mustbethetruth | Behold I dream a dream of good

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Holmes doesn't waver from his task until he's scrubbed Watson dry; only then does he toss the towel away and look up with dark eyes, expression hungry and eager. He slides his hands up Watson's legs until he grips his hips, thumbs brushing over his hip bones, and he leans in to drag parted lips over his skin.

"That was your fault," he murmurs, pressing a few delicate kisses to his skin, mainly so that when he bites into the skin of his hip it's particularly shocking. It's important that he mark Watson too, that they claim each other, and he sucks a bruise onto Watson's skin. He licks carefully over it as he pulls away, and he locks his eyes onto Watson's.

"You are mine," he murmurs, and he lowers his mouth to the side of his cock, his tongue darting out to tease him; he murmurs it again, his lips brushing against the skin.

Watson let out a long sigh, an assent and agreement. He had gasped at the feel of teeth, but had made no argument, had welcomed it. Let him be marked, be owned. No one would see it but the two of them, after all. His fingers fisted in Holmes's hair now, while he still braced himself against the sink behind him.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I am." Anything else he might have had to say was lost in a breathless moan. He was attempting not to thrust wildly into Holmes's mouth, to wait and be patient and be owned, but it was a strong temptation.

As tempting as it is to take his time relearning Watson's cock with his tongue, time is of the essence here. Later he can shower Watson with the languid attention he'd like to pay him now, but Watson has waited a long time for this (and Holmes doesn't just mean the bathtub), and Watson deserves his release. Holmes appeases himself for the moment with one long, firm stroke of his tongue up the underside, before he takes the head of his cock in his mouth and slowly starts to take him in.

He works his way down in inches, nearly pulling off before plunging down a little more than the time before; as he draws his mouth away, he sucks a little harder each time, and eventually he works in as much as he's able to take. He covers the rest with his hand, gripping the base, holding Watson steady.

Watson gave a long, savouring sort of groan, his hips bucking slowly and entirely involuntarily towards Holmes. He brought his other hand into Holmes's hair, and clutched tight with both hands, some tiny remnant of control that he could manage to keep. This was perfect.

"Christ, yes." He let his eyes close, to better to savour the moment, the sensation. He slid his hands over Holmes's hair, while he panted at the effort of not crying aloud --- at least not any more than he already had.

Though he can't explore Watson's body the way he'd like, this is more than an adequate brief summary of Watson and what he's been missing in the past three years. The hands in his hair are wonderful, and if he were a younger man, that coupled with the sounds Watson's making now might be enough on their own to bring Holmes's cock back to attention.

Remarkable, that they could spend three years apart and still find themselves here in less than twenty four hours of being reacquainted. That they fall so easily back into each other's arms, can find comfort in the push-and-tug of the power balance of their relationship -- it all speaks to the strength of their bond.

He finds a rhythm, but he's far more intrigued by the movement of Watson's hips. After Watson's delicious display of dominance in the tub, Holmes is fairly eager to see more of that now, fairly eager to put himself in Watson's hands, to be reclaimed. He looks up the line of Watson's body to see if he can catch his eye. He slackens his mouth and tugs Watson's hips, encouraging him to take control.

That was an invitation. Watson knew that, and he wouldn't have done such a thing if things were in any way otherwise, but it was an invitation, and he was in absolutely no state to do anything other than accept it.

The grip of his hands on Holmes's hair softened a little, his fingers coming to rest at the back of his neck, and he thrust into Holmes's mouth -- slowly at first, biting his lip to hold himself back. This beloved, aggravating, beautiful man, who was perfect, and who would let Watson have this liberty. If he were going to fuck Holmes's mouth, he would take the utmost care about it.

He increased his pace a little, gasping at the air, still gentle.

To other men (and women, he supposes), in other situations, this act might be degrading or entirely displeasing, but under Watson's attentions, Holmes feels... treasured. The benefit to this position is that less concentration is required; he drags his tongue in patterns against the underside of Watson's cock, but he also has the opportunity to take Watson in as he indulges himself, a task that's much more difficult when he's in charge.

His hands rest still on Watson's hips, and he strokes his fingers over his hipbones slowly as Watson experiments with his pace, but he's too impatient for too much gentlenesss. He slides his fingers over and presses his thumb into the mark he sucked onto Watson's hip.

Watson gasped a little, though the pain that came of the pressure there was a double-edged thing, serving to sharpen his pleasure that much more. He was in that heightened state where almost nothing could have taken away from the situation, not to any degree.

He could have lost himself in the perfection indefinitely, his cock in Holmes's mouth, the only slightly frantic pace of his thrusts. He could, however, feel his orgasm building, and the urge to move a little more desperately.

"Sherlock," he gasped, half an endearment, half a warning. Words beyond that were beyond him. "Sherlock--" His orgasm hit him, almost before he'd got both syllables out, and his fingers clenched again in Holmes's hair.

Holmes doesn't draw away until Watson's orgasm subsides; even then he lingers and kisses softly along his shaft, his tongue darting out to taste him a few more times. He leaves another kiss against Watson's stomach before he stands and rests their foreheads together.

"My John," he murmurs against his lips, his eyes closed. "I'm pleased my skills at such pleasures haven't gotten too rusty." He grins against Watson's mouth and settles an arm loosely around his waist.

Leaning back against the sink, because he wasn't sure how much strength he had in his legs at that moment, Watson put his arms around Holmes and kissed him, deeply.

"No fear of that," he managed, dropping his head forward onto Holmes's shoulder. He sagged against him, curling his fingers against the skin of Holmes's back. "For what it's worth, I never doubted you."

He pressed several lazy kisses against Holmes's skin, more or less at random. "If you don't mind," Watson murmured, "perhaps we could find some place for us to collapse together."

"I take no issue with that." He presses a few lazy kisses to Watson's neck, pleased with Watson's exhaustion, pleased that they've managed to return to this. He kisses Watson briefly before he pulls away to recover their dressing gowns, and he hands Watson his before he slips into his own.

"Are we going back to bed already, or shall we collapse in our living room for a change of scenery? I vote the latter." He holds out his hand for Watson, feeling lazy and content.

"The sofa is closer," Watson agreed. Once he'd pulled his dressing gown on, he ignored Holmes's outstretched hand in favour of wrapping himself around Holmes's waist. There was something perfect in the way they fit together, side by side.

Sighing a little, he bent his head close as they made their way out to the sofa. "I wasn't sure how I could bear to let you back into my life again," he said, hardly more than a whisper. "Now... I'm not sure how I could have done anything else and continued to live with myself. Forgive me."

Holmes holds Watson close against his side, and he closes his eyes as Watson confesses this. Of course he's already intuited that Watson felt that way; he still has the mark on his cheek to prove it. It's another to hear it, and another to hear that Watson repents from that. He turns his head to kiss Watson softly before he lays down on the couch, holding his arms out for Watson to join him.

"I'm not sure how I could have lived with myself either," he confesses quietly, his eyes on Watson. "You are my life, my dear. While I was away... When I was living for myself, I nearly destroyed myself. Only when I began to live for you again -- I pulled myself out of the pit where I'd thrown myself."

Watson settled down, wrapping himself around Holmes and ending up with his head on Holmes's chest. He gave a long sigh of contentment, though it wasn't without its regret.

"I suppose it isn't realistic to ask you to tell me everything that happened to you over the course of three years," he murmured. The idea that Holmes could have died, in Tibet, and Watson would never have even known was horrifying. "How did you end up in Tibet, of all places?"

Holmes sighs and settles his hand on Watson's back, his thumb stroking slowly back and forth over his spine. It's inevitable that he talk about this, but he's actually glad for the opportunity; he's been carrying around the weight of his journey for a while now, and he's grateful to be able to share some of that burden with Watson now.

"It wasn't really a question of choosing Tibet. It just happened to be where I was when Moran left me to die in an opium den." He sighs again and closes his eyes, trying not to recall any of his thankfully fuzzy memories about that time. He strokes his fingers up Watson's back to stroke through his hair.

This position was one that brought a surprising amount of safety, cradled as he was against Holmes. He could hear Holmes's heartbeat under his ear, steady and familiar and comfortable. Watson ran his fingers in gentle circles over Holmes's skin, under his dressing gown.

"Opium dens are unsavoury places," he murmured, his voice dark. That frightened Watson; opium was a drug that held a lot of power over a man, and for all that Holmes had claimed he was free of such influence now, it worried him. "Is that what you mean by nearly destroying yourself?"

Edited 2012-02-09 02:42 (UTC)

"Yes." This is probably the best position to be in to have this conversation, as the story involves far too many examples of Holmes's weaknesses. He trails his fingers down Watson's neck, his touch light and caressing.

"Moran was a very effective hunter and extremely loyal to his word. Instead of outright killing me, he pushed me to destroy myself. Rather relentlessly." He turns until his lips brush Watson's hair as he speaks, and he breathes in the scent of Watson's soap with each breath.

"He had me at a disadvantage; he seemed to be everywhere, to follow me everywhere. I was still fairly sober when I started to see him everywhere too."

Watson imagined this, or tried to. It sounded positively hellish. He knew already by personal experience there was no point in wishing the past was anything other than what it was. He had too many regrets for that, regrets that did him no good to hold on to. Still, he wished he could have been there, for all the good it would have done.

"And then you ended up with monks, you said." Watson let his fingertips wander over Holmes's collarbone, his touch delicate. He turned his face to press a kiss against his chest. "Is that how it happened?"

"I was recovered by some monks shortly after Moran grew tired of watching me languish on drugs, yes. I wish I could say that had been my ingenious plan all along, but I'm not interested in lying to you at the moment." He trails his fingers down Watson's back and traces his initials over his ribs.

"My time there eventually became enjoyable. Peaceful," he adds, softer, and he kisses Watson's hair.

"I imagine it would be," Watson murmured.

In this quiet moment, his fingers found a number of scars that he'd missed before. They were unfamiliar scars, the marks of knives, ones that could have been easily far more serious, or even fatal. To expect that the past three years had not left some sort of mark on Holmes would have been too much. Watson turned his head to kiss each scar as he found it.

"Moran thought you had died in that den," he said, remembering what few scraps Moran had offered in his rage the previous evening. "You must have been in a bad way."

"I was, yes. I was close to death; if I hadn't been recovered, Moran's assumption would've come to fruition." He watches Watson find the remnants of where Moran toyed with the idea of killing Holmes with a kind of surprise; he'd nearly forgotten them, as they'd simply been incorporated into his body. He runs his fingers through Watson's hair again, his touch light.

"He never stopped saying that maybe today would be the day he'd give in, break his word, and actually kill me," he explains, and he touches one of the new scars. "He said he'd keep putting obstacles in my way until I did it to myself. Maybe when he shot through the window of my room, I'd choose to sit back from my chair at that instant and put myself in the way of his bullet. Sometimes he was more personal in his threats, as you see."

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, laying his head back against the couch.

"It was easier to deal with his... madness, with my guilt, with everything, if I could blame some of my instability on the fact that I was consuming increasingly larger amounts of substances. He's gone now, though," he says, with some conviction. "In the system, at least. That's all that's necessary. If the law fails to keep him out of my way, then the government, by way of my brother, will intervene. It's one of the few things Mycroft has been eager about in his life."

He draws Watson closer to him and wraps him in a firm hold, and he moves his legs until he traps Watson in against his own.

"I want to hear about your three years. You have a practice, and a godchild, and a new tailor. Tell me more."

Watson chuckled breathily. "The new tailor is very good, by the way. His shirts are splendid." Whether he was quite up to Holmes's standards -- and he always saw Holmes as being so wonderfully and exquisitely dressed -- was another question altogether.

He shifted in Holmes's hold, trying to think of how to distill the last three years into a fact or two. "Far less eventful than it was for you, I suspect," he sighed. "I considered moving, but could not bear it. Lestrade was kind enough to allow me to do some work with the Yard as a police surgeon. I was grateful for it. I'm not sure I have the temperment to be a respectable general practitioner." His tone was rather rueful; he didn't think that was something to be proud of, but sometimes it had been so dull.

There was much he didn't want to admit, either, but after wht Holmes had said to him, what Holmes had admitted, he couldn't justify keeping it secret.

"In the first year, I had difficulty making ends meet. My practice was hardly anything then, and I wasted much of it at the track, or the card tables." Watson sighed, burrowing close. He would not, could not mention how close he had come some nights to putting a bullet through his head long before Moran could have got to it. "I... I am doing better these days."

While Holmes's life had been hellish, he knows that this kind of dull existence was hell for Watson, too. Being pursued by Moran would have been preferable to this level of... normal, everyday life. Of course he fell to his habits; hadn't Holmes fallen to his own, in order to cope? He kisses Watson's forehead and traces the line of Watson's jaw, up to his cheekbone.

"I'm glad to hear it. If you find you still struggle, I know the location of a good recovery spot. It's a bit of a journey from here, but the people are very friendly." He smiles and lets his lips brush against Watson's skin.

"Do you enjoy your practice?" he asks softly, in part for selfish reasons. Would he have to share Watson now?

"I was glad for the Lestrades," Watson murmured. "They were a godsend, even if they don't realise it." And that was a vast understatement. It had been far too easy to fall into the sort of life he had had before he had met Holmes: slothful, aimless, spending his money far too freely. He had had to learn how to be himself in London without Holmes; he had never had to do that before.

He had to think about Holmes's question, though. To say aloud that sometimes he found it unbearable seemed... well, unworthy of a doctor.

"Usually," he said at last. "It can be rewarding. It gave me the funds to let me stay in Baker Street." And it was dull. After patching up men on the battlefield, after dashing around London at Holmes's heels, attending to coughs and headaches and hypochondriacs was unbearably dull. Occassionally there was something interesting, but as interesting usually meant something unpleasant for his patient, even that was a mixed blessing.

And he wasn't sure he liked what that said about him.

Holmes hums thoughtfully and strokes his fingers over Watson's neck. He can hear everything Watson isn't saying, and he tries to imagine Watson getting through the day with so little to sustain him. He's glad that Watson had the Lestrades too, and their godchildren, so he could at least get some moral support, could at least invest himself in someone else's life. Holmes can be a very solitary creature; Watson, however, needs another life thrumming alongside his own.

"That sounds horrifically dull," he says distastefully. "You are a good doctor, my dear, but you were not meant to be such an ordinary doctor. You were not meant to be an ordinary anything."

Behold I dream a dream of good

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)