mustbethetruth | Behold I dream a dream of good

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Behold I dream a dream of good

Holmes is not dead, but that seems a mere technicality. It’s only because the world thinks he’s dead now—that Moran thinks he’s dead—that he can even begin to consider himself alive. Even still, even with the tentative new grasp on himself, even with the aftershocks of having been so close, so very close to tipping over into actual oblivion, he doesn’t feel alive. His heart beats, and his lungs expand and contract, and he moves from Tibet to France to London, but it’s all just movement, just technicalities that propel a man who is but a technicality himself.

Holmes does not feel alive until he’s dressed as an ancient bookseller, and he has a pain in his back and his neck from stooping, and he smells of spirit gum and makeup, and he sees his soul from across the street.

He could hardly be blamed for nearly forgetting himself, forgetting all of this, and crying out to Watson. What else would a body do, when it sees its soul, ripped from him for far too long?

Maybe that’s overly sentimental, but he’s nearly faded away to his own death in an opium den, and spent the next several months under the careful care of monks, themselves prone to sentimentality and metaphor. He’s allowed.

And besides, it’s true.

The purpose of his mission is to guarantee that Watson is not being tailed, that Moran has not noticed Holmes’s technical state of being, that Moran has not decided to give in and kill where his loyalty has so far stayed his hand. Very shortly, nothing seems more important than cataloging everything about Watson; what weight he’s gained or lost, what new items of clothing he’s bought, what needs to be replaced, where he’s been walking, how much sleep he’s been getting, the emotions that flicker over his face (annoyance at the man who walks far too slowly in front of him, fondness for a boy who might’ve been an Irregular).

He only barely remembers that he has more to do today than drink in Watson’s presence, but suddenly the prospect of reuniting with Watson seems far too real, far too frightening. He’s been dead for so long, to himself as much as anyone, and coming back to life is daunting, like emerging from a cave and finding himself entirely unaccustomed to the light of day.

He allows himself this: he crosses their paths, he bumps into him on the sidewalk, he spills his armful of books, and he flees before they sew themselves together again, as they must inevitably do.

~

Mrs. Hudson faints when a bookseller transforms into the specter of Sherlock Holmes in her entryway.

Holmes revives her in her kitchen, and she cries in little bursts, and she clings to Holmes’s neck, and Holmes hugs her back because she doesn’t smell any different, not in the least, and her hair’s the same, but her apron is new. A present from Watson. When she confirms the deduction, Holmes has to stop himself from fingering it, from imagining Watson lingering in a shop and choosing this for her for her birthday.

Everything is arranged, she says; Mycroft’s package is here, and she hasn’t touched it, like he asked. She fixes her hair and blots her face and hugs Holmes again, arms tight around his back, before she pushes him upstairs. She promises tea, promises composure, and disappears into the kitchen.

There is danger. There will come a time when Moran must know, when Moran will step back into the hunt, and his target will be very different. His target will be far more precious. If Holmes slips, if he fails, the story of Sherlock Holmes will be over; his body, the corpse that still breathes, will complete its decomposition, and maybe the darkness will take him.

But he won’t fail. Before he was but a ghost; soon he will be resurrected.

In their sitting room, he is the bookseller. Sherlock Holmes is not alive still; he is not yet complete, but he will be soon. He sips his tea, and he waits.

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"None at all," Watson agreed, after returning the kiss, feeling strangely grateful for it. He gave Holmes several kisses, ranging from brief and playful to lingering and seductive, before tearing himself away with a small laugh.

He stood, and fetched a couple of dressing gowns from his wardrobe; he tossed one to Holmes before pulling the other one on. Good God, but this was insane -- wonderful, but insane. How could he possibly have Holmes back in his life? How could even begin to deserve that?

As Holmes stands up, naked and vulnerable in his former bedroom, now their bedroom, it really sinks in that Moran is in custody. That he won't have to worry about who might try to kill him or who might see him if he doesn't disguise himself carefully. How strange. How wonderful. He grins as he pulls on his dressing gown, and then he starts to laugh, soft and joyful. He wraps his arms around Watson and nuzzles into Watson's neck and laughs, holding him close, until he has a better handle on himself and he draws away.

"Come, my dear. Let's have breakfast in our sitting room wearing nothing but our dressing gowns, and we have all day to do it."

Seeing Holmes this happy was delightful, and it was only too easy to laugh too, to let himself get wrapped up in the moment. It was going to be easier than he feared to forgive Holmes, that was for certain.

He slipped his arm around Holmes's waist, drawing him out into the sitting room. It had occured to him to wonder if naked breakfast might prove to be impractical -- after all, wouldn't they have to ring Mrs. Hudson for breakfast? To his surprise, however, there was a tray laid out for them with the basics for a good breakfast, and a pot of coffee that was still warm to the touch.

"I think we've been anticipated," Watson mused, a quirk to his mouth.

And then to walk out into his sitting room and find that his tolerant (adventurous, kind, loving) housekeeper has provided them with breakfast and quietly left them alone... Holmes is full to the brim with contentment, and he leans over to kiss Watson's cheek, pulling him in close to his side for a hug.

"So we have."

He settles himself down to breakfast, and it all tastes the same as it did. He hadn't been prepared for this, for this level of emotion, not over sausage.

"I love you. I love our home, and our housekeeper, and the way she cooks sausage, and... you." He sighs and sinks back in his chair. "I'm going to be rather emotional for a few days, my dear."

"I'll try not to hold it against you," Watson laughed again, sitting down beside Holmes. He poured out the coffee, stirring some sugar into one cup before passing it to Holmes. To do so was surprisingly second nature, even after three years. Hopefully, Holmes's taste in how he liked his coffee hadn't changed in that time. "I feel rather giddily happy myself, come to mention it. I suppose it's all the more reason for the two of us to hide out here, unnoticed. None shall be witness to your shocking sentimentality but I."

He gave this some thought and added, "Well, potentially Mrs. Hudson as well, but I can't help that."

Watson helped himself to some sausages, unable to stop smiling.

"I feel safe in your hands, and Mrs. Hudson's." He smiles warmly when Watson makes his coffee, and he just holds back from kissing Watson. There's no rush in all of this, and it would be more than a little counterproductive to eating breakfast, after all. He sighs contentedly and lets himself really make plans now that he's back in London.

"Oh, my tailor. I can wear my proper clothes again. And my pipe! I'll have to send a telegram to Mycroft and tell him to send over my things. Oh." He stops with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. "We'll have to dine with Mycroft sometime soon."

"I suppose we will," Watson agreed, sipping his coffee. He smiled over the rim of the cup, happy beyond words. He wasn't quite sure what he might say to Mycroft -- demanding that he should have been told Sherlock Holmes still lived was obviously out of the question -- but, well, Holmes should see his brother again, properly.

"Ought that to wait until after you've finished being so emotional?" he teased. "Perhaps you need me to guard you until you're better acclimated."

"Oh, yes," he returns, serious rather than playful. "As enjoyable as it can be to see Mycroft confronted with emotion, now is not one of those times. A telegram will suffice until we're both used to the idea of meeting." He sips his coffee before going for another link of sausage; he'll have to slow down, though, as unused to eating as he is.

"The Lestrades, however, I think we could pay them a visit soon enough. Your goddaughter -- what is her name?"

Both Holmeses were rather peculiar, Watson thought, but perhaps that was hardly surprising. What they might have been like as children, he couldn't even begin to imagine.

"Violet," he said, his face lighting up. "Her name is Violet. She's a charming little baby. Her brother adores her. She'll break hearts some day, mark my words."

He shifted his chair a little closer to Holmes's, as casually as he could. If they bumped elbows while they ate, so be it. It would be a necessary sacrifice.

"She takes after her mother then, I presume," he says, a quirk to his lips. It still pains him sometimes that Watson won't be a father; thank God for the Lestrades, for their children, because it's good to see that proud smile in Watson's eyes.

Breakfast is good, but over quickly for Holmes, his stomach unaccustomed to eating very much at one time these days. He sips at his coffee and presses his leg against Watson's as he considers the fact that they have all day, and all the next day, and the one after that.

"I think I'd like to take a bath," he declares, the idea coming to him. A bath in his own bathtub. He turns a hopeful smile on Watson. "Would you care to join me?"

"Now that," said Watson, pushing his plate away, "sounds rather tempting, indeed."

He would have been reluctant to so quickly surrender to the more physical aspects of their relationship, but he found himself unable to turn Holmes away. "I could use a bath after mucking about in that dusty house last night."

He rose, looking expectantly at Holmes to follow.

He rises and catches Watson's hand, and then decides that isn't enough contact, and leans in to steal a kiss that tastes of breakfast and it's fairly marvelous. He really will be a ridiculous pile of sentiment until the newness wears off of everything.

"As could I," he says, leaving out the part where he's been traveling; probably better not to bring it up overmuch. "The temptation of lying about with you while our fingers turn to prunes only makes the idea all the sweeter." He kisses Watson's fingers and then leads them to the bathroom.

"You make it sound so appealing," Watson said, rather sardonically, but he followed, smiling. "What a way with words you do have."

He began to fill the bath, and leaned back against the sink as the tub filled. His eyes were on Holmes, his expression amused, his eyes twinkling. "Do try not to slip and hit your head as we were discussing, my dear. I shan't appreciate that."

"I will do my very best. Might I rely on you to help me stay safe?" he asks, smiling, as he lines his body up against Watson's and kisses him softly. He delicately undresses Watson, sliding the dressing gown off his shoulders and pushing it down and off. He leans in and kisses Watson's neck softly, and then his shoulder.

He draws away once the tub is full to turn the faucet off, and he turns to Watson.

"Who first, my dear?"

"Me," Watson said decisively. He reached forward to slide Holmes's dressing gown off, and pressed a kiss firmly against his breastbone. "I claim it on the basis that I died yesterday."

Laughing, he stepped away to ease himself into the tub, somewhat gingerly because of the hot water, and settled against the back of the bath. He extended an arm in wordless invitation, welcoming Holmes to join him.

"Oh, but that feels nice."

Holmes waits a moment, taking in the sight of Watson in the tub, before he accepts the invitation and joins him. He's secretly a little pleased at being in this position, even if it means he can't peer over Watson. He settles back against his chest and sighs, leaning his head back against Watson's shoulder.

"The finest bath two dead men have ever shared," he murmurs in agreement, and he reaches a hand up to angle Watson down so Holmes can kiss him tenderly. He's still uncertain of their boundaries as far as sex goes, which is fine with him, really, even if he's already looking forward to when they might find that intimacy again.

Placing a few kisses over Holmes's shoulders, Watson settled himself comfortably. He wrapped his arms around Holmes, cradling him protectively, possessively. All this intimacy after so long with nothing was almost overwhelming, but he basked in it.

He gave a sigh, resting his head against Holmes. He scooped some water over Holmes's arms and neck, letting the water drain down, rinsing the pair of them off. "Perhaps it would have made more sense to do this last night," he said, "but I was hardly up for it, I don't know about you."

"I suspect last night we wouldn't have been able to do it like this," he murmurs. He humors himself with small kisses along the line of Watson's jaw, and he lightly rubs his hands along Watson's thighs, tenderly massaging him.

Last night had been a fragile thing indeed, and he's glad they've broken through that distressing wall. There's been enough separation between them that even now it seems like anger is a small thing, and it isn't worth foregoing the opportunity to bathe each other, for instance.

"There is no other way I'd like to bathe than this."

"It's difficult to dislike," Watson agreed, his voice low and throaty with laughter. He had forgotten how he missed such things, such minor things that were so important when he had them. He wasn't sure how he had ever managed to live so long without being able to be touched every day, in intimate and insignificant ways, both.

He kissed the back of Holmes's neck, delicate and savouring. He let his fingers run in gentle circles over the skin of Holmes's arm. He was enjoying the moment, drinking it in through every pore, memorising every aspect of it.

Holmes closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, his hands still touching over the familiar lines of Watson's thighs. It's infinitely relaxing. He finds that even his own memory has underestimated how wonderful just this simple act can be, lying in Watson's arms, breathing quietly together. Watson's nearness is intoxicating, and he buries himself in it, making a point to record every detail of their bodies in this moment: Watson's mouth at his neck, his breath at Holmes's hairline, his fingers on Holmes's arm, Holmes's back to Watson's front...

And from there his mind points out where Watson's cock is, and how that feels when it's hard and hot and pressed against the small of Holmes's back. He doubts very much that his memory fails him in how good that is, and he's increasingly aware of how much he misses that. It's crass of him, maybe; he should be more engaged in their spiritual reunion, etc. Watson's the creature of lust here -- not that Holmes isn't insatiable, himself, but Watson rather embodies lust in that incredibly arousing way -- and he's managed to keep a handle on himself. Perhaps Holmes ought to continue to be patient and pure... or something.

The trouble is that once he's come to this conclusion in one part of his mind, the other part is still imagining the phantom heat of Watson's cock, and then he realizes that at least part of the hardened-cock-imaginings going on in his mind aren't entirely imagined, as his own seems to be reacting to all the sensory input -- both external and self-inflicted.

He isn't exactly sure if he ought to address it, and if so, how; he chooses a wordless route that he could potentially wave off and turns his head. He traces the hollow of Watson's throat with his tongue and scrapes his teeth against the juncture of his neck and his shoulder, his kisses distinctly sensual, rather that merely exploratory.

Watson sighed, sensing the change in tone and relaxing into that newness, gladly. He wasn't thinking about it logically, not rationally, merely reacting in a deep and primal way.

Slowly, casually, he smoothed his hands over Holmes's chest, moving his fingers into familiar, long-missed curves. He knew it all so well, even now, after so many years. He was as familiar as he had ever been.

He inhaled Holmes's scent, savouring it, tasting his skin with small, hungry kisses.

He really hasn't thought this through, and even though it's tempting, he resists and simply goes with it. If he thinks too much, he doesn't know what he might do, and he doesn't really want to second guess whether or not they ought to be having sex.

His angle makes things a bit difficult, but he takes advantage of what he can, mapping the side of Watson's neck, biting gently at his jaw, tugging his earlobe between his teeth and sucking lightly at it. He gives a small puff of frustration at not being able to attack Watson as he'd like, and vents this by reaching for Watson's hair, so he can pull him into a deep, hungry kiss.

There really is little he can do about his growing erection, but he's not embarrassed by it; he only hopes that Watson won't decide that they're not ready for this yet.

It was then that he let his hand slide down a little too far, and he noticed for the first time Holmes's growing erection. It was perhaps inevitable, but he hadn't exactly aimed for it, either. His hesitation was only momentary, and had more to do with surprise, with savouring this moment and the power he had.

For Watson, there was no question of what the proper reaction was in this situation.

He reached down and took Holmes's cock in his hand, shutting his eyes at the feel of it. It had been far too long, he thought, since he'd had any cock in hand other than his own. He pressed his lips against Holmes's neck, exhaling slowly.

Oh, that's a relief. To be honest, he really hasn't done this very often in the past three years. For much of the time he was too stressed or too drugged to even get an erection, and then being tended to by Tibetan monks really doesn't leave one eager to engage in sins of the flesh, even on one's own.

He hisses in approval and squeezes Watson's thigh, grateful that Watson is ready to accept him back completely, that they can consummate this newly-named marriage of theirs. That he's about to be given an orgasm, to be crass.

This angle is still difficult, and he kisses whatever he can reach of Watson's skin, his tongue flicking out to taste him and his teeth nipping at him.

"God yes," he whispers against his skin, reaching up again to slide his fingers into Watson's hair. "I've also missed our fantastic sex."

Watson's laughter was low and breathy. It would have been a lie of the worst sort to claim he hadn't also missed it, or to try to hide the fact that he was beginning to grow a little hard himself, pressed against the small of Holmes's back.

He stroked Holmes's cock slowly, turning his head to kiss him, lingering and hungry. "I missed everything," he murmured. "This included."

He wrapped his free arm around Holmes's chest, holding him close against him.

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