Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote2010-09-26 04:49 pm
lightconductor) wrote2010-09-26 04:49 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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 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."
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"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."
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"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?"
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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.
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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."
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"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."
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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.
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"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."
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"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?"
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"Yes. It was a foolish mistake on my part. I approached him, believing him to be dead and intending to verify. He was not."
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"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."
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"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."
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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?"
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"Actually, I can credit my time spent surrounded by their religion with a development that you will be quite happy to hear about."
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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.
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"I had not been thinking anything of the sort. Rather instead I was attempting to think of ways for us to avoid suspicion from Mrs. Hudson. Watson," he says, getting serious, "there is absolutely no way I am letting you out of my bed tonight for any reason, save the biological sort. It is fortunate that you are comfortable. That will get you off to a good start."
He kisses Watson, nestling closer, slipping his leg between Watson's knees just to get them even more tangled up together. This is a genuine concern, however, and one he doesn't like to consider. The alternative is much too... unacceptable. Now that he has Watson, he refuses to let history repeat itself. If they are discovered, Holmes is beginning to realize that this time he doesn't care. No one is going to tear Watson from him. He has connections now with Mycroft -- his mind suggests, curiously, Lestrade, but he doesn't know what to think of that -- and certainly he can smuggle himself and Watson out of the city with no problem.
Being a detective is important, necessary, but Watson is like the other half of his body, and being a detective is a function of his mind; both are necessary but one is fundamentally more difficult to separate from.
He can tell the difference between his three relationships, can read the difference between the ways in which he loved his partners, and this time he can tell that the feelings are, frankly, permanent. Originally he had been afraid that his own feelings would erode, but he can say now, confidently, that that will not happen. Perhaps Watson will wise up to the life he has signed onto, but he's beginning even to doubt that.
No, this time, it is indeed as long as they both shall live. It is indeed marriage, and love, and no one will take this away from him. He is no longer a child. He is, actually, a dangerous man, or he can be. History will not repeat.
"Actually, my dear." He pauses to kiss the bridge of Watson's nose. "I'm afraid you have entered into an arrangement that is quite permanent. There is no madhouse in our future; just each other's company for as long as there is breath in our bodies. I realize we didn't take vows, exactly, when we married, and I am rolling out the terms a little after the fact, so I hope you don't find that too disagreeable."
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He curled close against Holmes, very, very glad that caution was not going to be the cause of evicting him from the bed. He knew his own feelings to be permanent -- he'd tried to deny them too long for them to be otherwise -- and to hear Holmes say, in so many words, that he was declaring their marriage permanent and binding was liberating in a very intense way. To be bound to Holmes was its own very particular sort of freedom.
Honestly, he had felt the same way about his marriage to Mary. Not everyone was so lucky as to be blessed with a great love; Watson counted himself doubly blessed to have had two great loves, and if only one remained to him now, he had every plan of holding onto Holmes for the rest of his life.
He liked London. He rather hoped it never became necessary for them to run away to France. His French was fairly poor, at any rate.
"I will try to be a good husband to you, then," he said. He yawned a little. "If I go wrong, do let me know. I'm just glad I don't have to move. I've missed waking up next to you... so very much."
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He realizes that while this pain has been difficult to suffer, he can easily heal it, right now. Palming Watson's hip, he kisses him again with a slow heat that attempts to make up for all those lonely, lost mornings.
"You may rest assured that you will wake up beside me tomorrow morning," Holmes says, his voice slightly hushed as he brushes a brief kiss against Watson's lips; then, his lips turn up in a smirk. "If, that is, I allow you to sleep."
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There was a part of him that was faintly scandalised, the idea of a mature man like himself forgoing sleep to embark on a bacchanalian night like this. It was... well, the word he wanted, he supposed, was 'ridiculous.' Possibly 'delusional.'
Despite that, though, and despite his words, he let his hand travel up Holmes's spine to come to a halt on the back of his neck, and he pulled himself very close. It had been far, far too long, and they had much lost time to make up for. He suddenly had an image of standing next to Holmes, entirely sleep-deprived, as they met with Mycroft who would surely know everything in an instant, exactly why the pair of them were so tired, what they had done in the intervening hours, and Watson somehow managed to not care about that very much. "Perhaps you have less say in it than you think. Perhaps I have designs upon you that will require sleep simply in order to recover."
He closed the very small distance between them, and kissed Holmes hard, hungrily, very nearly worshipfully, although his fingers on Holmes's skin were very gentle.
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