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

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

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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He lifts his head when Watson calls him an idiot, as there's maybe a hint of unjustified worry in Holmes's statements, but there certainly hasn't been anything idiotic. And he doesn't take kindly to being called an idiot; how that is supposed to convince him that Watson wants to stay with him his beyond him.

"It isn't a matter of libido; it's a matter of logic. She would be a far better partner to you than I can be. She can give you the kind of life you were likely going to find if I hadn't... intervened." He sighs again, a puff of frustrated air, and covers his hands with his eyes. "I didn't realize how... how in the way I am until I saw the two of you holding hands."

"There is nothing logical about romance," Watson protested. "Maybe you carefully weigh the advantages of disadvantages of entering into a relationship. I certainly don't."

He got up from the window, and moved back towards the fireplace. His anger was fading, leaving in its wake exasperation and frustration. He wasn't even sure what they were arguing over, if it came to that. Were they arguing about Watson's potential to be attracted to women? Was that it?

"You're not in the way. You're never in the way. Whether you realise it or not, you rearrange the entire world around you so that it is impossible for you to be anything so outlandish as in the way." Watson thought he was raving, possibly. He had hardly any idea anymore what he was saying. He rested his forehead against his hand. "Do you think I resent you? Is that it? For God's sake, you saved me from a snake."

"That doesn't mean you owe me anything," he answers with a frown, his eyes searching Watson momentarily. He's at least accepted that Watson hasn't ever seriously considered leaving Holmes for Miss Morstan, and that's something; what Holmes has to do now is figure out why his mind leapt to such an idea. It really isn't too difficult to sort that out, though he hates to admit any of it.

He sighs heavily. "I think that I love you too much to be the reason you miss out on happiness. You would make a good father." He sighs again and rests his forehead in his hand, wondering if there's a way out of this conversation. Maybe he just ought to go to bed.

Watson smiled a little, involuntarily. "I am not missing out on happiness, as it happens."

He sat down in his chair, looking at Holmes, trying to weigh out his own feelings, trying to work out what he ought to be saying. "I didn't mean that I owe you, and that I stay with you out of some sort of misplaced gratitude. I meant... look, how can I possibly say this so I don't sound like a fool." He exhaled heavily. "I thought her pleasant. She will marry well. I never had any intention of being that man for her. I admit, I believe Mrs Forrester is attemping her hand at matchmaking, but that doesn't mean I must let her." Watson shook his head. "I... I don't think I would be happy, with that."

He lifts his head, fairly surprised. Before Miss Morstan Holmes had been content to think that Watson really had embraced this lifestyle, but this whole incident has made him realize just what Watson was giving up to be with him. He felt guilty again, for the umpteenth time, at seemingly pressuring Watson to join him in their illicit relationship. The guilt had begun to eat away at him just as much as his jealousy and resigned heartache.

"You don't? I had begun to think... that I was doing you more harm than good. That I had dragged you into a lifestyle that you, maybe rightfully, didn't want."

Watson sighed, still rubbing his face with his fingers. This entire conversation was frustrating, and he wanted it to be over. "I might have been reluctant at first," he said, speaking slowly and picking his words wtih care. "That doesn't mean I don't want this. I have not been dragged into anything. Persuaded, perhaps, but I am not a complete dullard who is vulnerable to just any seduction."

He stared into the fire, falling quiet. He was weighing the truth of his own words, trying to determine if it were true. He believed it was, but it was a strange thing to admit plainly to himself.

"I would not be happier," Watson said at last, "with a woman I did not love than with a man I do. I would not be happier living a lie."

"Of course not," he says softly, more subdued himself, as he finds he's accepting that what he had been building up in his mind all week actually is very far from the truth. Sometimes he likes being wrong -- only sometimes, however. "I simply thought you could love her easily." Easier than he could love Holmes, for instance.

The distance between them right now seems far more than just physical, but he thinks that that could be remedied. Besides, he very much needs to fill the void in him that's been so full of fear and resignation. He gets up and crosses the short distance between them, gracefully getting to his knees despite his height. He rests his head against Watson's thigh, laying a hand against his calf, and he breathes in his smell.

"I'm very glad you don't."

"I am far too in love with a very extraordinary man," Watson said, his voice hushed, "to pay enough attention to any woman long enough to fall in love." That was a strange thing for him to admit; how it had been that he could fall in love so thoroughly with a man when he was so attracted to women was a mystery to him. Now that it had happened, though, it was hard to face the idea of purposely trying to break away from it. He was too much a romantic for that, no matter his mixed feelings.

He ran his hand through Holmes's hair, smiling, his touch soft and gentle. "If she attempts any sort of deeper acquaintance," he murmured, "you have my promise that I shan't encourage her. I never intended to."

He closes his eyes and lets his hair be stroked, relieved to find such tenderness, especially after how this week has gone, at least inside his own mind. He turns his head and lightly kisses Watson's thigh through his trousers, grateful that he can do that too; oh, he's grateful for everything about Watson, when it comes down to it.

"I do love you too, my dear Watson," he says softly, shifting closer so his chest presses against Watson's leg. "I hope you can understand the... irregular manifestations my love for you takes."

This was a strange way to sit, intimate in a strange way, comfortable and, well, irregular. It seemed fitting, after everything else. Watson leaned down a little, still stroking Holmes's hair, letting his fingers slide down to the back of his neck. "I don't always understand," he confessed, "but I like trying to learn. Just so long as you forgive me when I make mistakes."

He wasn't sure whether who was more to blame, if either of them at all, for the mess of the last week. Perhaps no one, just the sort of inevitable misunderstanding that happened between any pair of lovers.

That is comforting, at least; he turns his head and kisses Watson's leg again, nuzzling him gently. It isn't overly difficult to forgive Watson anything once his emotions calm down. It's pleasant, soothing, to be still and let himself be touched; he could use some soothing, especially since now he's dealing with the disappointment of not having a post-case exuberance.

He rises to his knees before too long and insinuates himself between Watson's legs. Cupping the back of Watson's neck, he draws him in for a kiss, appropriately soft for the moment but nonetheless possessive and confident, claiming Watson for his own.

Now, this was something closer to what Watson had wanted and expected when he came home. He wasn't about to push his luck, but he was glad to have this much. He returned the kiss gladly, cupping Holmes's face and stroking his fingers delicately over his cheek.

When he drew back, he rested his forehead against Holmes's, closing his eyes, enjoying this moment of being indecently grateful. Yes, he regretted the lost opportunity for a publicly acceptable marriage, for children, but this sort of love was hard to throw away for any reason. He could accept that trade. He had more of a home here in Baker street than he'd had in many years, more of a purpose in life than he'd ever expected to find after Maiwand, and a sort of intense, companionable love he knew he was very lucky to ever find in his lifetime. He would have been a fool to give it up.

"Should I come and join you down on the floor?" he asked, smiling a little.

He's ready to put this less-than-ideal conversation behind them, particularly if that means they can enjoy some of the fruits of their illicit relationship. He kisses Watson again, softly, and then presses a kiss to Watson's throat delicately.

"You may," he murmurs coyly, and he kisses his neck delicately; he adds a small nip, more of an afterthought. "If you like. I'd really rather you didn't," he says huskily, and he draws away enough to give Watson a very seductively playful look.

Watson raised an eyebrow, smiling down at Holmes as he let his fingers toy playfully over Holmes's face. "You want me to stay like this? You want me to stay here with you on the floor?" He bent to kiss Holmes, tenderly. "How very strange. Why would you want to do that?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pressed a deep kiss against Holmes's mouth, twisting his hands into Holmes's hair. His eyes were shut, and he inhaled the familiar smell deeply.

He enjoys this kiss far too much to want to bring it to a premature end, so he starts undoing Watson's collar and shirt, so as not to waste any time. He can toy around with Watson and draw things out once there aren't any clothes in the way. It seems an age since he really, thoroughly kissed Watson, and he makes sure that he remedies that before he lets the kiss end.

"I have an idea or two that would make this position very convenient." He smiles flirtatiously and lowers his mouth to Watson's neck, now that he's working on bearing more of it. "Would you be open to letting me experiment?" Smiling briefly against Watson's skin, he traces his tongue against Watson's throat.

Watson inhaled, rather shakily. He curled forward, his fingers massaging gently at Holmes's neck. He smiled, and kissed Holmes lingeringly. He had some small notion of what Holmes might be planning, but he prefered to let him reveal his intentions in his own time.

"Very well," he whispered. "You carry on with your experiment. I often like the way your experiments work out."

He kissed him again, hungry and impatient and eager.

Some time later, Holmes finds himself stretched on the floor with Watson, enjoying the fruits of his experiment and also the bearskin rug that has never been more fond of than at this moment. He nestles closer to Watson, throwing his leg over Watson's and trapping him close against his body. He's getting better about being on the receiving end, as it were; the feelings of vulnerability are lessening, a sign of their bond, and he only feels fulfilled and content in the aftermath.

"This is one area where I seem to have something over Shakespeare," he says, smiling to himself, as he trails his fingers tenderly over Watson's chest.

"Hm?" Watson shifted a little, wrapping his arm around Holmes to keep him close. His brain was fogged and sleepy in a post-coital haze, wonderfully content, and this was where he had hoped the evening would lead in any event. He couldn't quite grasp what Holmes was talking about. "Personally, I think you have quite a few things over Shakespear, but what do you mean?"

He kissed Holmes's forehead. The charming Miss Morstan wasn't even remotely in his thoughts. She really hadn't stood much of a chance, with this to hold his attention.

"'Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, and by addition me of thee defeated, by adding one thing to my purpose nothing,'" he quotes, smiling to himself. He skims his fingertips up Watson's thigh, definitely a suggestive gesture even if Holmes isn't feeling very able to follow up with the suggestion. "Maybe Shakespeare didn't know what to do with Nature's addition to his fair youth, but I have a good idea what to do with yours."

He catches Watson in a soft, slow kiss, tender and loving and very comfortable. Probably more comfortable than he ought to be, curled up on their sitting room floor, but it's difficult when Watson is so warm and they're pressed so close together.

Watson smiled, slowly and warmly. He knew the Bard, and he knew the sonnet well. In the past he had avoided thinking on it too hard, but now he looked at it differently. It was pleasant (to say the least) to have poetry recited to him, and it wasn't exactly what he expected of Holmes.

It was ever pleasant to be surprised by Holmes.

"You do have a good idea or two," Watson murmured. "I've noticed the myriad of good ideas you have about my particular addition." He punctuated his words with a kiss that turned into a gentle nibble on Holmes's lower lip. "No one's ever quoted Shakespeare at me in an attempt to seduce me," he added, chuckling. "It's very flattering."

"No one?" he asks, surprised. He hadn't expected Watson's reaction to be so surprised, but then again, Holmes's prior relationships had had strong literary components from the start. "Then I suppose no one has mentioned to you that you have a face that inspires poetry?" He smiles lightly and kisses Watson again, gently, before he props himself up on one arm.

He shuffles quickly through the library of poems in his head before settling on one a little more recent than the Bard, but nonetheless suitable.

"The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle -
Why not I with thine?"

He pauses for his memory and breath's sake, and he gently traces his fingers along Watson's jawline. He'd nearly forgotten what joy could be derived from such a private performance as this, and he thinks fondly of the stage, which he hasn't done in a while either.

"See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -
What are all these kissings worth
If thou kiss not me?"

Through this last stanza, he gets nearer and nearer to Watson's lips, so that he says the last line very nearly on Watson's lips themselves.

With that sort of poetry, Watson felt he had no choice but to close that small distance and kiss Holmes, his eyes closed. The gesture was deep and lingering, gently exploratory, more tender than lustful. He smoothed his hand over Holmes's chin.

When he drew back, he let his hand wander to stroke through Holmes's hair. He rested their foreheads together. "No one," he confirmed, smiling, "has told me that I have a face that inspires poetry. Thank you, even if I doubt it." He kissed Holmes again, carefully. "I knew a girl once who wrote me poetry. Terrible stuff. I'd rather have you quote Shelley in a heartbeat. You perform beautifully."

He shut his eyes again, and began to recite something he had learned long ago, his voice soft. It lacked the practiced sense of performance Holmes seemed to grasp so effortlessly; it was, too, in its own way, a small apology for having caused Holmes any pain.

"My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound receivèd from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart and I have his."

He's more than thrilled to have poetry read back at him, and though Watson perhaps lacks the acting chops, really he doesn't need them very much. He has the voice of an author when he reads, and the face of a romantic hero, so if he tried to act it would just seem cheesy. As it is, he's very sincere, and Holmes definitely gets the message he's trying to convey.

"And you read sincerely," he murmurs softly, "which is just as important as performing." He kisses Watson softly, his hand gently trailing down his chest. He's still smiling as he draws away, and he kisses Watson's nose too, for good measure.

"I can't remember the last time I had a naked poetry reading on the sitting room floor, on a bearskin rug, before a fire." He chuckles throatily and kisses Watson's throat, nuzzling closer.

Watson laughed too, low and throaty. He snuggled close, pressing kisses at random over Holmes's head and face and shoulders. "It's a new experience for me." He gave a contented sigh, running his hands carefully over Holmes's side. "An interesting experience."

He was quiet a moment. "I love you," he said presently. As if that were necessary, as if that weren't entirely obvious. "Holmes, there are a great many attractive, charming women in the world, but I am beginning to believe none are as perfectly suited to me as you are." He gave a small laugh. What a strange piece of irony that was. "Ought we to move to some place more permanently comfortable?"

Holmes grins, almost to himself, and his ears turn slightly red with pleasure over hearing Watson admit something so wonderfully... perfect as that. It's somewhat frightening to presume that they might be soulmates, perhaps, as that's such a grand thing to believe, but Holmes is starting to wonder if it isn't true.

"I love you," he murmurs, still smiling, and he kisses Watson's forehead gently. "And there is no one better for me than you. Come, my darling boy. My bed might be a little more forgiving than the floor." He pushes himself up into a sitting position and glances around, looking for their clothes. "We ought to tidy up a bit too, before we retire."

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

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