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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By the time they reached home -- which was miraculously Baker street, of all the unlikely places -- he was finding himself extremely tired of having to restrain himself from all the ways he wanted to show his affection. It had felt like the longest cab ride of his life, but he had let his thigh rest alongside Holmes's leg all the way there, and had treasured that. He was both glad and reluctant to get out of that cab, actually, but comforted himself with the thought that once behind closed doors, he would, in all probability, be permitted more.
As Watson opened the door to their sitting room, holding it open for Holmes, he couldn't help but smile. It was still the most incredible sight, to be back here, with Holmes. Would it be selfish to wish for no cases to present themselves (surely there would be), at least not until Watson had managed to slake his thirst for Holmes's company? Not that he would ever tire of it, but he felt so desperate for it now.
"I had thought," he said quietly, "it might be difficult to come back here. Strange, at any rate. I'm not finding it to be."
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He breezes past Watson on his way into the room, heading straight for the windows so that he can close all the curtains.
"I am glad to hear it, Watson," he says, businesslike. "For me, England has always equaled Baker street. If I could not have returned here..." He pauses, thinking for a moment. "I'm sure I would've felt lost." All the curtains now closed, he turns back around, approaching Watson slowly.
"What had you expected to be difficult?" His voice is softer now, as is his expression.
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And yet everything was fitting, despite a previous marriage, despite the time on the island, despite having lived alone as a respectable doctor for far too long. He was home.
Watson kissed Holmes, gingerly.
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"Of course it would, my dear Watson. This is where you belong," he says with enough certainty to imply that Watson should've known that all along. "It is all that time in between the island and now that didn't fit."
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He let out a small sigh, more of contentment than anything else. "Shall we sit down?" he asked.
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He settles onto the sofa, holding onto Watson's hand and gently pulling him down to join him.
"How did you find lunch, by the way?"
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He rested his head near Holmes's collarbone, which managed to be comfortable and reassuring, as well as providing a very good place from which to kiss Holmes's neck lazily. "And I don't think that's shameful at all. At least, I hope not, as I feel rather the same way."
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"We had better hope for cases that resolve themselves within 12 hours, then. At least until we can stand to go without touching each other for more than two hours," he says with a smirk, laying a hand along Watson's thigh.
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Watson paused, his fingers on Holmes's collar, his lips barely touching his neck. "There's nothing else demanding our time for a little while, surely?" he asked, without moving his mouth away. "I may dedicate myself to reacquainting myself with your neck?" He smiled, trailing his lips upward to just below Holmes's ear. "Continuing to reacquaint myself, that is. But I would hate to be interrupted."
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He undoes the buttons of Watson's waistcoat, sliding his hand underneath it to push it aside.
"I was thinking of taking you to the opera later," he murmurs, his voice softening even more as he looks down over Watson, feeling all over again how much he loves him. "If we can stand to take ourselves out of the house for that long."
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"You do turn a fellow's head, you know," he murmured. "Yesterday I was not sure whether I was still a widower, and felt quite alone in all the world, and today I find myself married and swept up in the aftermath of adventure and being properly romanced with nights at the opera."
Carefully, with his lips on Holmes's earlobe, Watson undid Holmes's collar, exposing more of his neck. "I think I might be able to restrain myself, but I had better take what I can get now, to better prepare myself."
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He reaches inside Watson's shirt, passing his hand over his skin, and he pauses to brush his thumb across Watson's nipple.
"And as for turning a fellow's head, you know I never do anything by halves." The darkness of his voice makes his words sound far more sinisterly promising than they might have in another context.
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He bit, gently, the underside of Holmes's jaw, before shifting to catch Holmes's mouth with his and kiss him deeply, while he parted folds of fabric to lay his hands over bare skin.
"Here?" he asked, when he parted to breathe, glancing towards the sitting room door to see if they'd locked it. He rather liked the idea of losing themselves in each other here, right on their own sofa, with all the risks inherent in that.
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"We need to break in our sofa, after all," he manages as he pulls away, not wanting to distract Watson too long from whatever designs he might have in mind; the bite to his jaw had sent a shiver of lust through him that he's eager to have repeated. Being in their sitting room is doing enough to thrill him, to be honest, and he finds himself trying to recall all the fantasies he's had that involved Watson and their sitting room.
There have been quite a few over the years. And many of them he would like to enact.
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"Fortunately, I am eager to help you do just that."