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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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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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."
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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.
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"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."
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"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.
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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.
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"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."
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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.