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 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.

He blinks, surprised.

"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."

"I'm more than content with the terms," Watson said, smiling. He continued to stroke his fingers through Holmes's hair; it was funny how much he enjoyed doing that. He couldn't say why. "I think that was rather what I had in mind when I so spontaneously proposed."

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."

Holmes is reminded of the first dreadful morning he woke up in Tibet without Watson at his side, which was particularly dreadful for more than just the absence of Watson, but certainly that was the first thing he noticed, beyond even the different sensory input. Once he had stopped hoping he would wake up and find himself back in his room on the island, so his morning disappointment was two-fold, he found that he only had more room to regret Watson's absence.

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."

"Oh, is that how it is?" Watson smiled, despite himself. He was a little tired, certainly, but his mind was wild with the events of the day, still. He could not have really slept. "You're going to deprive me of my much-needed rest, after how I've exerted myself tonight? And for your benefit, I might add." He was not entirely sure himself whether he was referring more to their struggle with Moran or with their activities after retiring to bed in the first place.

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.

He had a response rolling around in his mind, but Watson makes it rather irrelevant with the kiss that Holmes had not quite been expecting but is happy to receive nonetheless. His hands on Watson are not very gentle; he grips Watson's hip and shifts over him, repositioning himself slightly, centering himself over Watson. The farthest thing from his mind right now is Mycroft, and what he will see or not see; frankly he's used to not having any secrets from his brother, including the things he would rather keep secret, and he thrills a little at the chance to flaunt his and Watson's relationship in front of Mycroft.

Because... he's happy. He's so incredibly happy. He was happy on the island, certainly, but he was so trapped, frustrated; with his mind buzzing from a case, and the sound of London outside, and the familiar smells of his own room... He's happy, down to his core.

He's faintly breathless when the kiss breaks, and he smiles again, reaching up to settle a hand against the side of Watson's neck.

"What a depraved thing you are underneath all those layers of respectability," he teases, dropping his mouth to Watson's neck; he bites gently, enough to tease but not leave marks. "I should be scandalized."

"Oh yes," Watson said, breathless from their kissing. "Yes, I most certainly am." His words caught in his throat with a small gasp at the feel of teeth on his neck. A mark on his skin would not be a mere annoyance and embarrassment now, and he fell momentarily still under that, revelling in the sensation and trusting Holmes to do no more than was wise.

Life had been so... so dull. He had been without everything of importance for too many years. This was anything but dull, and thinking of what the years to come might have in store for them. He was eager for it, all of it.

"And yes," he continued, when he had the breath for it, "you probably should be. I only hope it doesn't trouble you overmuch?"

He leaned up, pressing down on the back of Holmes's neck with his hand, kissing him again.

They're reaching the point where conversation is secondary to these kissing interruptions, so he lets it carry on longer than he might have were he mostly interested in hearing Watson's thoughts on a particular subject. His breathing is even more irregular when he draws away finally, more out of necessity than want, and he lowers his mouth to Watson's collarbone this time, wandering lower onto his chest.

"It might trouble me if I think about it," he murmurs, and he pauses to bite at Watson's skin, a little bit harder down here where it would be less likely to be discovered, "but I'm distracted at present. I'll let you know after breakfast."

Watson inhaled sharply. That might leave a mark, although there was fairly safe. Considering his threat to enact depraved designs on Holmes, this was not quite going the way he'd planned, the tables turned on him -- but he also could not really bring himself to be very unhappy about that. Besides, there was time yet.

"There are quite a few hours between now and breakfast," Watson pointed out, "but I doubt you'll have much opportunity to think about whether or not you should be scandalised." He slid his hands down Holmes's sides, gripping his hips tightly, and shortly thereafter gave up on words entirely.

Hours later, Holmes is dressed like a gentleman, having breakfasted and reapplied some of his own layers of respectability, though he carries fewer than Watson does, to be sure. He stands outside the Diogenes Club now, preparing to see his brother for the first time in far too long. A ripple of apprehension runs through him. While he gets along with Mycroft better than other members of his family, he has some reasons to be nervous.

First of all, he neglected to inform his brother of the fact that Holmes has been alive these past two years. And secondly... Secondly, he's entered in another relationship, with another man, and this has not gone particularly well for him in the past. This time is different though. This time it's Watson. It's different.

"Do you think you have an appetite for lunch?" he says with a very faint twinkle in his eye.

Watson was really not at all certain that he was. He'd never had to have this sort of meeting-with-the-in-laws; Mary had had no family to speak of, after all. Even if had seen Mycroft Holmes several times in the last two years, somehow this seemed... different. It was a much more weighted meeting, with Holmes beside him and no illusions about their relationship. Granted, there were few illusions now, but he was sleep-deprived and worn out, and probably should have had more of an appetite than he did. It had been a very unpredictable twenty-four hours. Less, probably.

"I certainly hope so," Watson said, looking up at the building. "It would be a shame to let lunch go to waste, the quality of the cooking here being what it was."

He can see that Watson is nervous too, which puts him at ease, at least a little. Smiling, he sets his hand on Watson's arm and gives it a friendly pat before he moves to open the door. It's like stepping into a whole other world when he steps inside the Diogenes Club, and he hesitates for a brief moment before he starts off for where they will be dining with Mycroft in the Stranger's Room, and his heartbeat increases with every step, which, he knows, is not good. Mycroft will be able to see that in an instant.

It's unsettling going to see his brother.

He reaches out for the door, but pauses to look at Watson briefly before he opens the door.

Here goes.

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The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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