Take care of those you call your own, and keep good company...

[lightconductor]

It had been a long, if not unrewarding day. Now, though, Watson was glad to relax in the comfort of familiar surroundings. There was something perfect about the cosiness of their rooms, the crackle and warmth of the fire, the scent of dinner and brandy and tobacco smoke. It was home, and it was far more perfect than he felt he had any right to claim.

He was stretched out on the sofa, comfortably full, with a novel propped up on his chest while he rested his head in Holmes's lap. The position was comfortable, intimate, and while in part he worried that it was... unmanly, unbecoming, unduly effeminate... it felt strangely safe, and he was grateful for the warmth of the thigh beneath his head.

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[mustbethetruth]

Holmes is at that level of contentment that makes him nervous. The scene is so perfect, so idyllic, that it's like the countryside -- deceptively still on its surface, which makes it prime for corruption. Try as he might, he can't find the corruption lurking in their sitting room, however. Watson's head in his lap is a pleasantly warm weight, and the quiet between them is comfortable too. It's easy to wrap himself up in it and stare off into the distance, rolling over things in his mind.

He solves a few cases from the newspaper -- again -- but his thoughts come back to Watson, as is so inevitable. He tries to keep his gaze from resting too noticeably on him while nonetheless making note of everything. The way he holds his book, turns the pages, reacts to what he reads, changes his breathing, gets more comfortable. He recognizes that other people might find this strange, and so he feels a little strange for doing it. Only a little, however.

Reaching over, he puts out his cigarette, and slides the fingers of his newly unburdened hand into Watson's hair, ruffling it lightly.

"Was our hero badly injured in the rescue attempt?"

[lightconductor]

Watson gave a small start -- but only a small one. He was at least somewhat used to this sort of thing, even if he wasn't prepared for it just now. He lowered his book, looking up at Holmes with raised eyebrows.

"Not mortally," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "Fortunately, the young lady is more than equipped to help nurse him back to health. Must you start the conversation halfway through like that? It's unsettling."

There was no real ire in his tone; it would have difficult to be seriously annoyed as cosy as he was now, and he enjoyed the feeling of Holmes's fingers in his hair, an added bonus.

[mustbethetruth]

"Why start at the beginning when there's no need to?" he counters, as casually as before, and he ruffles Watson's hair so that he can set it to rights again. "It saves time, my dear Watson. Surely you can surmise how I reached that conclusion."

Once Watson's hair is fixed, he casts about for something else to do with his hands, and settles on a light scalp massage, gently rubbing his fingers in small circles against Watson's scalp. Sometimes it's daunting to realize that Watson is his -- that he can massage Watson's scalp if he wants to, can draw Watson into his lap, can spend hours in silence or hours in not-so-silent activity. How much he loves Watson is occasionally daunting too, but he leans into it and embraces it because what else is there to do.

[lightconductor]

Watson closed his eyes, his irritation at being deduced and dissected in such a manner fading under the soothing feeling of fingers in his hair. It was such a small and intimate gesture, affectionate and loving, tender in a way he once would have thought an unlikely act for Holmes. Through all his doubts about the wisdom of this, of the morality of this, there were moments like this where he was overwhelmed with being loved.

"I suppose," he sighed, "you have managed to work it out by watching me." There was something humbling about that. Watson laid the book down on his chest. "Most people, you realise, don't aim to save time in conversation."

[mustbethetruth]

"I am not most people," he says, like it's obvious, because it is. There's another time waster, but he doesn't really mind it; he's distracting himself with this scalp massage, enjoying having Watson at his fingertips. He slides his hand down the side of Watson's neck to his shoulder, settling his hand there and brushing his thumb against his throat.

"And I'm not particularly interested in how they conduct their conversations when mine are perfectly satisfying as they are."

[lightconductor]

"I give thanks every day," Watson said dryly, "that you are not most people."

He leaned his head back, feeling strangely vulnerable about having a hand over his throat, feeling caught and peculiarly glad for it. He opened his eyes then, a peculiar sort of smile on his face.

"But if you insist on having these conversations, then you must accept that I will complain, at least a little."

There was only fondness and amusement in his voice.

[theyarder]

Lestrade -- doesn't quite know what he feels. It's been so quick, falling for Mary, but he doesn't see how it could've been any other way. She's far too charming, fits too easily in his life, for him to have prolonged this at all. He'd thought it was a little silly, the idea that you could fall for someone that quickly, could know that there wasn't anyone else for you. He's practical, and that didn't seem a practical notion.

Practical or no, his head's swimming because Mary's promised to be his wife, and he doesn't have a single doubt that they're going in the wrong direction. It just makes sense in a way that reminds him, a little, of solving a case. Lestrade needs a wife? Well, Miss Mary Morstan is the prime suspect. Case closed.

He stops at the landing and smiles at her, squeezing her hand briefly, before he raises his hand to knock -- firmly -- on the sitting room door. He may be in love with her, but he knows how to keep a secret, and he won't reveal Holmes and Watson's secret, not without their permission or without first assuring that Mary would be as okay with it as he is. While he suspects, he can't be sure, and that's just not fair to them.

"Open up, Mr. Holmes," he calls jovially, still grinning. "I've got important business to discuss."

[missmorstan.livejournal.com]

Squeezing Lestrade's hand back, Mary felt more than a little nervous, and she wasn't entirely sure why. Besides feeling uncomfortably aware of the fact that there had been so much effort on Mrs. Forrester's part to arrange a match between herself and Dr. Watson, she was still uncertain as to whether the good doctor was really so comfortable with a former potential lover engaged to a friend. Besides, she was finding it a little nerve-wracking to be introduced to her fiancé's friends, even if she had met them before.

Her fiancé. What a thing that was! She would, presently, be Mrs. Mary Lestrade and it was wonderful. She'd rather given up on herself as being destined for spinsterhood, too.

"Extremely important," she murmured sideways at him, her eyes dancing with laughter, excitement, nervousness.

[mustbethetruth]

Excitement doesn't flare as it might otherwise with such an apparent promise of work because he knows that Lestrade isn't here on business at all. He's with Mary, and judging by the happiness in their steps and voices, they've come to announce their engagement. That's wonderful news, certainly, and he's very happy for them, but he's less thrilled with surprise social calls. Ah, well.

"Here you are, my dear. A pair of people with whom you can have some normal conversation." He certainly isn't making any move to answer the door, however. Reclining further in his seat, he closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Their engagement will make a delightful conversation topic," he says calmly.

[missmorstan.livejournal.com]

Mary smiled, looking away rather bashfully. She was lucky to have Guy, she knew it. She was far luckier than she deserved, and the weight of something she had yet to bring up with him was suddenly very heavy on her mind. If nothing else, the entire conversation gave her some hope. If he was all right with his friends being a pair of sexual inverts, perhaps he wouldn't mind his future wife being... well...

She tried not to think about that too much. It still had the opportunity for disaster. She had meant to tell him before he proposed, but...

"It's more enjoyable to aspire to personality than propriety, in my opinion," Mary said. Oh, it seemed like a slightly dangerous thing to say. "At least I've found it so." She brushed a bit of imaginary lint from her skirt.

[mustbethetruth]

"Hear, hear," Holmes says, rather proud of Mary, and far more contented with this marriage than he would have been otherwise. Knowing Mary as he does now, he knows he would have had no choice but to like her if she'd married Watson, and that would have been a truly miserable experience.

"If all women would just share your opinion, then I might find it in myself to be interested in the species as a whole," he says with a smirk.

[lightconductor]

Watson smiled a little; he doubted much could interest Holmes in women more than he already was, and to his surprise he was faintly glad of that. It meant less people he must be jealous of, after all. He hadn't any clue when he had become so hopelessly possessive, either.

"I'm sure you would be," he murmured in a wry undertone. To their guests, in a more conversational tone, he said, genuinely warm, "I find I have very little doubt the two of you will be quite happy, wherever you go on your honeymoon."

[theyarder]

"I do believe you're right," he says warmly, smiling at Mary. The clock alerts him to the hour, and he starts with a frown, giving her hand another small squeeze before he extracts it.

"Oh, we'd better get going. Thank you again for your help," he says as he gets to his feet, nodding at the two of them. "We'll let you know as soon as we set a date."

[missmorstan.livejournal.com]

Also rising, Mary flashed a smile from Lestrade to their hosts. It had been an enlightening evening, and a good one. "Yes, thank you. Both of you, so much. With any luck, we'll be seeing you soon."

[theyarder]

Once they settle in the cab, Lestrade sighs and leans back, letting his eyes fall shut. Somehow an evening with Holmes never fails to be boring or ordinary, which isn't entirely unexpected, but it's simply the ways in which he manages to give Lestrade a start.

"Well, that went rather well," he says wryly, turning his head to look at her.

[missmorstan.livejournal.com]

"I suppose it did," she answered, equally wry. Mary gave a small, soft laugh. "Good heavens. I wouldn't have expected any of that. How..." She hesitated, just slightly. It felt strange to be discussing this, rather naughty, certainly illicit. They were such a sweet couple, obviously in love, now that she saw them for whate they were. "How long have you know about them?"

[theyarder]

He hates himself for it, but he can feel his ears turn a little pink at the thought that he might be talking about how he found out about Holmes and Watson with Mary. It isn't that he's shy, okay, because he isn't shy. He's just a little nervous, is all, because he hasn't often courted a girl, and he isn't quite sure how to talk about this in any kind of delicate way around her. What if she needs delicacy? The good thing about Mary is he doesn't think he does. But still.

Also it's just plain weird thinking about Holmes and Watson like that, still. It's getting easier for him, and they were certainly adoring each other tonight, but it's definitely a process.

"Since a little bit before they left for Italy. That's," he stops, huffing a laugh, his ears turning pinker, "quite the story, actually. Well, it's not a very long story, just a very awkward one."

[lightconductor]

After closing the door behind their departed guests, Watson turned to Holmes with a raised eyebrow. He could still feel his heart pounding faintly, the sweat on his palms, the residuals of terror after having their illicit affair paraded about so casually. "I knew you had a taste for danger, but I had no notion it could take such a form as that."

He locked the door behind him, in a swift, fluid movement, and he returned to the sofa, laughing a little, out of relief, out of happiness, out of comfort. He sank down into a rough equivalent of the position he'd been in before Lestrade and Mary had arrived.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes is glad to see them go, though the whole thing turned out better than he had thought it would. He isn't so very nervous, not now, not when he'd been fairly confident of Mary's opinion before he even said anything. He gets up from his chair and crosses the room lazily, no real urgency in his step.

"What danger? She was eager to see if her suspicions would true; there was hardly any malice or disgust in her curiosity." He lifts Watson by his shoulder and slides into his seat, pulling him back down into his lap. "And besides, we've already gone through that with Lestrade. You truly had no notion?"

[lightconductor]

"Are you honestly saying she suspected us?" Watson took being moved about bodily relatively well, and he settled back into Holmes's lap comfortably. He closed his eyes, feeling himself settle almost immediately. That was a strange thing, but not at all bad. "No, I didn't realise that. Is this before or after you began being ridiculously obvious?"

He let a long sigh, a comfortable one. "I never thought we would have one ally in this, you know, let alone two."

[mustbethetruth]

"Are you trying to deny that you were being ridiculously obvious right along with me?" he counters, threading his fingers through Watson's hair. "And yes, she was suspecting before I began being obvious in an effort to test in what vein her feelings might lie. You aren't the only person whose thoughts I can read," he says with a small smirk, and with his other hand, he smooths out Watson's tie, sliding his hand down his chest.

"Sit up so that I can kiss you vigorously."

[lightconductor]

"You put me here," Watson pointed out, laughing, but he sat up. He put his arms around Holmes's neck, marvelling at how natural it felt. Once it had been so dangerous. Now it was merely... right.

He leaned his forehead against Holmes's, savouring the moment, before closing the distance between them to kiss him, warm and slow. He had learned in the past that there was something valuable about a long-term lover. After the first initial rush of novelty and eroticism, it started to turn to familiarity and comfort with one's partner's body. He was, he was realising, reaching that point with Holmes.

It was strange to realise he was reaching that point with a man.

"You do turn a chap's head," he teased.

[mustbethetruth]

"Oh? I had no idea," he murmurs with a grin, pleased beyond belief, because while he's enormously confident in most things, he's never been entirely convinced of his own physical appearance. He's attractive enough, he knows, but perhaps what's lacking in his opinion of himself is that his appearance is entirely at odds with what he finds attractive in other people. Namely, he prefers people who look like Watson. And Holmes's long, lean, sophisticated form of appearance contrasts with Watson's more rugged attractions.

"Does that mean you're entertaining carnal thoughts about me?" He smiles and cups Watson's face, brushing his thumb over his moustache before he draws him for a kiss, the kind of vigorous kiss he'd promised, but slow, still, and intimate.

[lightconductor]

"I suppose that I am," Watson murmured, his lips only the barest breath from Holmes's. He let his fingers twist over and around Holmes's face, over his temples and cheeks, tangling in his hair, memorising the feel of his face under his fingers, the rise of his cheekbones, the angle of his jaw.

He was, he thought, quite thoroughly caught up in this by now, gladly welcoming the eroticism he found himself wrapped up in.

"I'm glad we're alone, now. I enjoyed our guests but... this evening is ours."

[mustbethetruth]

It's mesmerizing to be felt like that by Watson, when he normally associates such attempts at memorization to himself. He's still for it, his eyes on Watson all the while, and he cups the back of Watson's neck, rubbing gently up onto the nape of his neck. He realizes there's something going on here, something in Watson's mind, that's making him so affectionate, so sentimental; it's a good thing, of course, and it warms something inside Holmes.

"Yes, my dear, it is." He pulls Watson into a languid kiss, comfortable and familiar, taking his time because there's no need to rush when Watson is his, when this night is theirs and they have it all to themselves. "What do you suggest we do with it?"