"Hopefully not 'for good' as pertains to our luggage," Watson said, wryly. "I suppose I won't be seeing that particular shaving kit again any time soon, but theoretically it should languish in some lost-and-found office until we have opportunity to claim it."

Such pointless teasing made things somewhat lighter, somewhat more bearable. He squeezed Holmes's hand tightly.

"Canterbury," he mused. "Well, it gives us at least a little time of enforced relaxation in the middle of our flight for safety."

"Mm," he murmurs and presses closer to Watson's side. "Enforced relaxation and shopping trips. We'll buy new shaving kits." He sighs, more frustrated with this downtime than anything; it's a short while to Canterbury, and until then, he and Watson have only to distract themselves. His mind doesn't appreciate the interruption of their adventure, not at the moment.

"My dear, how bad do you suppose it is that I would rather spend this train ride languidly kissing you?" he asks, turning his head to the side so that he murmurs in Watson's ear.

"Oh, well. I don't think that's bad at all," Watson answered. His voice was soft, but rather sly, and it held a definite smile. "Potentially unwise, yes, but not in the least 'bad.'"

Unwise or not, he turned his head and kissed Holmes, lingering a moment or two in the familiar gesture, the familiar feel and taste.

He pulled back fractionally, an eyebrow raised. "Do you realise," Watson said, half laughing, "that you're still wearing a bloody cassock? I feel like I'm corrupting the clergy."

He looks down at himself and laughs, having completely forgotten his disguise. It takes him a moment to compose himself, but he raises a sly eyebrow at Watson when he does.

"I take it that isn't a game you'd be interested in?" he teases, even though he doubts it very much, doubts his own ability to go through with it; that would be quite the blasphemous game, however erotic it might seem otherwise.

"Let's not," Watson laughed. He clutched at Holmes's shirtfront, kissing him again, and let him go. "I already feel sacreligious enough. Do tell me you have some other article of clothing about you somewhere. It will look very strange if I'm travelling to France in the company of a priest."

He kissed him again, anyway.

"I can do better than that, my dear." He pulls the cassock off, revealing comfortably normal clothes underneath, and he folds it up, as he doubts it will be necessary any longer. Freed, he returns to Watson's side and kisses him again, not particularly caring just now that it isn't wise. They've had a narrow escape, have a narrower hope for securing Moriarty, and he wants to kiss his lover as much as he possibly can.

"Feel better about traveling to France now that I'm merely a homosexual in a well-tailored suit?"

"Much," Watson laughed throartily. "But there's no merely about it." He twisted his fingers into Holmes's jacket and pulled him very close. He kissed him, hard and enthusiastic, his eyes shut and his ears alert for any sound that might mean it was prudent to pull away.

"You look far more handsome like this," he pointed out, nibbling a little on Holmes's earlobe. "And while perhaps just as sinful, I like this sort of sin far better."

Once that would have been difficult to say. Now, it was natural and teasing.

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An Unexpected Vacation

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