(no subject)

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes is feeling reckless and dangerous, which is always a favorite feeling of his. It's partly why he's now involved in the profession he finds himself in, chasing criminals and solving crimes. It's why he enjoys these kinds of combative sports over, say, rowing or football. Rugby is acceptable, but Holmes isn't a very good team player -- and besides, sometimes rugby can be too distracting. Yes, he's wound up with sexual inclinations that play right up to Holmes's propensity to be reckless and dangerous, and coincidentally enough, extremely foolish.

This is all why he's now standing off to the side, awaiting his turn in a boxing match, and drinking with his attractive flatmate invalided out of the army, an unfortunate fact only because Holmes doubts he'll ever get to see him in his uniform. A sad fact indeed as there's little doubt Watson would fill it out well again eventually; the recovery he's made since he and Holmes met is already remarkable.

It was reckless and foolish to press to live with Watson, and it's dangerous to keep on doing it because in just this past year, they've managed to grow closer instead of farther apart, and Holmes can't be certain that he isn't beginning to feel something for him beyond an appreciation for a handsome face slowly getting its health back. Love is something he doesn't want to name yet, but it's undeniable that he's thought of Watson a time or two (or more than that, if he's honest) during the night.

He tries not to because he can't be sure about Watson. Watson, no doubt, is inclined toward women -- but it is something he wonders about, and he's been cautiously trying to find the answer to that question, all the while hating himself a little bit for it. He doesn't need to strike up a relationship with his flatmate; somewhere in the back of his mind is Mycroft's disapproving look, reminding him of Holmes's problems with relationships in the past. But, Holmes tells himself, it's a fact that would be worth knowing. It doesn't mean he needs to act on it. Besides, Watson probably is solely interested in women.

So that brings them to this evening. Holmes is here looking to expend some energy, most of it brought on by Watson himself, and the rest of it caused by the excitement that comes from performing for Watson because that's what this fight is. He doesn't care about boxing; he's fallen out of the sport lately, and he rarely gambles. What is important is showing off for Watson and -- well, seeing Watson's reaction.

"It's been a little while since my last match," he calls to Watson over the noise in the room. "I don't recognize my opponent's name. He probably doesn't know mine. An advantage for me," he says with a devious grin.

Comments

[lightconductor]

"You're that sure of yourself, are you?" Watson asked, an eyebrow raised. A year of living with Sherlock Holmes had not entirely endeared the man's eccentricities to him, nor his ego. Granted, if any man on Earth had a right to that sort of ego, it must be Holmes, and certainly Watson had found it easy enough to fall automatically into step behind the man on more than one occassion -- why that might be, he was not entirely willing to examine. But to stand here, with the noise and sweat and blood of a rough boxing ring around them and listen to his peculiar genius of a friend state his advantages was almost too much.

Mind, he had made his bets, and they were for Holmes to win, and they were also slightly -- just slightly -- more than was wise, for a man in his financial condition. Would Holmes be more understanding if Watson was unable to make the rent if he'd lost the money backing Holmes? Would flattery make a difference? He really had no idea.

If he were a wiser man, he wouldn't have come. He couldn't afford to lose, and he couldn't resist the bet. Why had he come? Just to see Holmes box? That was perhaps it. He hadn't any idea how Holmes might do in a boxing ring, though Watson had seen him go up against a criminal or two in the cases Watson had been allowed to accompany him on. He was, to a degree that surprised him, interested in seeing Holmes in this setting as well.

And he couldn't examine that thought too closely, either.

"You used to do this a lot, then?" Watson glanced over the room and back to Holmes. It seemed strangely at odds with the man he knew, yet here they were. He refrained from asking if Holmes had won a good deal of the time.

[mustbethetruth]

"I did, a fair amount." It had been his favorite way to release his tensions and his regrets not too very long ago, at least more so than acting, and it was a nice way for a university student to raise funds for himself. "It's why I'm so good at dealing with criminals now. I used to fight like one."

He knows why he's here, and why he asked Watson here, but the next task -- well, beyond proving himself in this fight -- is determining why Watson is here. That has to mean something, doesn't it? But then, for all his inability to see as Holmes does, Watson's curiosity and general pleasantness is such that he likely wouldn't turn down something like this when asked by a friend.

It's clear Watson's departure earlier was related to placing a bet, and Holmes assumes that the bet was squared on Holmes, but that hardly means anything either. Watson would have had to hide his loss if he hadn't bet on Holmes, and that would have been impossible, not to mention awkward. And the bet may be another contributing factor to why he's here; Watson is drawn to foolish risks too. It's why they get along so well.

Inconclusive.

"Are you a boxing fan?" That at least may eliminate some of the possible reasons.

[lightconductor]

"I've been known to enjoy it on occassion," Watson said over the din, shrugging a little. It wasn't a particular enthusiasm of his, but he was trying to be tactful. His experience was more inclined to the slightly-more-respectable matches, an occassional sparring match in the regiment, a bit of recreation for men who were mostly dead now...

Don't think of that. Anything but that, in this den of noise and stink. Watson looked away, as casually as he could, in an attempt to hide his sudden need to shut his eyes, draw a long deep breath, and remind himself where he was, and where he was not.

He had to focus on something else. The most obvious thing was Holmes. It was far too easy to focus on him; he was rather fascinating, after all. "All the more reason I ought to try never to get onto the wrong side of your left hook," Watson observed.

[mustbethetruth]

That question had stirred uncomfortable memories. Holmes had thought about that, had worried if this whole experience would trigger something in Watson, which is of course the last thing he wants. He feels sure Watson wouldn't have come if he had thought that possible, but Holmes will have to keep an eye on Watson, even during the fight. Just in case.

The noise of the crowd reaches a peak and dwindles off, and Holmes peers over the crowd to find the arena empty save for the announcer. He knows the announcer, actually, and he and Holmes exchange a smile before Holmes turns back to Watson.

"Well, off I go. Be sure to find a good vantage point." His grin is playful, but secretly he's being sincere. The whole point of this is to look handsome and dangerous around Watson.

The announcer starts to call Holmes's fight as he approaches the ring, and he spots his opponent coming nearer. Stocky, an inch or two shorter than Holmes, but he certainly appears to be of a formidable strength. Holmes is keenly aware of how he looks -- tall and slender and aristocratic -- and that's generally played to his advantage in fights.

He prepares himself, standing at the edge, waiting for the fight to start.

[lightconductor]

Watson watched him go, his heart suddenly in his throat. He turned away and moved to get the best vantage point he could, just as Holmes suggested, forcing his way through the crowd by leading with his good shoulder. He felt horrendously out of place here; he was hardly a young lord slumming for the fun of it -- the contents of his billfold spoke for that -- but he was supposed to be a little bit more respectable, as suited a physician, than to hang around in this filthy place.

Good God, he hated to think of what might be lurking around to get into and infect any potential wounds. If Holmes injured himself tonight, then Watson was going to make sure any cuts were cleaned out good and proper.

He forced his way to the edge of the ring, eyeing up Holmes's opponent with a sense of unease. A rough-looking fellow, to be sure. Watson had seen Holmes take on ruffians before, and he'd always noted that Holmes was stronger than he looked, but... suddenly this seemed rather different. What had possessed him to make that bet, to risk so much? The night might very well end with Holmes injured and Watson unable to make rent, and then where would he be? Would it be the moneylenders? He hated to think of going down that path, but what other option would he have?

And yet, he was leaning forward, eager and alive, the blood pounding in his ears. Everything hung in the balance, with Holmes able to tip it one way or the other, to disaster or windfall, defeat or victory. Holmes was right: sometimes London, the world was dull and colourless and unbearable. This was anything but.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes makes sure to spot Watson in the crowd before the fight starts, so he can know where his audience is, and so he can focus mainly on the fight now. His blood is already racing, and his body is poised and coursing with anxious energy. Oh it's been far too long since he fought like this, far too long.

The announcer calls it, and then it begins.

His opponent's first attack is easily deflected and Holmes lands a punch against his ribs at the same time. The crowd is surprised, and certainly his opponent is, and it only angers him more, so that when he comes at Holmes again he has newfound determination.

His determination leaves Holmes with a cut lip and a number of bruises, but by the end of it all Holmes's main complaint are in his hands, after he finishes the fight as the champion. He could have finished the fight without as much fanfare, but he was showing off; his opponent is on the floor when Holmes finishes, unable to speak, and a majority of the crowd is both surprised and elated. A good fight is always worthy of a crowd's approval.

As soon as the fight is won, Holmes makes eye contact with Watson; it's him he wants to share the victory with, not anyone else. He heads straight for Watson once it's over, sweaty and sore and buzzing with energy.

"I told you I had the advantage," he says with a proud grin, rejoining Watson's side and pulling his shirt back on over his undershirt.

[lightconductor]

Watson hardly knew what to say as he hurried through the crowd to meet Holmes. He was fairly vibrating with energy, as Holmes was, the same surge of adrenaline. He could hardly believe what he had witnessed, and yet, at the same time, there had been no other possibility. Holmes would win, and he would win spectacularly, because he was a spectacular sort of chap.

"That was incredible!" He couldn't have helped his enthusiasm for the world. He grasped Holmes by the forearms warmly, wildly, grinning like a madman. Holmes had won, Watson had won by extension, and he had a bet slip in his pocket that was worth a tidy sum. "I had no idea -- my word, but you... he never stood a chance, my dear fellow, never a chance." He was slightly incoherent in his excitement. Watching Holmes had been like watching art, like the performance of a symphony or the carving of a statue.

And then some of his more rational impulses kicked in. "You're bleeding," he observed, pointlessly. He pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve and, without thinking much about other than medical procedure, reached forward and pressed it to Holmes's split lip without asking, without offering the handkerchief to Holmes for his own use.

[mustbethetruth]

He knows Watson to be an enthusiastic kind of person, easily excited and affected by thrilling situations, particularly ones with such positive outcomes, but the Watson that is dabbing at his lip is not something Holmes had anticipated. God, he's thrumming with energy, and his hands are on Holmes.

Dangerous. Reckless. Foolish. These had been the words he'd used to describe the fight and living with Watson, but they hardly seem adequate to explain this moment, whatever this is. It could be nothing -- it probably is nothing, just one of Watson's characteristic reactions, his doctorly instincts coming out, the rush of seeing a good fight and of making a good profit from it.

There is far too much energy between them just now, and he's beginning to wonder where it's all going to go. But that's something he shouldn't think about. That is dangerous, and more than a little foolish.

"I am," he answers, holding still to let Watson continue his work, if he wants. Why should Holmes interrupt it? "And thank you, my dear fellow. I trust you've earned yourself a comfortable profit from this?" He wonders if Watson's guessed that Holmes has guessed (well, has known).

[lightconductor]

Ah, he knew. But then, Watson told himself, of course Holmes knew, how could he fail to know? He drew back, suddenly feeling very foolish standing there with his hand against Holmes's mouth, too many thoughts he did not allow himself to have clamouring for attention in the back of his head.

"I did," he admitted. "Lucky thing, too. You might have had to find yourself a new flatmate, had you lost." It was easy to joke about that dark possibility now, to wave it off as though it hadn't been a real, valid, possible outcome. It most unfortunately and definitely had been. "Good God, that was beautiful to watch, though."

Watson exhaled, not sure what he was going to do with himself, with this energy running through his veins and a mind full of darkly forbidden thoughts and a sense of sharp excitement. He offered Holmes the handkerchief, not sure that he hadn't overstepped his bounds by pressing his hand right to Holmes's lips in the first place.

[mustbethetruth]

Beautiful. Beautiful to watch. He'd said that'd been beautiful to watch. What does that tell Holmes? He knows what he hopes it means, but Watson can be oblivious, and romantic, and it might just be the sort of thing he'd say without even needing to be of Holmes's persuasion.

Now he's having far too many ill-advised thoughts as he takes the handkerchief from Watson, dabbing it against his lip. If it hurts he doesn't really feel it; there's only the adrenaline, and an aching desire to do something with all this pent-up feeling.

"There was nothing lucky about it," he says confidently, needing to sound confident so that he doesn't begin to feel too much of whatever he's feeling concerning Watson. There's no denying now that it's far more than curiosity about his flatmate. "And how could I ever find a new flatmate that would describe a fight such as that as 'beautiful'? How would I advertise that, do you suppose?"

[lightconductor]

His own choice of words seemed to come back to haunt him, now. Why had he said 'beautiful'? It certainly had been, but why had he said it?

"Haven't a clue," Watson said, flippantly as he could but feeling awkward. "'Overly-poetic with violent tendencies,' possibly. Look, did you want to hang about for a few more matches? Otherwise I should just cash my bet and we can leave. You really ought to let me have a proper look at that lip, Holmes. It should be properly cleaned out."

He wanted to leave. Not that he was not enjoying himself, for he was, but the last thing he wanted just then was to have more temptation to drop money he really couldn't afford to lose, in this den of excitement so thick it was nearly poisonous.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes certainly has no desire to hang around this place much longer. Officially the reason is that other peoples' fights don't interest him much anymore, which is true enough, but the real reason is that whatever is happening between himself and Watson is... strange and he isn't entirely certain, just yet, if it's welcome. He blames this place and its noise and sweat and excitement and masculine energy; in their home it will be better, and he can analyze Watson from the safety of his own chair.

Watson is behaving so strangely, and Holmes's aching desire for some kind of action is giving way to a curious kind of unsettled emotion that's possibly too familiar than he'd care to admit. Not now, not with Watson so near him, giving Holmes far too many clues.

"Yes, let us go home. We've done what we came here to do, and I could use some brandy. Some good brandy, not what they serve here." He presses the handkerchief to his lip again. "Lead the way."

[lightconductor]

"It'll be quicker, I think, if I go alone. I shall just be a minute." Not to mention he wondered about what it would look like to come collect his winnings with the match winner at his elbow.

Watson elbowed his way through the crowds again, shutting his ears against the odds for the upcoming matches. He couldn't take them, they were leaving, he had won a not-inconsiderable amount of money already and they were leaving now. Holmes was waiting for him. Holmes was more fascinating, brought more risk and excitement into his life than any bet could ever hope hope to be. No betting.

It was the thought of Holmes waiting for him that got him back, his billfold unusually thick with his winnings and without any more bets in his pockets. "There," he said, triumphant with his own success even if, to an outside observer, he hadn't done anything much. "Let us leave, then. I shall have to treat you to dinner at some point, out of gratitude."

With his meagre pension, a liveable amount but nothing more, the idea of being able to treat Holmes to anything was oddly compelling.

[lightconductor]

Watson sat, obediently, and he took the brandy offered, very glad indeed for it. Everything seemed so very... so very out of place, and unfamiliar, though it was the same sitting room he'd always sat in, with the same company. All that had changed was a kiss, and not even a very significant one, but he was going over Holmes's words carefully. It was peculiar thing indeed to hear a close friend announce there was nothing wrong in inverted acts; more peculiar, still, to know there was an invitation of sorts in those words.

He had excused it on more than several occassions. That made it sound almost casual. Was that was this would be?

"What is it that you want of me?" he asked at last. "A casual partner? A friend with whom you can relieve some tension? I haven't any notion of how these sorts of affairs go between grown men. I'd like to know what I'm getting into."

Did he want to be that to Holmes? Did he want to be anything more than mere friends? He didn't even know. He felt just a little hysterical, and he took a long drink of his brandy.

[mustbethetruth]

He looks at Watson, almost startled by the question. He'd expected Watson to say that they couldn't do such things, not to ask more or less how they are going to set up their arrangement. Honestly Holmes isn't prepared for this question because he doesn't know himself; he would like to establish something more respectable than what Watson's suggested, but would he like a relationship with someone who may hate himself for it?

"I've known men who had arrangements along those lines," he says slowly, considering his words carefully. "The affairs I've had have been more serious than that. I don't think I'd want just a friend. If you're more comfortable with being a casual partner, I... I think I could manage that. If you're not comfortable with anything at all, then." He shrugs, looking away again. "That's that, isn't it?"

[lightconductor]

Holmes wanted more? More than a casual attachment, a mutual release of biological need? That was what he was saying?

Watson hardly knew if that was a relief or not. His stomach was tightly clenched. He cared greatly for Holmes, he knew that. Could he love him, and not as a friend or a brother or a comrade-in-arms but as a... as a lover? He knew he could be attracted to men, but could he love one? He'd never let himself try. Was that different from loving a woman?

If he did this, would it mean never marrying, never having progeny to carry on the family line, never having that respectable life that nowadays seemed rather far out of his reach in any event?

If he said no, what would it mean for his friendship with Holmes?

"I'm not sure what I want," Watson said, carefully. "This is all new territory for me." He exhaled, and took another sip of his brandy. Should he even make such a decision tonight? But then, he had always been better at thinking with his heart than his head, intuition rather than logic. This was, perhaps, one arena in which that was an advantage.

"I think that... I think I am willing to try."

[mustbethetruth]

He eyes Watson uncertainly, wondering if he should trust what Watson's saying or if it's coming out of the heat of the moment. Not that there'd been much resolution for the heat, thanks to Holmes's lip. He wonders how this evening would have gone if he hadn't had to end the kiss prematurely.

He cares for Watson, and he believes he could certainly fall in love with him, but is Holmes really ready for a relationship? He wouldn't want anything else; casual sex doesn't interest him. If this relationship meets a premature end -- but he won't let himself think of that. He can't anticipate the relationship's end when it's barely begun, and he refuses to lead his life incapacitated by fear.

"You needn't rush into anything," he murmurs, and after glancing at Watson, he reaches tentatively out and lays his hand atop Watson's. "I'm willing to try as well, but should you desire more time to think on it..."

[lightconductor]

Watson looked at Holmes's hand over his, feeling a thrill of fear run through him. Was this right? Was this wrong? Would this end in disaster?

He was not the man he had been a few years ago. There had been a time when he had done well with young ladies, and enjoyed himself, and he had been thought handsome. Since his illness... well, no one of note had expressed any sort of interest in him, in that manner, and who could blame them? He had been a shadow of his former self, and even if he was doing much better now, he would never be what he was.

He hadn't expected the first person in London to want anything of the sort with him to be a man, let alone for it to be Holmes.

Holmes had given him a good deal, whether or not he knew it. He had provided Watson with a place to recouperate that had quickly become a home, a new purpose in life now that he was without a proper career, a friendship when he had had no one in the entire world but a brother in Australia he was not on speaking terms with. And Watson would, he realised all too well, do anything for him. And he would trust him, in this matter. He couldn't shake a lot of his inhibitions, a lot of his concerns, a lot of his fears... but he wanted to try. For Holmes, and for himself. Because he did want this.

Watson turned his hand over and took hold of Holmes's, squeezing gently, and liking the way their hands looked together. It was a very small gesture, but it felt monumental to him. "I don't think I could rush into this," he murmured. "I think it's far too alien to me. But I will try."

[mustbethetruth]

The last time he'd held someone's hand in this kind of context was Victor, years ago. He has missed it, he must admit, and to see their fingers linked together is... wonderful. Mycroft will not be happy about this turn of events, Holmes is sure, but he's increasingly acclimating to the fact that... this is happening.

"I couldn't help you make connections to courting a woman." He shifts marginally closer to Watson, their shoulders touching. "I've never done that, and that world is far too alien to me."

[lightconductor]

This was... nice. It was frightening, but it was genuinely nice. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so impossible, so frightening as he feared. It was so strange, after half a lifetime of fighting degenerate impulses and trying to focus on the more socially acceptable ones to sit calmly on the sofa in his own sitting him and consider suddenly giving in to what he had been fighting valiantly up until the beginning of this conversation.

"Perhaps we might meet somewhere in the middle," Watson said. Would Holmes be troubled by his scars? He knew something of the sort of thing two men got up to together, too; would he be able to do that? He felt woefully inadequate, terribly inexperienced, unfortunately naive and foolish.

"I can't promise to... to advance at a rate amenable to you, either." Watson sighed, looking down. "Is this wise? Do we sign the warrants for our own ruin and destruction by choosing this? Holmes... I have a great many doubts. But I wish to try."

[mustbethetruth]

He swallows uncomfortably, not sure he feels quite ready to explain about Victor or Gideon just yet. They're painful memories and they aren't ones he shares easily, not even with someone he's as close to as he is with Watson. He isn't that close to many people, actually, and he's largely unaccustomed to being open.

"I can't speak to how wise it is. If we find ourselves facing ruin..." He stops, closing his eyes briefly. "It need not be the end. There may be ways -- I have connections. And -- and it seems unwise to start a relationship thinking too hard about the possible destructive ending, if I may say so. It's been in my thoughts all evening, I confess, and I fear it will only keep us from enjoying what this may turn out to be. We will need to be careful, but we will proceed slowly. That will help." He squeezes Watson's hand and gives him a wan smile.

"I fear harming my lip, but I would like to kiss you again, for however brief an amount of time. The first ended far too quickly."

[lightconductor]

Connections. That was news to Watson.

This was... this was madness. This was the maddest way to begin any relationship, awkward and hesitating and fearful, and maybe it was a mistake, and maybe it would end in ruin, but if he did not try... if he never gave it a chance...

Watson looked at Holmes a moment, considering kissing him, wanting desperately too, admittedly terrified to initiate such an act. He couldn't let his own fears stop him. Not on this matter.

Haltingly, hesitantly, Watson leaned over, and pressed a very gentle sort of a kiss on the corner of Holmes's mouth. It was a frightening thing for him to do, but braving that fear even for this little thing seemed feel very right.

[mustbethetruth]

He closes his eyes and gently returns the kiss, finding its lightness and sweetness to be achingly perfect. This relationship is not starting under the most ideal or even happiest circumstances, but this awkward kiss, and their first, seem to capture perfectly their potential and their current confusion. He wishes they could be something more, a little more substantial, but maybe it's better that he can't change that.

Tenderly he kisses Watson's cheek before drawing away from Watson. Their bodies are touching, their hands still linked together, and Holmes can't deny that he's missed this kind of closeness intensely.

"In my idle thoughts about how I might like our first kiss to go, I never imagined a scenario quite like this," he says, hoping to lighten the mood with a genuinely light tone, this time. "Usually I was capable of properly kissing in them."

[lightconductor]

There. There. He had kissed a man, he had kissed Holmes of all people, and he had not met with disaster, and the world had not ended, and he did not feel his soul immediately being condemned to hellfire. It had been... nice. More than nice, it had been desirable.

Watson hadn't any idea what he was doing.

Holmes's tone made him smile, and he squeezed their fingers together. "Your lip will heal quickly enough," he said. "I'll see to that." It was part reassurance, part a promise. He was terrified and this was dangerous, but he had always loved skirting the edge of risk. That was part of why he and Holmes had always got along so well, after all.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes isn't quite sure of how they should proceed from here, tentative and awkward as they still are, and his brandy glass is nearly empty. At least retrieving that would give him something to do, and he smiles gently at Watson as he raises their joined fingers to his lips to kiss them softly.

"I could use more brandy. Shall I bring the bottle over?" he asks as he gets up. What's he doing getting into something like this with Watson, who might decide he hates himself too much to go through with it? It pains him to think that he might be the catalyst for Watson's internal struggle.