mustbethetruth | (no subject)

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Continued from here.

He smirks faintly, adjusting to being touched once again, but so far nothing seems to be driving him toward sensory overload. It helps that Watson can amuse him, even now, even when Holmes's heart is racing just a little at entering into something like this now, so suddenly.

"I wasn't quite asking permission," he admits a little sheepishly, his fingers seeking out Watson's ribs and mapping them carefully. Their positions have slid from when they were sitting properly, and Holmes is slightly uncomfortable from the angle; besides, the urge to situate Watson under him is quite strong, suddenly. He finishes their transition from sitting to laying down, nudging Watson down and positioning himself over him.

It's rather enjoyable to have Watson solid and secure and half naked beneath him, the latter not nearly as important as the first few.

"It seems so long ago that we last did something like this," he observes, and he ducks his head to kiss Watson's collarbone.

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Watson settled himself on the couch with Nell, watching Holmes and wondering about his sudden departure, and perhaps feeling slightly concerned about it. "A cigarette would be wonderful, thank you," he said. He reached to scratch Nell's head, rubbing her ears; she laid her head on his thigh, somewhat consoled by this.

"Are you all right, my dear?" He had debated asking, and had finally decided.

He lights Watson's cigarette and hands it over to him, considering the answer to that question as he takes a slow drag and tries to relax. Clearly he cannot lounge for too long; he cannot stay too idle. Maybe as the day wears on that will be better, but just now it's potentially worrisome. He runs his hand through his hair and exhales slowly.

"Restless, I suppose." That's true enough. He takes another drag, already feeling better that he's put some distance between them. "Not entirely cured yet. But getting there." He gives a smile.

Nodding, very slowly, Watson inhaled on his cigarette. "I'm relieved to hear it." Not for the first time, and unfortunately not for the last, he wished he could understand what Holmes felt, what he experienced during these moments. On the other hand, perhaps he didn't really wish to, and perhaps it was best he didn't.

"As far as other matters go," Watson continued, tapping the ashes from his cigarette into a nearby ashtray, "now that I've finished that story, even if you don't quite approve of the ending, what do you think I ought to write now? I'm open to suggestions."

He was mostly trying to make conversation, although he was honestly curious as to what Holmes might suggest, if anything.

This question is a good one; it takes Holmes out of his head, and he follows along with that easily, pulling on his cigarette as he considers the question. "You ought to write a more satisfying story," he decides on easily enough, pacing over to the window and peering outside as he thinks.

He'd already written about soldiers and thieves, and another suitably adventurous, robust sort of a theme is needed for this second story -- otherwise it would not be Watson. Fortunately it isn't a hard leap from 'soldiers and thieves' to pirates, which is where Holmes's mind leads him.

"Pirates," he says, turning away from the window. "You should write about pirates."

"Pirates," Watson said thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I might be able to manage some pirates for you." He smiled, rather looking forward to the attempt. "And more satisfying, very well. I think I may be able to do something about that for you."

He was already trying to work out a likely plot line or two, ones that would be satisfying. The romance should start earlier, he suspected, with less preamble, more meat to it. It was strange to be considering how best to write a romance for Holmes, come to think of it.

"I don't think I'm quite up to writing erotica for you," Watson added, after a moment's thought, "so if that's what you mean by satisfying, I think you're rather out of luck."

He waves his hand, dismissing the notion. "I wouldn't be upset if you did, but that's not what I meant. And so I had better not be out of luck with this new story," he says, narrowing his eyes at Watson. The space between them is good; he can joke again without feeling penned in, or too... content, if there is such a thing.

He pulls again on his cigarette, looking outside. Bathing with Watson now would not be a good idea. He shouldn't let himself idle, and certainly not in such an idyllic situation.

"We ought to take a walk," he announces.

"Oh, is that how it works," Watson laughed, rather tickled at being ordered about in regards to his writing. Having his work criticised lightly for perceived weaknesses and defecits was nothing new, but he liked this context more than the one he was familiar with. "Fine, fine. I shall do my best not to disappoint you."

At mention of the word 'walk,' Nell lifted her head, intrigued, and her tail gave a couple interested wags. Watson gave a chuckle.

"A walk sounds like an extremely good idea," he agreed, sitting up, "and I'm clearly not the only one who thinks so." Balancing his cigarette in his mouth, he started buttoning up his shirt again. Nell slid from the couch, wriggling all over with the excitement of a promised walk.

"Good. I am glad we're in agreement." This is good. A walk will be good; it will get him up and moving and out of this house, which he's realizing now is also weighing on him. What he needs is a change; fresh air, fresh environment, fresh face, fresh clothes.

"Hopefully Nell can survive a little while before we go out. I am going to change and shave, but I promise I will be quick about it," he says to Nell, reaching down to rub her ears.

He disappears down the hall and shaves, which he can do impeccably and in record time. As the beard disappears, he starts to look more like himself, and when he finishes and pats his face down, he feels a little more like himself, too. After a quick change of clothes he feels refreshed and ready for a walk, and he returns to the living room.

"Let's go," he says briskly, setting his hands on his hips.

Watson, by this point, had done a rough job of making himself presentable again following their adventure on the sofa, and he was waiting near the door with Nell, who was growing steadily more impatient about this walk that she had heard mentioned, keyed in to the fact that Watson, at least, was very obviously getting ready to go out. She was circling and whining anxiously and impatiently by the door.

Seeing Holmes reappear, shaved and changed and looking more himself again, Watson was struck with a sudden rush of tender affection. He smiled, the emotion all in his face and eyes, unable to keep it out of his expression. He picked up his stick from beside the door. "Are you ready to go, then?"

He can see that look and smiles back, still somewhat uncomfortable, fearing a relapse, but nonetheless happy to be returning to what feels right. Nell anxiously walks over to him and back to the door, whining and giving her tail a few interested wags.

"Alright, yes, I am ready. Look at the two of you, whining in eagerness at the door." His smile brightens and he leans over to kiss Watson briefly. He opens the door, or tries to, as Nell only moves enough to allow the door to open just slightly; once there is enough room, she hurries out, and Holmes follows.

Smiling at the kiss, at having Holmes even halfway affectionate again, Watson followed, shutting the door behind him.

Nell was off like a shot, prancing to and fro, nosing curiously into every likely-looking bush or rock or patch of dirt, the entire world fascinating and all-encompassing. Her tail never stopped wagging, not even when she paused in her exploration to glance back at Holmes and Watson to make sure they were headed in the same direction she was.

Watson offered Holmes his arm, not at all sure he would take it and more than prepared to be ignored or turned down. And that would be okay, he told himself, there was no sense in taking offense when Holmes's recovery was still so new and tentative. "Did you have a destination in mind, or is this an aimless ramble?" he asked.

He wishes he could find the world as fascinating as Nell does now; for Holmes there is nothing to hold his attention, to pique his interest. But those are morbid thoughts, and one that he finds aren't too difficult to set aside.

He takes Watson's arm, at least for the moment, and considers their options.

"The beach," he declares, only just now thinking of it, but it's what comes to mind when he thinks of fresh, new, and starting over. "Perhaps we'll find a buried treasure," he says dryly.

"Perhaps," Watson said, smiling. He smoothed his free hand over Holmes's arm, briefly squeezing his hand, before letting go and dropping that arm to his side again. He had neglected to bring his stick today -- perhaps that would prove unwise, but for now, he didn't mind forgetting it. "I suppose we may find some spades to dig it up with in the village, if necessary? I'd prefer not to use my bare hands."

There was no point in planning that, but it seemed right to do so, the sort of trivial plotting that made no real difference but seemed important to Watson.

"I suppose these pirates I am writing about must find some buried treasure at some point." Watson gave a thoughtful hum. He thought he could find some potential in that. "Am I writing another romance? I am taking suggestions now."

"You mean I am meant to wait until you are open to suggestions to give them?" he asks skeptically, smirking sideways at Watson. Even if that were the case, he doubts very much he could or would follow that rule. "Very well. Yes, it should be another romance." He smiles, allowing himself to imagine what this story might be like. "Romance for a pair of inverted pirates on the high seas. There's a fair amount of potential in that."

He loves that Watson writes stories like these for him, more than he can really say without feeling strange. It's wonderful enough to be reading stories of romance, but with Watson's thumbprint on them, they take on improved significance.

"I cannot very well take suggestions so easily once the story is halfway completed," Watson countered. "If I write half the story and you then request that I craft some sort of situation with a young aristocrat being held for ransom by an unsavoury pirate captain, and I've already done something with, I don't know, a romance between two sailors plotting mutiny, it will be hard to implement."

In truth he was at present favouring neither scenario, and was at that moment considering a romance between a young captain and his first mate, but he hadn't firmly decided on anything at that point, either.

"I wouldn't go so far as to dictate that to you." That aspect is best left entirely to Watson's discretion because that's the part that's infinitely fascinating. "But am I not allowed to make suggestions to the current situation as the story goes along?"

The ideas Watson presents sound good to him; truly he doesn't know that he would complain about the plot itself, unless it was unrealistic or problematic or ridiculous... But he can suspend some of that for a story, at least.

Watson sighed, with entirely false exasperation. "Very well, you may make suggestions that I may choose to implement, as is appropriate. But I make no promises to use any of them, if it doesn't suit me."

He paused as Nell came back to circle around them, clearly making sure they were following properly along, before continuing exploring with her nose to the ground.

Smiling, Watson's expression warm and soft and faintly teasing. "After all, it's my story, even if I'm writing it for you, and I must be allowed what small rebellions I can find."

He probably shouldn't say it, but Holmes likes these stories precisely for the rebellions. Rebellions are the best thing to come out of the imposition of rules because they are not so predictable and they speak to the character of humanity. There's a reason they're so feared, and so revered, depending on what side you're on.

"Of course you must find your rebellions. You are not programmed to conform," he says instead, sounding tired, but clearly it's a reason why he likes Watson at all, let alone loves him. "Will I get to hear it in pieces again this time?"

"Did you like hearing it that way?" Watson asked. "I can refrain if you'd like, but I have no objection to sharing." It was unnerving to share what wasn't finished, but it was also rather gratifying to see Holmes enjoy what he wrote.

It was, besides, a little special to have Holmes actually approve of anything he wrote.

"I am actually considering," Watson said, making a grand, sweeping gesture with his free hand, "the story of a handsome, rakish pirate captain and his trusted first mate growing close as they search for a legendary lost treasure. How does that strike you?"

That strikes him very well, he thinks. Quite different circumstances from the first story, or he would venture to suppose, which is good because Holmes isn't sure he would be able to approve on another romance like that that was all build-up and missed signals and no reward. The close quarters of a ship lend themselves well to tension and budding romance, but he is intrigued by the close quarters as well; what will the other sailors have to say?

"I can approve of that," he says with a satisfied sniff, as if it were his story and not Watson's (and no matter Holmes's suggestions, it is ultimately Watson's story). "And yes, I would like to hear it as you go along. That way I'm not tempted to skip to the end to see if I approve." He gives Watson a playful smile.

"Well, let's see what I may accomplish." Watson smiled; he was rather looking forward to this now, this new project he had suddenly found himself working on. He only hoped Holmes would find it as entertaining. It struck him, as it occassionally did, how very small the list of things he would not do for Holmes, would not do to try to please him, actually was.

They came out onto the beach, then, and Watson's smile broadened a little. He was ridiculously glad that it was a nice day, and that it was not raining on a day like this when Holmes wanted to be out and about. There was some justice in the world, anyway. He looked at Holmes, inhaling in the smell of the sea and exhaling it with a satisfied sigh.

"Gorgeous day," he remarked, releasing Holmes's arm. "You know, I've been meaning to give fishing here another try. Maybe I might actually catch something."

"You ought to take Nell with you. I'm sure she would be more than willing to help." Nell is, at that moment, playing a form of chase with the surf as it rolls back out to sea. "She would be an excellent addition to your fish hunting party." He gives Watson a smile, walking out over the sand towards Nell. He doesn't come to the beach often; he probably should more often, but the sand that is invading his shoes and the wind that is ruffling his hair does much to dissuade him.

"We should have brought some sandwiches," he observes.

"I suppose we should have," Watson agreed, following Holmes out onto the sand. He had to smile at Nell playing in the surf. She was a truly wonderful dog, he thought, intelligent and eager to please and loving and playful, and they were as lucky to have found her as she had been to find them, very possibly. If they ever did make it home, he had to hope they would be able to bring her with them.

If they moved back into Baker Street together, what would Mrs. Hudson say of the addition of a dog?

Watson had to inwardly laugh at himself. As though Nell would've been anything but the least of their concerns.

"I'll remember your interest in picnics when the weather gets warmer. As it is, we'll just have to manage to wait for sandwiches." Watching Nell, Watson came to the conclusion that it would be best to find something to toss for her, and discover just how fond of the water she might be -- was she a swimmer, or was she content to go no farther than she could wade? "Holmes, do you happen to see a stick we could throw anywhere about?"

He'd just been starting to think along these lines, and he glances around for one, hoping to find one suitable. Luckily there's a good-sized stick, one that looks like it would hold up in Nell's jaw to get sufficient playing time in. He picks it up and hands it to Watson, since Watson asked for it, and calls Nell over to them.

Happy to hear her name, her ears perk up first, and then she runs over to them, happily wagging her tail behind them. They have been cooped up for too long, clearly, and Nell is rather happy to have both of her people out with her.

"I'm sure she would be happy for a chance of picnics too," he says, smirking faintly.

"We'll have to have one at some point, then," Watson said. "Don't let me forgot that."

Hefting the stick high to get Nell's attention, he tossed it out into the water. Nell sprang after it, tail wagging. She pulled up short at the edge of the water, for a moment hesitating over just how wet she was willing to get. She glanced back at them, looking for some sort of approval which she evidently found, because she turned and bounded into the water. Apparently unbothered by the salt and the cold, she soon returned to the shore with the stick in her mouth.

Watson laughed. "You're a brave girl to go swimming in that," he said. "Come here, Nell. Give me the stick."

Nell wagged her tail, and sat, but didn't release her grip on her prize, either.