tl;dr: why couldn't mary have been ugly or something

[mustbethetruth]

Once the adrenaline fades, Holmes is only left with an empty sitting room and an empty hole inside him that won't be filled until the next case. He could've been happier about it, maybe, if he didn't think this would be the last case he did with Watson. If Mary Morstan hadn't been involved, hadn't been so sweet, hadn't been so pretty, hadn't been so exactly the kind of girl that Watson ought to marry.

He and Watson had spoken of love, of course, but Holmes has seen Watson's opinion on this type of love between men. He doesn't doubt that Watson ranks affection for a woman higher than that for a man; if he was so inclined to marry Miss Morstan... what would stop him? He'd feel remorse for breaking things off with Holmes, certainly, but a union with Mary would be right.

Holmes puffs out a billow of smoke and pulls his dressing gown tighter, sinking into the cushions of his chair. Watson is probably off with Mary now, explaining the loss of the treasure. No doubt he's relieved. A rich Mary would be unobtainable, but a poor one? A poor one in an emotional moment of loss and need? Oh, they lost the treasure in the Thames, but Holmes isn't so sure Mary won't wind up with a ring by the end of this evening.

As long as he had the case, he could distract himself. At the time, this business with Watson and Mary had been the distraction, and the case, full of its irrational logic and unexpected rationality, had been like food for his mind and soul. Usually a case leaves him full for days at least, especially with Watson providing him the sort of soul-stimulation Holmes needs, but now Holmes finds himself lacking both.

The worry that had been gnawing a hole in him through this entire case has now revealed itself, and that tiny hole is much bigger now. Holmes could drown himself in it. In a way, he is.

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[lightconductor]

After accompanying the very lovely Miss Morstan home, Watson was in a splendid mood. It was a shame about the treasure, and she had been disappointed to be sure, though at least she still had the pearls she had been gifted. If she wished to sell them, she could do quite well for herself. She was hardly bereft. Charming and pretty and with a little money -- she would have no problems finding herself a deserving husband.

Were things different, Watson might have offered to take that vacancy.

But no. He had a lover, if one with slightly less acceptibility than he might have liked, and abandoning Holmes was not something he was capable of.

He was glad to be home, now, and he scaled the seventeen steps up to their sitting room with a bit of a lilt to his step. Everything had worked out quite well, he thought, and the last week had been exciting. He felt quite gloriously alive, and he looked forward to seeing Holmes; a good case left him in high spirits, quite often, and Watson rather shamefully looked forward to the outcome of that.

"Miss Morstan has been safely delivered into the care of her employers." Watson let himself into their rooms, habitually locking the door behind him. "I'm afraid I became rather entangled. Mrs. Forrester insisted I stay long enough to help relate the entire adventure properly." He gave a small laugh; he suspected the woman of trying to play matchmaker for her young governess, of whom the family seemed quite fond. Understandably, for Mary was a likeable young woman.

Watson turned to look at Holmes properly, and frowned a little. He knew Holmes's moods well. This sort of sulkiness was not what he had expected to come home to. "I say, Holmes. Is everything quite all right?"

[mustbethetruth]

Watson's step is so happy, Holmes can nearly take that as confirmation of what has gone on over at Miss Morstan's home; what Watson says nearly confirms it. If it hasn't taken place tonight, then it will happen soon enough. Holmes isn't sure if he ought to make moves to stop it. Is it fair to keep Watson to himself? To stop him having a normal life, not that that's always a good thing? Certainly stopping him from having children is enough to feel guilty about.

"I'm sure you're quite entangled," he says venomously, glaring into the distance. "You ought to have stayed later. You're clearly welcome there."

[lightconductor]

Watson stopped short, nothing short of staring. In his good mood, to be the target of such unexpected bile was a little off-putting, to say the least, and he couldn't understand its source."

"Well, I'm no longer entangled," he answered, sounding baffled. "And it's rather late to be making social calls. Holmes, what on Earth is this? Did something happen while I was gone?" He sat down in his own chair, opposite Holmes, and leaned forward, frowning. He wasn't sure where to begin trying to work this out. Had he said or done something to offend Holmes? Had there been some bad piece of news that had arrived in Watson's absence, and Holmes was lashing out rather than share it? Was Holmes just feeling a bit of a let-down after a good case?

[mustbethetruth]

Watson can be so dense. Is he really not aware of how obviously he has taken a liking to Miss Morstan? And moreover, how much she has taken a liking to him? He'd almost missed it, that night, when they were holding hands outside of the house. He really couldn't have been sure he saw it at first, but no, it had happened. And it had looked so natural, so easy. Holmes had felt jealous then, but he was busy, thankfully. He's endeavored to forget it since, but now the image returns to him like out of some sort of nightmare.

"You tell me, my dear Watson," he says, and it doesn't sound affectionate. "I'm hardly in a position to know. Has anything happened while you were gone?"

[lightconductor]

Leaning back in his chair, Watson continued to stare, feeling suddenly very cold, very wounded, very frightened, scared in the way he had felt the first time he had seen battle: a growing sense of dread, and the sense he could do nothing to prevent anything that might come of it.

"Nothing happened," he said, his eyebrows raised. "Nothing except what I told you. I took Miss Morstan home, I narrated the evening for her benefit and for Mrs. Forrester's. There was some inconsequential small talk. I came home." Watson shook his head. He didn't understand what was happening, and he felt stupid for it, and he hated that.

Trying to make peace, he tried a different tactic. "Can I get you something?" Watson offered. "Some brandy? Something to eat?" He was no longer sure when the last time Holmes had eaten, but it was worth offering.

[mustbethetruth]

He makes a derisively dismissive noise and turns his body away from Watson, leaning against the side of his chair and staring off at the fireplace. It's just like Watson to be so oblivious; he could be in love with her and possibly not even fully realize it, though Holmes is certain he's been nursing these favorable thoughts at least about Miss Morstan.

"Miss Morstan does have a talent for charming small talk." It's clear this is an insult, and he clenches his jaw momentarily. "As I said, I'm surprised you didn't stay later, to enjoy her charming qualities a little longer."

[lightconductor]

"Is this... what are you implying?" Frowning, Watson rose from his chair, not sure whether he ought to be angry or offended or merely quietly perplexed. "Are you seriously accusing me of being unfaithful?" He gave a low bark of laughter, but there was no humour in it at all. "Have I ever given any indication..."

Breaking off, Watson drew a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. He could not have this conversation without some sort chemical support; it was far too late, and it had been far too busy a day. "What exactly do you think happened?" he asked, gesturing wildly with his lit cigarette. "Do you somehow deduce that she and I shared carnal knowledge of each other in the cab?"

He was incredulous, and he was hurt, and he was angry at having his good mood so thoroughly dashed.

[mustbethetruth]

"Nothing so salacious," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, but he does spare a look at Watson now, to see what he can read of his perception of the truth of his story is.

"But it isn't very difficult for me to believe that the charming and pretty young woman -- whose hand you held one evening not so long ago -- could have won your affections. I can see that she has plainly enough, and certainly she is quite infatuated with you." He huffs and turns away again, staring darkly at the floor.

"At least you can hold her hand in public, and risk only raised eyebrows. Isn't that what you would prefer over the secrecy and fear?" He huffs again, though far more sulkily this time.

[lightconductor]

"Well," Watson blustered, "yes, I would prefer that, but..."

He put his hand to his forehead, trying to ground himself in this madness. Did Mary Morstan have feelings for him that went that far? She might. He hadn't tried to encourage any such thing, but she might. That wasn't his fault, though, not remotely. Neither was Mrs. Forrester's attempts to encourage such a thing.

It took a moment for him to remember holding her hand, though; he had put it out of his mind entirely. "Of course I held her hand," he said, shaking his head. "She was frightened. What was I to do, grab my hand away and leave her to suffer alone?" The look he turned on Holmes was almost despairing. "You're reading far too much into what was a very small gesture."

[mustbethetruth]

He has to decide whether or not he ought to allow that to mollify him, and he stares sulkily at the floor for a moment or two, processing Watson's reactions to Holmes's suspicions. He doesn't doubt, still, that Watson is interested in Mary, or at least would be, and a part of him struggles with this idea. He's selfish, he doesn't want to give Watson up, but maybe some of this fear stems from the fact that on some level he feels he ought to.

"If you would prefer that, then why not take it?" he says, with some of the venom in his voice turning to hurt.

[lightconductor]

"What sort of man do you think I am?" Watson demanded. Hurt, now, as well as angry, he turned to the window and stared moodily out into the street, because that was easier than trying to look at Holmes just then. He smoked, hoping for some sort of clarity of thought. "I don't take it because I am with you. But no, you apparently believe me so thoughtless as to ignore the suffering of a frightened young woman, and so heartless as to abandon a lover without hesitation over a minor detail. Thank you very much."

He huffed, glaring out at the traffic below as though it were the source of his anger and not the damnably frustrating man in the room with him. The hurt tone in Holmes's voice wasn't lost on him, but he was feeling so very wounded himself at the moment.

[mustbethetruth]

"I didn't think you'd do it without hesitation," he says, more subdued. He's decided he ought to let go of his confidence that Watson would leave him for Miss Morstan. Unfortunately now Watson may do just that, since he finds his present partner so frustrating.

"But I thought the choice would be clear. A pleasant, charming, legal wife who can give you children over a..." He trails off and sighs, leaning his head back against his chair. "Moody, unstable genius."

[lightconductor]

Watson sighed heavily, and looked over at Holmes. He didn't quite know what to say, for a moment. It would be nice to have a legal spouse. And it would be nice to be a father. He had thought of both these things in the past, and what his relationship with Holmes would mean for them.

"That is the single stupidest thing I have ever heard you say," he said at last, his voice flat. "For a genius, you can be remarkably dense at times. She is pretty, she is attractive. She is charming. Were I unattached, I would possibly encourage our acquaintanceship. But I am not unattached, and I am happy in this relationship -- when you are not being an idiot, at any rate -- so I do not. I might as well as pass you over for the colour of your hair."

It was a strange little speech, intense and irritated. He added, "If I were to follow my libido like that, I would have a new lover every other week, at the least."

[lightconductor]

"Perhaps, perhaps." For a moment, Watson lay puffing, resting and waiting for a moment where he could fight back. He smiled, trying for innocence, but there was a great deal of wickedness in his expression. He was well aware that Holmes was going easy on his bad shoulder. At another time he might have appreciated that; now, we was only inclined to take advantage of it and turn the tables.

When he judged the moment right, he worked his way free, calling on deep physical memories of working out of rugby tackles. Grasping Holmes's forearm, he wrestled his way up, twisted the pair of them upwards and over, tackled Holmes down as he pressed forward with a hasty kiss. He was laughing.

"Do you really think," he chortled, "that I wouldn't take advantage if you went easy on me?"

[mustbethetruth]

He isn't quite laughing, not for lack of merriment, but his lungs are busy helping him to pant, and his muscles are busy settling themselves before their next move. He's grinning anyway and his amusement is plain on his face; he leans up for another quick, playful kiss.

"I did think that you might, for the record. I weighed the possible outcomes -- accidentally doing you a harm versus finding you atop me, naked and grinning -- and decided I favored the latter."

It doesn't mean that he isn't about to retaliate either, for that matter, and he counterattacks, attempting to get the upperhand over Watson, which instead leads to a prolonged battle for the top position. They are too well-matched and not overly interested in coming out the victor for anything to escalate beyond playful tussling.

[lightconductor]

At last, finding himself conquered, effectively pinned down and quite trapped, Watson dropped his head back against the rug, laughing. "All right," he said, breathless, "all right. You win. Do with me as you will." He shut his eyes, grinning wildly. He was beginning to be hard again, as ridiculous as that was so soon, but a wild and naked wrestling match apparently could do that to him. He could feel Holmes's answering erection.

He released his grip on Holmes, and lay back limply, laughing silently. "I am at your mercy, you win."

[mustbethetruth]

All too pleased to be the victor, more because of the rewards he plans to take for himself than anything, he gives Watson a breathless, but nonetheless involved, kiss. His first prize, of a few more to come. His cock is already on its way to readiness; he isn't surprised to find that rolling around nakedly on the floor with Watson is enough to revitalize his lust. It seems only right that he might take Watson -- quite literally -- as his grand reward.

"Perhaps I should have taken up rugby, if I am so successful at defeating a fine athlete such as yourself." He kisses Watson again and considers the placement of Watson's kisses on his list of addictions. "Though you can see why I never pursued the sport very much." Grinning, he glances down between their bodies. "I may be a difficult man to attract, but something about rolling around in close contact with sweaty, robust men always managed to affect me."

[lightconductor]

Watson gave another low chuckle. "I admit there might have been a rugby scrum or two that required some self-abuse later that evening." He slid his hands around Holmes's waist, and kissed him hungrily. "Are you really so difficult to attract?" His smile was slow and flattered. "However did I manage it so unwittingly?"

He sighed, and squirmed beneath Holmes, shifting downwards to kiss Holmes's throat and chest. "You also haven't told me what you might claim as your prize," he pressed, teasing, eager. "You do plan on claiming something, I hope?"

[mustbethetruth]

"Precisely by being so genuinely unwitting, in a very attractive way." He doubts that's very explanatory, but it makes perfect sense to his mind, anyway. He closes his eyes briefly, indulgently enjoying Watson's attentions, how he's eagerly egging Holmes to advance their activities.

"I suppose claiming you wouldn't be specific enough," he says with a withering sigh, and he starts stroking his fingers over Watson's hip and upper thigh. "Though I do intend to claim you in the most carnal way possible," he adds darkly.

[lightconductor]

Watson sighed, closing his eyes as he shifted up into the touch of Holmes's fingers. "Oh," he murmured, "good." He continued kissing whatever patch of skin he could reach, hungry and eager.

"Do you still want us to relocate for this claiming?" he asked presently. He gave a small, throaty laugh, kissing Holmes with small, teasing nips. "You had better decide quickly. I want to be claimed." He couldn't quite believe he was saying that, but he meant it. He meant it desperately. "And I'm impatient for it."

[mustbethetruth]

"You are, aren't you?" He chuckles and kisses Watson playfully, teasing him with his tongue and hints of teeth. Presently, Holmes feels very wanted and quite sexy, and it might be going to his head a bit.

"Quite the hedonist tonight, my darling," he says huskily. "I'm not sure we have time to relocate." Regrettably, he has to draw away to find and recover the necessary vial. It's comforting in some way that Watson's body (and his own body, come to that) has become more accustomed to this sort of activity, that he needs less preparation now. Some sort of carnal sign of their connection.

He slides one slicked finger into Watson, pulling away enough to see his expression.

[lightconductor]

Watson gave a gasp; he hadn't expected this so soon. His eyes wide open but seeing nothing, he clutched at Holmes. His playful teasing was quickly giving way to being overwhelmed with senation. He dropped his head back, trying to remember to breathe. The thought passed briefly through his head that Holmes needed to fuck him thoroughly, until he could no longer remember his own name, let alone Miss Morstan's. He hadn't the breath to say it.

He shifted up to try to kiss Holmes, desperate and clumsy in his rush of lust. He couldn't deny that he was a hedonist, because he had always known that to be true. If he was going to be sodded on the floor on the bearskin rug by the fire, then so be it.

"I," he breathed, "am made for you, I'm beginning to think."

[mustbethetruth]

To be speaking in terms of made for each other flows neatly from their recitation of poetry, though it's certainly a bold step, particularly for a man like Holmes whose relationships have been few, but Holmes isn't like Mycroft, whose logical mind drives him away from society. Holmes is a confused mix of logic and emotion, which occasionally drives him to brief periods of madness, and it results in relationships which are as emotional as they are logically defined. Has he considered that he and Watson were made for each other prior to this? He thinks so, as the notion is hardly surprising to him.

"You are made for me. Nature's own hand has fashioned you out for me, for my love and my pleasure," he murmurs, his tone a jumble of things: an attempt at romance, the rasp of his lust, and the rumble of his own emotions. He kisses Watson again as he adds a second finger, encouraging Watson's legs farther apart with his knees, wanting more of him.

[lightconductor]

Watson obliged, breathing hard, almost to the point of moaning. He was feeling owned, and the feeling was remarkably intoxicating, far better than he would have suspected.

"Not your pleasure alone," he said, breathless. He pressed himself down onto Holmes's fingers, his hips bucking eagerly. What he tried to say next was lost in an incoherent moan, and he clutched at Holmes desperately, kissing him, devouring him. Sometimes he feared that he was in this relationship only for the physical release, but this was so much more than that, he knew that. He had been in purely physical relationships. This was a far deeper connection.

[mustbethetruth]

"God, but you are beautiful," he says, nearly moaning himself, but it's nonetheless true. Watson is handsome always, and he wears lust particularly well. Holmes can romanticize it and say it has to do with how strongly Watson feels most everything, but a good deal of the reason for his particular observation right now is how very much he wants to fuck Watson into the floor.

A third finger, moving quickly maybe, but Watson compels him onward with the way his hips move. It seems unfair that one person could be full of such lust in motion. Holmes might seem a god to Watson, but Watson seems one to Holmes too, with how seemingly pure he can be even in the throes of lust.