Sleep did not come easily to Watson. Too much had happened, too much had changed too quickly, too much was now roiling about in his brain. He dozed fitfully for a short time, but at last he found himself lying wide awake, staring into the dark room. His stomach was clenched, and he felt hot and sweaty, almost feverish. On the other side of his bedroom door was Sherlock Holmes, and he could think of little else.
For all his fears of being weak, of being easily influenced, for all his anger and his hurt, he was still desperately, hopelessly, completely in love with Holmes. He couldn't deny that. Always, he had said, and perhaps that still held, but three years ago seemed a lifetime away. How could he just... forgive that, so easily?
Watson rolled over in bed, picked up his pocketwatch from the bedside table, and lit a match to read it by, before sinking back down into the bed. All this trouble was, of course, assuming Holmes really was still out there, that it hadn't been a dream, or he hadn't left. At least his expressed desire to stay suggested there wasn't some other man out there, some handsome chap who had replaced Watson in Holmes's absence. Probably some... some obnoxiously clever police inspector, who never had any difficulty in applying Holmes's methods, who was skilled at deceit, who could speak French. Perhaps a brilliant actor, rather, one who was witty and fascinating and worshipped Holmes as keenly as Watson ever had.
Watson stopped himself when he realised he was expending a good deal of hatred towards a theoretical and probably fictional man.
Without quite knowing the reason why, he rose from the bed. He had cast off his nightshirt in his feverish agony, but he pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around him. Softly as he could, he padded out into the sitting room, needing to see for himself.
And there was Holmes, of course, stretched out on the sofa in his shirtsleeves, so perfectly beautiful Watson could have wept. He stood there in the darkness, clutching the blanket, just looking, and not sure what to think.
no subject
For all his fears of being weak, of being easily influenced, for all his anger and his hurt, he was still desperately, hopelessly, completely in love with Holmes. He couldn't deny that. Always, he had said, and perhaps that still held, but three years ago seemed a lifetime away. How could he just... forgive that, so easily?
Watson rolled over in bed, picked up his pocketwatch from the bedside table, and lit a match to read it by, before sinking back down into the bed. All this trouble was, of course, assuming Holmes really was still out there, that it hadn't been a dream, or he hadn't left. At least his expressed desire to stay suggested there wasn't some other man out there, some handsome chap who had replaced Watson in Holmes's absence. Probably some... some obnoxiously clever police inspector, who never had any difficulty in applying Holmes's methods, who was skilled at deceit, who could speak French. Perhaps a brilliant actor, rather, one who was witty and fascinating and worshipped Holmes as keenly as Watson ever had.
Watson stopped himself when he realised he was expending a good deal of hatred towards a theoretical and probably fictional man.
Without quite knowing the reason why, he rose from the bed. He had cast off his nightshirt in his feverish agony, but he pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around him. Softly as he could, he padded out into the sitting room, needing to see for himself.
And there was Holmes, of course, stretched out on the sofa in his shirtsleeves, so perfectly beautiful Watson could have wept. He stood there in the darkness, clutching the blanket, just looking, and not sure what to think.