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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"My word, Holmes, I don't know how you do it."

Watson laid his fingers over the back of Holmes's hand on his thigh. "My layers of respectibility are for the sake of my patients and my housekeeper, and other people who could not possibly handle bohemianism to any degree in a medical man," he said, dropping his thick irony to sound at least a little more serious. "You are not any of these things, and you see through my pretense, so I suppose that I may as well confess that it's all a farce."

He smoked silently for a moment. "Besides," he added, "respectable people generally do not hide out in abandoned houses at night with revolvers."

At this, he chuckles quietly, turning his hand so that he can link his fingers with Watson's.

"Perhaps that is the reason the police are so often in need of our assistance. They are too respectable to do the job properly." He draws on his cigarette, then turns his head to kiss softly at Watson's neck. "I am more than happy to enlist the services of my very ungentlemanly nature if that is the case. It is nice to know that I can put it to such good use."

He leans up to put out his cigarette, and then smoothly returns to Watson's side, kissing at his ear this time.

"Of course your respectability is a farce. I knew that from the moment I first met you. You may fool other people, but I have never had much trouble looking through your attempts at acting, my dear boy," he says very softly, very warmly.

Watson took a final puff on cigar, and reached to the ashtray to put it out as well. He was quite done with it, for the time being. Turning back, he moved to take Holmes's face in his hands, and kissed him, deeply.

"And perhaps that is why I am so attached to you," he said, not very seriously. "Do you know what it's like to have someone in your life from whom you could never keep secrets, even if you wanted to, but welcomes your company anyway, despite knowing everything about you?"

Doctors had to be respectable, they had to, it was expected. Watson had never thought of it in such terms before, but to meet someone who knew immediately that Watson was not, really, and that he was the sort of chap who would jump at the chance to stride into danger for a good cause... it had been everything, back in 1881. It was everything now.

"I love you. Have I said that since this afternoon? I can't remember."

He smiles because it's impossible not to; he shies away from such direct statements of love, never quite sure of himself enough to say them. That may sound foolish, but he is the brother of the man who prefers to spend all his day in silence, half the time alone, rather than deal with people. Such intimate revelations are not Holmes's strong suit, have never been, even when he was young and with Gideon.

"No, you haven't, actually. You were very close to needing to purchase flowers for me to make up for what was becoming quite a sore ego." He's teasing, naturally, as he hardly ever says the words himself; he slides his hand into Watson's hair and kisses him, a continuation of the kiss Watson has just given him, leaning into it.

"I love you," he adds, his voice hushed.

Watson kissed him again, and drew back to rest his forehead against Holmes's. He was clinging to him by the labels of his dressing gown by this point, and with an effort, he relaxed his hands and flattened them against Holmes's abdomen.

He dropped his head down against Holmes's shoulder, sighing. It was perfect, entirely too perfect, except for possibly that draught through the bullet hole in the window. "If you are a dream, I shall never forgive you," he said. "You said something about stripping me of my respectability? I'm all for that. And it has been a long night."

"And it is not about to end," he returns in a murmur, running his finger down the neck of Watson's waistcoat until he arrives at the buttons, which he proceeds to undo. "Though it is about to turn its nose up at respectability." He kisses Watson's hair and dips his mouth down to his neck, giving his skin a slight nip.

"I promise I am not a dream, by the way. Dreams are never this satisfying." He pushes Watson's waistcoat over one shoulder and passes his hand back over Watson's chest. "You never feel this real. And usually there is always something to spoil it. Some nonsense case or occasionally some Irregulars come to deliver news." He breaks into a smile here, unable to help himself. "And, do you know, prostitutes appear in my dreams from time to time, but only so that I may shoo them away. They really are quite the distraction."

Watson laughed. "I am glad to hear you say such a thing. Is it fair to be jealous of the prostitutes a man might see in his dreams? Possibly not, but I would at any rate." He slipped his hands under Holmes's waistcoat, undoing his shirt buttons. Watson was not the only one who needed to have a few layers shed.

"Do you know, we really should find somewhere else to continue this in," he said, after several lingering kisses to Holmes's neck. The need to be careful was almost infuriating, and this was a poor place to start one's marital relations. "I'm sure it's very pedestrian, but what do you think of enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed in an actual bed?"

"Oh, if you must be so unimaginative," he drawls with a very tired sigh, but in all actuality, there is something very, very satisfying about the thought of taking Watson in his own bed, his real bed sitting in the room just beyond. "I bet any of the prostitutes I turn away in my dreams would be happy to tend to my needs on this very sofa," he adds, petulantly, but he covers this up with a fierce kiss.

He does not pull away directly; he steals another kiss, undoes a few more of Watson's buttons, and only then does he have the strength to pull himself away from Watson.

He holds his hand out to him, not about to walk to his room without somehow being in contact with Watson.

"Am I not to carry you over this threshold either?" he asks, playfully.

"No. No, you are not," Watson laughed, rising from the sofa. He took Holmes's hand and pulled himself close, kissing him before moving far enough away that walking was actually going to be possible. "I will gladly give you nearly any liberty with my body, but you are not going to attempt that."

He slid a hand around Holmes's waist, drawing him along towards the bedroom, pressing kisses along his skin as he managed to get more buttons undone. "Do the limits of my imagination trouble you?" he asked, innocent. "I didn't think that had been the case before."

Watson's method of moving toward the bedroom, while highly enjoyable, is not entirely practical, and is extremely passionate, which reminds him deeply of the way Watson is in general, and it foolishly fills him with such warmth that he feels almost ridiculous. He returns the favor, kissing what he can reach of Watson's skin as he works at undoing buttons, though he keeps himself distracted by making himself touch each new patch of skin that he unveils.

"No, they don't generally. It must have been something that changed in these two years," he continues, still teasing, because he doesn't think he could ever be troubled by Watson's imagination, particularly when it comes to the bedroom. Or, at the very least, he could never be troubled by Watson's tendency to "give him nearly any liberty with his body." That could never become tiresome.

"Unless, of course, you think I am underestimating you, in which case I encourage you to show me where I have made an error in my deduction."

"What is it that you're always telling me about theorising without data?" Watson teased. "So yes, why don't you wait and see if I have, indeed, become lazy and unimaginative in the past two years?" He leaned in to kiss the hollow of Holmes's throat, having successfully bared that patch of flesh, before he realised that somehow, despite their distraction and not-very-efficient means of travel, they had reached the bedroom door.

And that was strange. When they had lived under this roof together, that had been a sort of boundary, a line that marked out clearly just how far their friendship went: Watson could be the best partner, companion, and helpmate to Holmes, but only up to the bedroom door, after which he had to turn aside. And that... well, that was no longer true. Now it was no longer a boundary.

Watson looked away from the door, flashing a very bright smile at Holmes, and reached behind him to open the door.

Holmes smiles in return, opening the last few of Watson's buttons as they step into his room. If there had been any question of Holmes and Watson having a thoroughly enjoyable reunion in the bedroom, Holmes is certain that now he has guaranteed that they will exert themselves fully. Of course, that isn't the point of their long-awaited reunion, but it certainly enhances it.

"Very well then," he says, closing and locking the door behind him. "Take me through the steps. Show me where my judgment fails. I await enlightenment."

Watson does a very good job of enlightening Holmes, and Holmes finds himself suddenly curious if Mrs. Hudson is a very heavy sleeper. He'll have to conduct a series of tests to determine the reliability of their housekeeper in terms of what noises seem to rouse her in the night. They were careful, of course, and quiet, but there are some noises Holmes finds he misses.

Holmes runs his fingers down Watson's arm, still catching his breath somewhat, smiling faintly to himself.

"I am suitably corrected."

Watson laughed, breathily, although it took him a moment to recall what exactly Holmes was referring to. He shifted his head on the pillow to get himself a little closer, in a small way. He let his hand rest on Holmes's side, reacquainting himself with familiar and unfamiliar flesh.

"Well, please don't doubt me in future," he said, speaking quietly. "I like to at least think I'm rather competent in the bedroom."

He had found the new scar in Holmes's side before, but only now did he let himself expend the time to explore it. Watson ran his fingers very gently over the edges of it, almost pensive about it. He had expected a gunshot wound, too, knowing Moran, but this... well, this had been no bullet. He could judge the angle of the knife blade reasonably well, and he didn't like what that seemed to imply about the severity of the wound.

"This," Watson asked, to be sure, "is Moran's work, I presume?"

He'd known Watson would get around to this. He isn't eager to discuss it, though there is something intimate about the exchange of stories about scars; this is just a particularly fresh and painful memory, in a couple meanings of the word. He half watches Watson's fingers and half Watson's face, settling in to elaborate.

"Yes. It was a foolish mistake on my part. I approached him, believing him to be dead and intending to verify. He was not."

Watson frowned a little, thoughtfully. In a deep and irrational way, he felt that he should be the only one to be marred with large, unsightly scars, and thinking along that line just confused him; he had a deep-seated revulsion when it came to his own scars, and while "revulsion" was a very long way away from how he felt about Holmes's, it did pain him to see it, and to know he hadn't been there to provide assistance and prevent it from happening at all. He'd wondered, sometimes, what Holmes thought of his own scars, and now he found himself wondering if it was at all akin to the sympathetic, protective feeling he felt now.

"A knife, wasn't it? It's healed quite well, I have to say." He let a small sigh, and slid his hand to cover the scar lightly, more protective than anything else. He wanted to undo it, not because he found it ugly, but because it must have been painful in the extreme, and Watson hated to hink of Holmes coming so close to death, and especially so far away from him. "It looks like you were very lucky. I suppose it's just as well I never saw it earlier. I would have been very tempted to inflict a good deal worse upon Moran than I did."

"I was very fortunate in that Moran neglected to confirm that I was dead, and then soon after I was discovered by a passing monk." He covers Watson's hand with his own, turning to kiss his forehead. As far as scars go, the story behind this one is troubling, but it was one part of a stretch of time that was made up of feeling detached and unsure of himself. At the very least, the injury was the beginning of Holmes's ability to find himself again.

"I'm certain Moran got off rather fortunate, too, not having you there to administer your form of justice," he says, partially teasingly. "Rest assured he suffered."

Holmes drags his fingers up Watson's arm to lightly touch the scars at his shoulder, following the lines with his fingers.

"I would take a chair to jezail bullets if I thought it would do any good, but I fear that wouldn't stop them."

"Probably not, no. Chairs are rather useless against that sort of thing."

The offer, as useless as it was, was oddly touching, as was the gentle fingers on his shoulder, and Watson leaned forward to kiss Holmes very gently. He pulled himself a little closer, wrapping his arm over Holmes's waist.

"Was it these monks, then, that did so good a job patching you up? Professionally speaking, they knew what they were about." Watson hesitated, thinking. He'd initially imagined some Catholic friar, perhaps in the north of Italy or some such place, but it hadn't been so long after that one telegram before Holmes, or Sigerson, had vanished. "Were you still in Tibet at that point?"

"I was, yes, and for some time after. They were Buddhists, and they were the second best medical care I have received." He gives Watson a small smile, inching closer himself. "It is thanks to their care that I am here before you now." He stops here, wondering whether or not he should reveal just what else those monks -- well, truly, the religion -- helped him to achieve. He takes Watson's hand, though he doesn't hold it; instead, he fiddles with his fingers.

"Actually, I can credit my time spent surrounded by their religion with a development that you will be quite happy to hear about."

Buddhists. Watson knew comparitively little of Buddhism, although what he knew he could hardly disagree with. It was strange to think of Holmes lying in recovery in a Buddhist monastery, of all unlikely places, but he had to conclude that the care had been first rate, and if Moran had had any notion that Holmes had not died, then it certainly would have been as safe as anywhere else could hope to be.

Watson glanced from their fingers together to Holmes's face. "Have you become a Buddhist out of gratitude?" he asked, half-seriously. "I am quite content with that, although I do hope you won't ask me to convert." He smiled, warm and teasing. "Tell me."

That is an interesting question. Certainly Holmes's upbringing had required no little knowledge of the Bible, and his memory allows him to recall this period of his life in a fair amount of detail, but he would not say he subscribes to the religion, or any religion. He would say, however, that the closest he has come to signing himself over to a religion is during his time in the Buddhist monastery. Despite no longer being entrenched in the environment and no longer being in such a vulnerable, impressionable place, he finds his feelings have not faltered much.

"I may not be a Buddhist, but I see the value in embracing and following some Buddhist beliefs," he answers, completely seriously, finding it strange to be voicing such thoughts so completely. "I won't ask to convert; instead I will slowly and gradually brainwash you into following my beliefs. That is the most effective way of installing a religion, after all." He smiles, a little nervous to continue on to what he has to say next.

"It is due in part to their beliefs, to their interest in meditation, that I have managed to avoid the use of my cocaine," he manages finally, watching Watson carefully out of the corner of his eye. "In fact, I have not turned to it in close to a year."

Watson had smiled at hearing he was going to be brainwashed, and was already formulating a cheeky response to this, but as Holmes continued, his amused smile faded and became distinctly wondering. Of all the things he had expected to hear, that was very far from it.

Close to a year. Close to a year. Watson had known him have some good spells, to be certain, but nothing even close to that. When he shifted to seek out Holmes's left arm, to turn it over and inspect the skin of his forearm, it wasn't out of disbelief so much as it was just a desire to see proof of the second happiest piece of news he had heard in some time. The first, of course, was that Holmes was alive and coming home to him again.

He smoothed his fingers over the skin, over many scars from many puncture wounds, but sure enough, they were old.

"You really have," Watson breathed. He looked at Holmes's face, a grateful smile slowly spreading across his face, gratitude to these monks who had saved Holmes's life, and managed to heal him in a way Watson had never quite managed. He didn't begrudge them that at all. He kissed Holmes, deeply. "I am so proud," he whispered. "I can't even... there are no words. I am so very, very glad, and so very proud."

He watches Watson look at his arm and struggles with a fierce and sudden upswing of resentment over the fact that Watson apparently has to check, but then he looks at Watson's expression, hears the wonder in his voice, and reconsiders his reaction. And then Watson is kissing him, and he has to return that, sliding his hand into Watson's hair.

He isn't quite sure what to think of this gratefulness of Watson's; while he had known that Watson would be glad, the idea that he would be proud of Holmes is so strange. Watson has always disapproved, but to Holmes it was always so very personal and Watson's opinion should not interfere with his attempts to medicate himself. Watson doesn't know what it's like in Holmes's mind. When he stopped, he did it with Watson in mind, but largely it was because he was finally ready, and he finally felt like he had the equipment to manage his black moods on his own, without artificial help, and for the first time in a long time, that was important to him.

To think that Watson is proud of this decision is just somehow strange. It removes the whole event from the realm of Holmes's intensely personal experience and closely involves a whole other person. It's... not what Holmes had anticipated, certainly.

"Well... Thank you," he replies, a little awkwardly, unsure of how to reply appropriately. "That is why I say that I may not be a Buddhist, but I am interested in following some of their beliefs. I found them very useful, therapeutic, in a way that I had not encountered before."

Edited 2010-09-29 03:38 (UTC)

"It could not have been easy." Watson had to wonder if it was still too soon for a real celebration -- there was, after all, always the possibility of a relapse. But even so. He had spent so many years watching Holmes do himself harm in an attempt to stave off what agonies seemed to lurk in his brain. And Watson didn't understand that, not entirely, not completely. Possibly he never would.

He did have to wonder about the sort of things that arose because of tragedy. He would never have met Holmes and taken up rooms with him, in all likelihood, if he hadn't been in the path of a large-caliber bullet. Holmes would not have found this help, this peace, whatever one might call it, if Moran had not nearly killed him with a well-placed knife wound -- fortunately, not nearly well-placed enough.

It was hard to know what to say, the moment was so awkward and went beyond the capabilities of the English language, so Watson kissed Holmes again, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

He folds his arms around Watson, glad for the opportunity to respond to this in a way that's easier for him than speaking about it would be; he infuses his love, appreciation, and regard into the kiss, palming Watson's shoulder and his scars, which he still regards as beautiful in their own way, if removed from the misery that they caused.

He's very happy to lose himself to this simple, loving act of holding Watson in his arms and kissing him; slow, languid explorations of each other's mouths and necks, rediscovering and remembering the little spots that evoke certain reactions, the way each other tastes. When he pauses for breath, finally, he smiles softly and rests their foreheads together, dragging his fingers tenderly over the contours of Watson's side.

"It is still difficult for me to believe," he murmurs, his eyes shut, "that after two long years, after the time we spent on the island, that I am able to hold onto you now, in my bed, in Baker street, with our housekeeper hopefully sleeping soundly downstairs, and a visit to my brother waiting for us tomorrow." He kisses Watson briefly, soundly. "I have dreamt of this, but it felt so impossible that it was hard to conceive of it as being real."

"Yes, I am familiar with that feeling." Watson settled himself alongside Holmes again, quite close, letting their limbs tangle. As he spoke, he ran his fingers through Holmes's hair, very gently. It occurred to him that really, if they had any sense, they would try to sleep. At the same time... he could not imagine wasting any of this precious time with sleep. There was far too much catching up to do. "Half the time I wondered if I was, in fact, delusional about the whole thing. I didn't much like the idea that I would end my days in a madhouse somewhere."

He angled his head just enough to kiss Holmes again. "Speaking of Mrs. Hudson," he said, "I rather hope you're not about to tell me that it would be safer and more prudent if I took myself off to some less incriminating place for the remainder of the night. I'm rather... comfortable."

It wasn't fair, and it was more than a little worrisome to think of how dangerous a game they were playing now.

The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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