lightconductor | The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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The Actual Return, Post-Resort

This is a follow-up to this thing Rachelle and I have been carried away by which follows the return of Holmes and Watson to their own time after having escaped/released/whatever from the resort. Big chunks of what happens here is pretty much what happens in The Adventure of the Empty House, including the Catallus (idek), but hey, why mess with a classic?

He thought it must be the Catallus that kept that chance encounter in his mind.

It had been two years. Two years, and there had been no further word, and if Mycroft Holmes had heard any rumours of interest, he had not passed them along. John Watson was relatively certain that any sane man would have long since given up, but he was clearly not sane, at least in this respect. He had, years ago, compared himself to Penelope waiting for Odysseus; that had quickly become far more apt than he liked to admit. Sherlock Holmes was, in all probability, dead. He would not come home. If Watson had any sense, he would try to get on with his life, stop living in the past, perhaps remarry.

Perhaps not. It was painful to think very hard about marriage again, at this point. He was just grateful that his acquaintances concluded that reluctance on his part was due to his very great love for Mary. A more apt comparison, if one kept to the Greeks, was perhaps Achilles after the death of Patroclus.

As it was, he found himself reading over the headlines in the newspaper, thinking of how much Holmes would have loved this Adair murder, were he here. It had every peculiarity and impossibility that would have attracted his attention. Even a moderately sane man would have left that thought and not followed up on it, but no, Watson had found himself hanging about outside the crime scene, listening to some foolish amateur spout off some utterly ridiculous explanation, and wishing he could have seen inside for himself.

And that had been when he'd realised how pathetic he was being.

But the man he had bumped into as he turned away, that gnarled old book-collector who had snarled and snapped at him as they both stooped to pick up the dropped and scattered books he had been carrying, that stayed in his mind. There was no reason for him to spend any particular thought on it at all. It had been the Catallus, Watson thought, that was the reason for his preoccupation.

He knew Catallus, after all. And who in the world could be prepared to face a book of Latin romantic poetry, which was often lewd and often involved two men, dropped nearly on one's feet when not moments before one was musing melancholically on a very similar illegal liason which may or may not still even be relevant?

It was nothing but coincidence, of course, but it shook him just the same.

Trying to forget the entire incident, Watson made his way back to his home, feeling haggard and tired, and for the moment glad that his practice was relatively quiet. As he sank down into the chair in his office, he pressed his hands against his face, telling himself that he felt nothing, because that was easier. He would spent the afternoon there, perhaps doing some writing -- he hadn't decided -- perhaps just trying to clear his mind.

Watson sighed, and reached for his pen, and some foolscap, and began scratch away.

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He recovered quickly from his unwanted fit, thankfully, and as he came to himself again, Watson automatically clamped his hand over Holmes's on his shoulder, treasuring, savouring the familiar feel of those fingers under his. He thought he'd never hold that hand in his again.

"I make a scene?" he said, trying not to sound hysterical. "You come in here in disguise and jump out at me like a... like a common thief, and I'm the one who makes a scene. You're really too much. After two years--"

He trailed off, looking at Holmes properly now, drinking in his face and his features and the way he was pressed up against Watson's legs. Two years. It had been two years? It was one thing to stubbornly believe in an impossible love affair in an even more impossible setting when that was the only thing that gave him any comfort. It was a little harder to act on it. There had been the telegram to Mycroft, he was sure of that. The mention of the island had to have meant what he thought, didn't it? What other possibility was there?

He thought he felt a tingling in the skin of his face, as though someone had touched him there, but that meant nothing, and he could not remember the touch in any event, not reliably.

Watson leaned forward in his chair, not trembling although he could not think why, and brought his face very close to Holmes's. He slid his hand over Holmes's shoulder, just at the crook of the neck -- justifiably a casual touch if he had to defend himself, he thought desperately as he did it, but far more appropriately intimate if he was not completely mad, if he was not imagining things that had never happened.

But then, would Holmes be sitting like this, pressed against him, if it was all a lie?

Watson let his forehead come to rest against Holmes's, and it was all so familiar, so right, even after these long two years and all the doubt and fears that he was losing his mind.

"Where have you been?"

Dear God, Watson remembers. Uncertainty still festers in his mind, but he can read the hesitation, the pent-up feeling in the hand at his neck, and it's all that he can do to keep from pressing Watson to his body and holding him there until he chases away those two years alone by attempting to meld their bodies together into one now. He draws a shaky breath when their foreheads touch, and he closes his eyes, his other hand seeking out Watson's arm and clutching it.

"Tibet, and everywhere in between." He exhales, a bit shakily, and he grips Watson tighter. "Watson, I would be more than willing to describe my activities of these past two years, if you would only permit me a little thing first. If you would -- If you wouldn't mind -- " He finds himself afraid to say it, afraid to suggest it, knowing that Watson may just push him away, may accuse him of being an invert and stomp out.

Fears be damned; he brings his mouth closer to Watson's, not touching yet, hovering, seeking permission, seeking confirmation that Watson is still his, in every sense of the word.

Watson reacted immediately, far too quick for conscious thought, his hand on Holmes's neck suddenly tightening, pulling him closer as pressed his mouth down into Holmes's to close the very small gap between them. It was a hungry kiss, a desperate kiss, full of longing and relief and intensity.

It was real. It was all real, and they were both home in London, and all would be well, all would be just as it was supposed to be. He was, he thought ridiculously, Penelope and not Achilles, and that should not have made him nearly as happy as it did. He was just glad he didn't have to wait twenty years.

"Oh, my love." He whispered it, keenly aware of the fact that there were servants in his household. He would not have kept any girl on who had a habit of listening at doors, not when he had patients with confidential troubles, but there was still no point in tempting fate with being obvious. It wasn't fair, not after the freedom they had known, and Watson wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Instead, he whispered. "I thought... I was afraid that you..."

He couldn't finish the thought. Instead, he kissed him again.

This is impossible. Impossible, but then it has happened, and just now Holmes can't bother himself with actually being able to care about how or why or how they've managed to come through it and still be here, clutching each other in Watson's study, breathing hotly in each other's faces. His heart is racing with the proof, the taste of Watson on his lips, and the knowledge that they are, indeed, married.

"My dear Watson," he says breathily as he breaks from the kiss, pushing his face into Watson's neck to breathe him in, sliding his arms around his back, holding him close. "I was so afraid -- I was half expecting you to push me away." He turns his face, pressing kisses to his neck and up to his jaw.

"Never," Watson breathed. "I never could do that." There was a strong temptation to close his eyes as he savoured the moment, the closeness despite their awkward position, Holmes's arms around him, the kisses. At the same time, he could not seem to stop looking. After so long doubting he would ever see this man, his husband, ever again, it was difficult to take the fact that he now could for granted.

"We thought -- your brother and I, that is, do you realise he knows, about us I mean -- we thought you were probably dead." His thoughts seemed to be coming out all tangled, but it was hard to care too much about that. Watson clung to Holmes, kissing him on his face at random. "Why did you not send word? What happened?"

This is the part he doesn't want to talk about, but it's okay when he has Watson in his arms, Watson's moustache tickling his face, Watson's skin beneath his mouth. It's proving more and more difficult at this angle, but he doesn't know where else to take them, except to the floor, and that requires moving, and right now he can't entertain any thought that might require him losing contact with Watson.

"I almost died," he breathes in answer, following it with a succession of kisses along Watson's jaw, ending in his lips; he presses their foreheads together briefly. "And then when I knew Moran believed me dead... It was too risky, my dear. My love. I am sorry." He whispers this last part fiercely and presses their lips together in a hard kiss, his fingers twisting in Watson's sleeve.

This was like having his soul returned to him, after having been without it for so long, for too long. Holmes belonged with him, and he with Holmes, and now all he could do was just cling to Holmes, still in the ridiculous clothes of that damned bookseller -- what a ridiculous farce that had been, of all the places to encounter Holmes, and he hadn't even realised! He hadn't realised. He'd collided with his husband in the street and not known.

The insanity of that made him want to laugh, more than anything else.

Watson smoothed his fingers over Holmes's neck and kissed him. He would never be tired of kissing him, not ever. "I forgive you," he said, too full of joy and relief to have room for resentment. The thought of Holmes coming to a near end, half a world away, gave him a sharp twist of agony. He would never have known, in all likelihood. That was precisely why they belonged side by side, so that they could keep each other safe from all the danger in their lives.

"I said I would wait, and I have," he said. "Of all the places to run into you."

He smiles, happy to have forgiveness granted to him so easily, and he presses a few quick, brief kisses to Watson's lips, each one meant to be the last, but he cannot seem to keep his mouth from doing what it has been yearning to do for far too long.

"That was an accident. I saw you from across the street, and I could not turn and walk away as if you were not just across the street from me. Revealing myself on the street could've had us both killed, and so..." He smiles again, drawing back slightly to be able to see Watson's face, and he reaches up to smooth his fingers through Watson's hair.

"And, by the way, I'm certain Mycroft has known of my feelings for you for as long as I have, if not longer. I knew the telegram -- if, that is, you responded to it as I hoped you would -- would only confirm that for him." Tenderly he drops his hand to the side of Watson's neck, thumbing his jaw. "How did he take the news?"

"He did say he had known for a long time, actually." Watson leaned into Holmes's hand, wondering vaguely if there were some way they could crawl into bed together, skin against skin, and have this lazy, slightly-disjointed conversation over the course of the next week. It wasn't even the more intimate relations he was thinking of; he just wanted to be able to hold and touch Holmes properly.

"I find it very hard to read your brother," he confessed. "But I believe he gave us his blessing." Watson smiled; he caught Holmes's hand in his and turned his head to kiss it, tenderly. "He spoke of 'encouraging' my regard for you. As if I need any encouraging."

He smiles again, a genuine one, and he keeps his hand against Watson's face. His heart no longer beats with such a fevered rush, and he can now catch his breath; he finds all he wishes to do now is tangle himself in a bed with Watson -- not just any bed, but one of their beds in Baker street -- and not leave until he can leave the room alone and still smell Watson on him.

"He was no doubt looking out for my interest. He knows -- as only a Holmes must -- how deep my regard for you runs." Though his sentence is innocent, the tone makes his true meaning of the word 'regard' clear, and he leans in again to kiss Watson, this time slow, and passionate, and tender.

"Tell me something, Watson," he murmurs as the kiss ends, though he doesn't pull very far away from Watson's face. "Are we mad?"

"We are very mad," Watson said, speaking almost into Holmes's mouth, his voice low. "Time travel is impossible, and men from other planets highly improbable, and islands populated by impossibilities equally so, as is the idea that you love me and could marry me, and the idea that we could ever hope to do this without meeting our ruin."

He leaned forward to rest his head against Holmes's shoulder, closing his eyes briefly, as long as he could bear to. "But I believe all those things anyway, so we must be very mad." He turned his head and kissed the side of his jaw. He was trying to catalogue all the little ways Holmes had changed over the years, but couldn't trust his memory enough to be sure of any of it.

He lets the silence find them for a few sweet moments, closing his eyes, treasuring the feel of Watson in his arms, solid and warm and alive and real, oh so real, and that is more important than the reality of any island or men from the future or strange time travel. No matter what happened or didn't happen, it brought Watson into his arms. The rest is trivial.

Finally he speaks, lightly cradling the back of Watson's neck.

"If we do meet our ruin, I have some experience in changing one's identity traveling incognito."

Watson laughed, quietly and a little sadly. "Perhaps you do. Oh, my dear. My dear Holmes."

This was ridiculous. He was sitting in the chair leaning down over Holmes on the floor, and while he was sure it had made for a very interesting tableau at first, had there been anyone to see, at this point it was mostly becoming very awkward, and he wished to be able to press himself against Holmes properly, to hold him close. Bringing Holmes up to join him was impossible -- there was nowhere for him -- so Watson took the only other option available to him. Reluctantly, he detached himself, and slipped down onto the floor, and immediately moved to wrap his arms around Holmes tightly, chest to chest, while he buried his face in Holmes's shoulder.

It was ridiculous, he felt ridiculous, sprawled on the floor behind his desk like a pair of naughty schoolboys. He didn't care.

"You nearly died," he said, moving through the paces of the question as gradually as he could, "and you could not send word for fear of Moran. I understand this. Is that no longer the case, if you are here? Is it finished?"

He nearly laughs himself when Watson pulls himself to the floor, though the moment is only ridiculous to look at. Two grown men clutching at each other as if they were each other's husband, huddled underneath a desk, desperately trying to reclaim two lost years. Holmes also thinks, though he doesn't say, that this is a much better idea. It would be difficult for Moran to shoot them with airguns now.

"Not quite," he murmurs into Watson's neck, trailing his fingers up Watson's back. "Not quite, but nearly. Actually, my darling, we shall have to leave our romantic embrace beneath your desk very shortly as there are some very serious matters we'll need to attend to. Your pistol will be required."

But he doesn't want to think of tracking down Moran, luring him into a dark house so that he may once again kill Sherlock Holmes -- though this one will be decidedly less animate. He'll have to think of that very soon, but right now he doesn't have to, and would rather tarry in Watson's arms, breathing in his scent.

"And then I shall have to see Mycroft. Tomorrow, though. Not tonight. He knows I am alive; we can visit him tomorrow, after we have had all evening to learn what these past two years have done to us."

Watson let out a very soft sigh; as much as he was reluctant to move far enough away from Holmes that he would be unable to smell and taste him, much less hold him and touch him, to hear the pound of his heart in his chest, there was something altogether perfect about hearing this plan from Holmes now. Of course they would soon be stepping out together, arm-in-arm and into danger, because that was the perfect reunion for them. It was like old times, but better, because at the end of the night when they had come through in one piece, together, they could fall into each other's arms again, and that had never been possible in the past. And he was glad that he would get to play a part in the resolution. He had been there for the beginning, after all. He would help end it.

The idea of their facing Mycroft Holmes, side-by-side, now... that was more than a little unnerving, for all the unconcerned blessing he had given.

"My pistol has seen very little action lately," Watson said, ruefully, "but it and I are at your disposal."

"Mm, truly? Should you tend to it, do you think?" he asks teasingly, smiling against Watson's neck. "Perhaps it needs some attention."

It's silly, foolish, that he's making innuendo about the object that may be used later in the evening to, seriously, save his life, and Watson's, and Mycroft's, but it's remarkably easy now that he has Watson in his arms to forget about how serious all that is. He dips his mouth to the tip of Watson's ear, placing a small kiss there.

Watson grinned, suddenly. It was ridiculous, to joke about this sort of thing, but he didn't care. Everything was going to be all right, now. His life had been boring to the point of desperation, but that was going to change. He turned his head and kissed Holmes with a sudden insistence.

"I'm sure it will have all the attention it shall desire later," Watson said, still grinning, when he managed to break off the kiss. "At least, I certainly hope it will. It had better."

"Oh, it will," he promises, smiling in return, and that's when Holmes realizes he has neglected what is perhaps the second most important piece of information he is to deliver today, behind the fact that he is alive.

"Watson, do you think you could easily pack yourself an overnight bag?" he asks, drawing back slightly, keeping his face clear of mischief.

Watson looked at Holmes in faint puzzlement. Where on Earth could they be planning on going that would require that? Was Holmes planning on leaving London at once? No, that couldn't be, he'd mentioned meeting Mycroft. "I certainly could do such a thing," he said, "if it was necessary. Where would we be going?"

He leaned in to give Holmes a light and rather tickly, moustachey kiss. "I ask so that I know what I should pack to be best prepared."

His smile grows; how could it not? He reaches up to smooth down Watson's moustache dutifully, taking the occupation very seriously.

"Oh, nowhere very far indeed. I know for certain the trip between here and there is quite short, and you would be able to make it at the last minute, if needed."

He's enjoying drawing this out, naturally, and he pauses to finish tending to Watson's moustache, and he pulls his hand away, deciding his work completed.

"We shouldn't be too late, I hope, as I have rather missed Mrs. Hudson's cooking."

Watson paused for a moment; he'd rather been enjoying have Holmes stroke his moustache down. It was such a ridiculous act, but so very intimate, and he could really do nothing other than smile and let Holmes carry on with his self-appointed task.

He gave Holmes a slightly puzzled look, though, trying to work this out. "You cannot be saying... not Baker street?" Baker street was still home to a certain extent -- by god, he hadn't lived there in years, but it still felt like it. "Holmes, surely she's rented out our rooms to someone else by now."

"I am certain she would have, except that would have been very rude indeed seeing as Mycroft has been paying our rent the entire time I have been away." He smiles, needlessly fixing Watson's collar for want of touching Watson and doing something with his hands; he can't take off Watson's clothes, but at least he can adjust them.

"Everything remains as we left it. I know for certain because I was there myself earlier this afternoon. Mrs. Hudson fainted too. She required the use of smelling salts, so you have one up on her."

"He hasn't." Watson stared, a smile very slowly growing across his face. "He never said a word about that, not to me."

It was a wonderful idea, absolutely irresistable. They would be home, it would be like the old days, only better. There was, he thought suddenly, with a sharp stab of misgiving, the very small matter of his practice, and this house that went with it, and what would he do with that? Would he carry on dividing his time? Not that it wasn't rewarding work, but it was so dull at times.

"I'm glad to hear I have some advantage on her," Watson said, ruefully, trying not to dwell on these more serious considerations for the moment. He shifted a little, to better be able to hold Holmes against him, and pressed several kisses against his neck. He had a hard time imagining ever wanting to let go. "Honestly, did you leave an entire string of hysterical fits behind you today?"

"Just the two," he says lightly, letting his eyes fall half-shut as he tilts his head for Watson. He smooths his hands along Watson's thighs, not in a sexual way, merely in a comfortable, and slightly possessive way; he's remembering Watson, reminding himself of the way he feels, relearning his body.

"I sent Mycroft a telegram. He doesn't really seem the sort to have hysterical fits, so I think two is a safe number." He turns his head and scatters a few kisses against Watson's shoulder, smiling against his skin.

"No, I cannot imagine your brother in a hysterical fit," Watson said, with a slightly rueful roll of his eyes, before pressing himself close again. Oh, they would never get anything done at this rate, not when the easiest and best thing in the world was to just hold each other, to touch each other, let the rest of the world go hang.

Baker street again. To be able to return to 221b Baker street... it was impossible, it gave the entire affair a fairytale flavour, but no, apparently everything was waiting for them to step into their old lives again.

"Holmes," Watson said, a little reluctantly, "recall I have a practice now, and an income, and responsibilities. If you wish me to take up residence in our rooms more permanently..."

He would have to sell his practice, he supposed, if that was truely the sort of thing they were going to do. If Holmes asked him to, if that was the sort of life they were going to have now, then that was the sort of thing he would have to do.

The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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