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Watson opened his eyes, faintly surprised to hear this. They had never discussed that side of things, although he refrained from pointing out that he, in fact, was in possession of a wedding ring even if he had got into the habit of not wearing it -- why invite the argument, after all, and that marriage had indeed ended, albeit in an unfortunate way.

"No, we don't." He kissed their entwined fingers, gently. "Nor do I see how we may acquire them, but, my love..." He dropped another loving kiss to Holmes's knuckles. "We've already broken every convention of the institution. A ring is just a symbol."

After busying himself a moment longer kissing Holmes's hand, Watson added, "It's a nice thought, though."

Holmes doesn't know what he thinks about wearing a wedding band. He hadn't given it a lot of thought before, too busy with the other, larger parts of their marriage. Now, however, that they're settled in their own cottage, and now that calling each other "husband" feels ever so much more official for no reason other than they've changed the geography of their relationship, it seems relevant.

He may have had a heated thought in the past about how unfair it is, about how he would never be able to wear that so traditional symbol of marriage, and he'd decided he didn't need such a formalized, pointless thing with the angry fervor of youth. Sometime after that, any thought paid toward possible discovery carried much less righteous indignation.

Now that symbol is possible, isn't it? Does he want such a pointless circle of metal around his finger to point out something he knows well enough for himself?

"You are right," he says, squeezing Watson's fingers. "I'm not certain where we wound find such things, if we wanted them." He stops thoughtfully. Does he want one?

He hadn't thought much about the idea of their having wedding bands, to be entirely honest, despite the inherent romanticism in the gesture. It was one more aspect that he found he automatically associated with marriage between a man and a woman, and this was certainly not that, and they seemed to be constantly redefining the whole thing as suited them. They had no marriage contract, no formal blessing from a priest, but it was nontheless a marriage, and one as sanctified, in Watson's mind, as the one he had had with Mary. Now that the idea of rings had been brought up, it was hard not to feel wistful about it.

"I suppose it's best not to torment ourselves with thinking about the possibility," Watson said, with a very small sigh. "There's no helping it, after all. We are married, regardless."

So Watson does want one. He thinks he can divine that much, and he pulls Watson in close for another slow, tender kiss. He keeps his grip on Watson's hand, and once the kiss ends, he kisses their joined fingers, just as Watson just did. Let that be a kind of ring, for the moment.

"We are. It suddenly feels so much more real. Perhaps that's the effect of the marital bed."

Watson let out a small puff of laughter. "I think you're right," he said. They were no longer sneaking around in the night from room to room, as though it were an illicit affair. They were living together openly. It was a different feeling entirely.

He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly, as a pressing biological need was beginning to make itself known to him. It was hardly surprising. It was morning, after all. "I hate to disturb us, as I'm rather comfortable," Watson sighed, "but I really think I must make use of the toilet. Should I stay up and make coffee, and if so, are you staying here or will we both move to the kitchen?"

He grumbles disapprovingly, turning his face against Watson's chest, but he can hardly hold it against Watson, as once he rises he's fairly certain he'll need a trip to the toilet himself. Heaving a sigh, he pushes himself away, rolling onto his back and attempting to separate himself from Watson.

"Biological needs are the only acceptable excuse. You may go. And let us reconvene in the kitchen. Perhaps I can assist you in the preparation of breakfast."

"Thank you for your permission," Watson answered, laughing. He leaned over and kissed him soundly, before disentangling himself rather reluctantly.

He made a hasty search for a dressing gown -- not, he considered, there was any particular reason he could not wander about in the nude, but it seemed slightly more proper to at least make some vague attempt at modesty -- and left, glancing back at Holmes as he did so, and noting just how irresistable he looked.

His husband. His husband. He could be possessive all he liked, for the man was his, had allowed him to make that claim in return for the reverse, and he could look and savour all he wanted.

After the bathroom, he wandered out into the kitchen, intending to tackle the coffee maker. Finding Holmes already there, he stepped close to kiss him in greeting.

Being looked at like that inspires a very warm feeling in him, and he lingers for a moment once Watson's disappeared, laying in the bed and smiling to himself. Maybe he's more of a blushing bride than he'd thought; he can just picture himself, lounging and glowing like a freshly deflowered virgin.

He's very nearly chuckling to himself when he gets out of bed, hunting up his dressing gown and pulling it on. He may be glowing, but his deflowering was nothing like last night. He heads for the kitchen, glancing over the cabinets and finally opening the refrigerator door. He has no idea what they ought to eat for breakfast.

He smiles at Watson as he approaches, returning the kiss warmly.

"What are we going to have for breakfast, by the way? I am at a loss."

"I hadn't thought that far," Watson smiled. For a moment he lingered with his hands at Holmes's waist, doing nothing but enjoying the contact. He felt certain that the expression on his face must be ridiculous, and he certainly could not stop smiling for all the world.

With an effort he turned away, trying to remember where they had left the coffee the day before. As he went about the business of deciphering the coffee machine, useful device that it was, he considered what choices for breakfast they had. "How hungry are you? How much," Watson grinned, "of an appetite did you manage to work up?"

He smirks and shuts the refrigerator door, removing himself from the cold and instead stepping up behind Watson. Sliding his arm around Watson's waist, he presses up against him, giving his neck a soft kiss.

"I got cold," he explains in a teasing murmur, brushing his lips against the shell of Watson's ear. "I hope you don't mind." Kissing his earlobe again, he considers how hungry he is.

"I'm moderately hungry. Surprisingly dessert left me feeling very sated."

Watson chuckled, leaning back into Holmes's arms and the warmth of his body, thoug he did make a vague attempt at continuing his appointed task. "I don't mind terribly, never fear. Although this does impede the coffee."

He didn't want to think about breakfast. He was hungry himself, but the last thing he wanted to deal with, just then, was what to eat and how to make it. "Toast?" he suggested. "Are you hungry enough that we should try boiling an egg or two?" He could go for an egg, himself, but he wasn't about to put himself to the bother of doing more than toast if he was the only one who wanted it."

"Toast and eggs! A perfect menu. I can't find a single fault with this plan." He is very reluctant to leave Watson, but if Watson's going to do all that then it may be necessary. He leaves another few lingering kisses against Watson's neck, breathing in Watson's scent one last time before he steps away, leaning against the counter instead.

"Am I to be responsible for lunch? Or is there some other way I can exempt myself from cooking duty?"

"You are terrible," Watson said, laughing. "Am I to do all the work, then? I'm beginning to think you only married me for my cooking."

He hesitated briefly before reassuring himself he'd done everything properly, and flipped the switch on the coffee maker. Leaving that to brew, he turned to the cupboards in search of a pot to boil eggs in.

"If I do put you in charge of lunch, what will you make for us?"

"Not only your cooking." He grins devilishly and then turns some attention to the coffee pot, eying it as it does its work. Automatic coffee machines. He can hardly argue with their usefulness but he isn't yet convinced that they make a better cup of coffee.

"I suppose toast for lunch would not be acceptable." Holmes is confident he could throw together some sandwiches for lunch if need be, and truly it seems fair; Watson does do a large amount of cooking for them. "I can manage sandwiches for us. Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly," Watson said, glowingly. He set the pot of water on the stove and turned to the fridge to find some eggs. "Possibly not in matters culinary," he teased, "but I think I can extend some trust in your direction."

Boiling an egg seemed straightforward on the face of it, but come to think of it, he hadn't any idea how long to boil it, and that seemed fairly key. He thought he had seen something helpful about this particular problem in the cookbook-for-beginners he'd claimed from the library. Fortunately he had left that on the counter, so he soon was flipping pages to consult it.

"Thank you for the consideration. I'll try not to take advantage of your trust, so kindly given." He steps in and kisses Watson's cheek, and then wills himself to step away again before he gets too tempted to wrap his arms around Watson's waist and give him some longer, less chaste kisses.

"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll just go freshen up." He smiles playfully and heads for the bathroom, going about his business and then splashing some water on his face and running a wet hand through his hair. Shaving and proper grooming can come later, if at all. He does feel a little better now, at least, and he returns to the kitchen.

"How is breakfast coming along, my dear?"

By this point, Watson had the eggs boiling away, and was keeping a close eye on the timer. The coffee was poured and on the table; he was just setting the toast there, as well. "Shouldn't be long now," he said, brightly. He was feeling optimistic about this, about his newfound role as cook, and trying not to be overwhelmed about it.

Looking at Holmes, he was hard-pressed not to smile, not to appreciate a little just how handsome he was in his barely-groomed dishevelment.

Grinning himself now, he gives Watson a kiss and a brief embrace before he sits at the kitchen table. Watson is an exceedingly good husband -- something Holmes had already known -- but he appreciates that fact now, not just because he's supplying breakfast but because he's so cheerful about it, and he has the good grace to be nearly naked and incredibly handsome while doing it.

"Aren't we disgustingly cheerful this morning? It's a good thing we have the house to ourselves, or we may spoil the appetite of anyone else who might have to witness the two of us."

Watson laughed, lightly. "Disgustingly cheerful, indeed. As though I were the only one guilty of such a thing. But there are plenty of reasons to be glad no one else can intrude upon us here. Oh, here we go."

Deeming the eggs done -- at least, the timer was up, and he hoped they were done, and he could not see how one could possibly tell with an egg, other than by breaking it open -- Watson fished them out of the water with a slotted spoon, and after placing them into a pair of egg cups he had ready, he brought them over to the table. He paused to kiss Holmes's cheek as he put the eggs down, and then took his own chair.

"Bon appetit, as they say."

"Bon appetit." He smiles to himself, taking a sip of his coffee; it does feel rather good to speak in French, and he hardly gets enough practice at it. Setting his cup down he butters his toast. "What a splendid chef you are, my darling husband. Nearly as splendid as you are as a dessert," he says in French.

He starts in on his egg, which is cooked very well he has to say, and he gives Watson a bright smile.

Watson raised an eyebrow, in the process of cutting the top off of his egg. "What was that?" he asked. He fully expected not to be told, but he felt it was almost his duty to ask. If Holmes felt it necessary to switch to other languages in the middle of a perfectly good English conversation, then Watson was going to ask questions, and that was all there was to it.

His egg seemed to be properly cooked. This was a little bit of a relief.

"My dear fellow, for what I'm sure is not the last time however much I might wish it were, you really must stick with English if you wish to have a conversation with me."

"I miss French sometimes," he says with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I never say anything that's essential for you to know." He smiles playfully and takes another sip of coffee. "Maybe I ought to save my French inclinations for when you're not as interested in conversing with me."

The thought of murmuring French nothings against Watson's skin is fairly appealing. Would Watson find as much fault with that as he does with breakfast conversation?

"Perhaps not essential, but if you address me in French, I am going to be curious as to what you say." Watson peered at him over the top of his coffee, one raised eyebrow. He was finding this playing about in French to be faintly annoying, honestly, but at the same time... it was so very Holmes, and he loved it, even if he didn't understand more than the odd word. "Particularly when it drops down into an otherwise uneventful conversation like that. Call a greivous character flaw, if you must."

"Well then, I believe I will. You must have a few. No husband could be as good as you without a grievous character flaw in there somewhere. So should I put you down for both 'no appreciation for the French language' along with this curiosity?"

He smirks at Watson over his toast before he takes a bite.

Rolling his eyes, Watson shook his head a little. "Very well, you go right ahead and do that. There are worse character flaws to be saddled with, I believe. For example, 'refuses to translate himself' is, I think, a rather dire one."

His tone was lightly teasing.

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mustbethetruth - 2011-02-15 01:55 (UTC) - Expand