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 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.

Holmes doesn't quite like that Watson is saying this with such reluctance because to him, the choice is clearly an easy one. Watson should sell all of that immediately and spend all his time with Holmes because they belong together. He's sure Watson can see that. Why isn't he jumping to sell?

"Then you will have to sell this," he says plainly, looking around Watson's study. "Your time will be occupied quite fully. We will have cases, and you will have a spouse to attend to," he says, very softly. "You will be a very busy man; you won't need a practice."

Actually Holmes has not even considered the thought that Watson wouldn't want to sell his practice and move in with him. What could tie him to this job that he does well, certainly, but is so much less exciting and real and important as their lives together?

Watson nodded; that was precisely the answer he had expected, and honestly, hoped for. He wondered if it would look suspicious, if it was unwise for him to so completely abandon the financial independance he had made for himself (well, that was not true, he had made more than decent money writing, and there was still his pension to fall back on, and he would not lose either of these, but still, that was not exactly the point). At the same time, there was also no other choice for him to make. If Holmes wanted him to, then he would. THat was all there was to it.

He looked over his office thoughtfully, wondering, remembering his life in this house. Would it be difficult to let it all go?

He settled his head on Holmes's shoulder, smoothing his hand over the small of his back. "Well, then, I shall just have to hope I can find a buyer," he said. "It is... it's not so busy a practice, after all, nor prestigious."

"I'm certain you'll find someone willing to buy," Holmes says, his mind already whirring with the intention to telegram Mycroft and ask him if he knew of anyone who would be interested in buying a practice. If Holmes asked, he's halfway certain Mycroft would buy the practice himself -- not to Watson's knowledge, of course -- but he would rather find a pair of hands to put the practice into other than Mycroft's meaty ones. If worse comes to worse, however, that is what he will do, without question.

He kisses Watson's hair, nuzzling his nose into his hair, and he hugs him closer, sliding his hand up his side.

"Now that we are this close to having the very best life we could dream of, the two of us together again in Baker street, it would take quite a formidable force to keep us from achieving it."

It was hard to think of the coming evening's danger and intrigue, the ending of this long three years (even longer, if one counted their time on the island) when he was just so comfortable here and now. At the same time... Watson was eager for it. That it had been a long time since he had stepped willingly and knowingly into danger had done nothing to blunt his appetite for such things.

If he could say anything of the last two years, it was that it had been excrutiatingly boring.

He tried not to think of whether they were putting themselves in a vulnerable place, whether dear Mrs. Hudson -- he was looking forward to seeing her again, too -- whether she would take exception to them if she worked it out and toss them out on their ears, if not worse. He had a strong, and entirely irrational sense that now, at this point, nothing could stand in their way.

"I certainly hope so. My patients deserve a good doctor to take my place." Watson pressed several kisses over Holmes's neck, moving up to his ear and temple. "So, I shall have to pack an overnight bag, and I'll be telling my housekeeper not to expect me tonight," he laughed a little; it felt like a long time indeed since the last time he had said that, "and I shall have to see about putting this place up for sale at the soonest possible convenience." He felt a pang at that. There were a lot of memories under this roof, certainly not all of them very good, but all of them valuable. It was, though, only a house, only a neighbourhood practice. "Oh, and I shall have to ensure my pistol is in working order. Am I leaving anything out?"

"No," he says, shaking his head, "I believe you have hit all the important points. And now, my dear," he pauses to kiss Watson soundly, "we will need to pull ourselves up from your floor and go about our business for the evening." He kisses Watson again, and then on his cheek, before he draws away slightly.

"Go and eat a little something, and prepare your bag. We shall leave by half past nine. If you don't mind, I intend to loiter around your household and perhaps even get in your way." He grins playfully.

The evening progresses as Holmes had planned it, which isn't entirely surprising, though Holmes isn't nearly so genuinely confident as he'd like to be. There are several moments where he grows genuinely concerned, moments where he worries, moments where he tastes blood again and wonders just how far away he is from another set of scratchy sheets.

But then, it is over. It's Watson who does it with the butt of that pistol -- as it turns out, it doesn't really matter if it needs to be cleaned -- and then there is Lestrade, and Holmes realizes he almost can't even handle that reunion right now. He had not paid Lestrade much thought while he was gone, but seeing him suddenly show up at a crime scene with his sharp features and his, as per usual, attempts at competency give Holmes a strange pang. He has missed the inspector. Quite a bit. He isn't even sure how to articulate that.

Moran is carted off to jail, and Holmes deflects attention, as usual, and so there is nothing left to prevent him from settling into his life with Watson once again, just the two of them nestled together in Baker street, each exciting case lurking around the corner. He is more than happy to return to their lodgings, having had his fair share of excitement where it concerns Moran.

The bust of himself, with the hole through its head, is only slightly unsettling. He's sat in a room and drank while his corpse haunted him before; it's easier to sit here calmly with it now that it's outside of his body instead of haunting his mind. He sinks onto the sofa with a brandy and a cigarette, his eyes half-lidded in relief and comfort, having unraveled the mystery for Watson and putting Moran away under the M's in his files.

"I am sorry, my dear Watson," he drawls, turning a soft smile in his direction. "I would have carried you over the threshold if it would not have raised suspicions. There were a fair few patrolmen on Baker street this evening."

Watson had been inspecting the wax bust, drawing a finger thoughtfully over the bullet hole in the forehead. There was something unsettling about that; in one sense they had escaped quite easily, but in another, it underscored just how dangerous the man they had apprehended that night was. He wondered what sort of wound Moran had inflicted upon Holmes on their last encounter, and whether there would be a scar for Watson to find, later. Would there be other scars from the last two years, spelling out Holmes's journeyes and misadventures without Watson at his side?

What an evening. What an evening! Old times, indeed. He wanted to go through the entire room and touch everything, inspect and reacquaint himself with their old life, because here it was. There was something strange in that, something eerie, but Watson could not recall the last time he had felt so contented, so at peace, which was peculiar to say the least, seeing as how he had spent the evening and a good part of the night in ambush for a killer.

He turned away and towards Holmes, puffing on his cigar, and he found himself savouring just the sight of Holmes sprawled on the sofa. He smiled; going over the entire room with a fine comb for everything that hadn't changed could wait. "I'd like to see you try any such thing," he said. "And no, that is not an invitation, nor a challenge. I have no particular desire to be carried about over thresholds."

Watson sank down onto the sofa, giving a small grunt of relief as he did so.

Instantly, Holmes shifts to rest his head on Watson's shoulder. He wanted to do this very thing far too often to put off doing it now; to recline at Watson's side drinking good brandy and smoking good tobacco is the image that has been pulling Holmes through the past two years. To have it suddenly at his fingertips... well, it's quite possible that it is better than cocaine. He can say that now thanks to his treatment in Tibet; those two years were not wasted, at least.

"Then, my dear, how else should I celebrate the fact that we are spending our first night of married life together in our home?" he asks innocently, drawing on his cigarette.

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