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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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.

Looking over at Holmes, Watson gave a hearty laugh, and he switched his cigar to the other hand to better be able to reach over and run his fingers casually through Holmes's hair. "I do believe there is a traditional pastime for newlyweds," he observed, not very innocently at all. "However... well, we're not exactly newlyweds, are we?"

He shrugged with one shoulder -- not the one Holmes was currently leaning on -- and waved his cigar about expressively. "Good heavens, do you realise we're practically an old married couple by this point? I think really, in this case, the thing to do is to salvage what respectibility we have, turn in for the night, and try to get as much sleep as possible. Have you seen the time?"

He blew a long plume of smoke, smirking sideways at Holmes.

He thoughtfully smokes to keep from laughing, reclining his free hand against Watson's thigh casually. Oh, but he missed this. He misses the sex, too, and the intimacy, and Watson's kisses, and his form in bed next to him in the morning, but just to be able to sit here and rest against Watson and joke and tease each other is what he needs. It may not have been what occupied his dreams or his idle thoughts, but it is the fundamental meat of what he missed about Watson.

"This plan of yours would be a very good idea indeed, very practical, were it not for the very unfortunate fact that not only am I a very light sleeper, and too energized from the evening's events to consider sleep just yet, but I am also rather low on respectability. If I have any left, I am not too interested in salvaging it."

He stops again to take a drag, running his fingertips lazily up Watson's thigh, approaching scandalous.

"And if I know you well at all, which I do, I know that you have some built up some layers of respectability over these two years that you are eager to shed."

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The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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