mustbethetruth | 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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"If you insist," Watson groaned, rolling over. "I only agree to moving because I suspect it would be unwise to fall asleep where we are."

He kissed Holmes playfully, and gave a grunt of protest as he shifted into a sitting position. "Come on. Get up, and escort me off to bed like a sensible person. Not that either of us are terribly sensible, but let us pretend."

He kissed him again. He was looking forward to a bed.

"Pretend to be sensible? That is an adventurous taste for acting you have, my darling." He sits as well, pausing to stretch his arms and back. He supposes he could stand to gather their clothes, but they aren't too far and crawling a bit seems the most efficient, if inelegant, but it's a halfway mark to standing at least. He picks up Watson's shirt, holds it a moment, and then turns and throws it in the direction of Watson's face.

"Sorry, but is behaving sensibly an absolute requirement?"

Laughing, Watson pulled the shirt from off his face. "No, I suppose not. We'll get by without being sensible. We usually do."

He draped himself around Holmes's shoulders, kissing him at random, losing himself in adoration for a moment. Finally, he stood, stretching a little. He would be sore in the morning, he suspected. He thought his leg had been strained a little, but he was not going to complain overmuch. He couldn't even say when it had been done. A minor injury, not worth mentioning.

"I really don't want to pick up after ourselves," he said, rather mournfully.

He's beginning to wonder if they'll ever make it to their room when Watson draws himself away, and he chuckles low in his throat, leaning over to recover his waistcoat. Their life is rather shamefully good in between Holmes's black moments. He's tempted to say that they're too much of a burden on Watson, that he doesn't deserve them, but does Holmes? He isn't inclined to wallow in self-pity at the moment; right now, his relationship with Watson feels like something he deserves, and the black periods are what infringe on what's rightfully his.

It's a cheerful mood to be in.

"You were quite happy to make the mess, if I recall." He smiles slyly over his shoulder and stands, holding the clothes in his hands out to Watson. "Here, you hold. I'll recover."

There are only a few items left, and he picks them up quickly, excited but also a little disappointed about going to bed. He's excited to stretch out with Watson in comfort, to feel Watson fall asleep behind him, but he's a little disappointed because he feels good and sleeping seems like such a waste of time. Oh, he's tired, certainly, and more tired than he's been in days. He's sure to sleep through the night tonight, though he may wake up with the sun. It's a little like Christmas morning sometimes, the first day after a case, especially when he shares a bed with a gift like Watson.

"Can you manage the walk into the bedroom, or shall I carry you too?"

"I am perfectly capable of walking, thank you." Watson made a face, but he was laughing. He bundled up the clothing obediently as it was handed to him; his smile was a bit naughty. "And while we're at it, you seemed just as eager to make the mess as I was, so if we're pointing fingers, you've got the wrong man. You seemed rather glad to make the mess yourself."

He followed Holmes, dropping a kiss on the corner of his mouth when he was able to. "Try to carry me," he said, by way of advice, "and you will be facing dire conseqences, believe me."

"I was very eager to make the mess, and I didn't complain about having to pick it up, if you'll notice." Holmes grins, close to laughter himself, and takes a minute just to appreciate the way Watson looks when he's naked and cheeky and playful and silly; to appreciate how happy they are, how easily they fit together. How perfect this simple moment is, walking to bed with their clothes in their arms.

Once he's done doing that, he lifts an eyebrow at Watson, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "Oh is that so? Well, well."

He may have been ridden vigorously and shortly thereafter rode Watson vigorously, but his reflexes are not too sluggish to prevent him from slipping behind Watson and wrapping his arms snugly around Watson's waist and chest. He has no real intent to pick Watson up, not interested in another wrestling match as he doesn't think he has a third round in him, but he does make efforts to lift Watson briefly off the floor, once or twice.

"What sort of dire circumstances am I looking at?" he asks playfully in Watson's ear; the laughter that hadn't quite broken through yet takes him now, and he laughs against Watson's neck, his nose nudging his hair.

Laughing and dropping clothing, Watson twisted away, more out of some feeling that he couldn't let Holmes get away with that than with any real desire to leave Holmes's arms. Entirely abandoning his burden of clothing, he reached to give Holmes a swat on his bottom, his expression as stern as he could manage. Pulling himself close, he gave Holmes's arse a squeeze and kissed him.

"If I don't get to keep my dignity," he said, still with an eyebrow raised in an attempt at severity, "then neither do you."

After another, gentler swat he pulled away and bent to pick up the scattered clothing he had dropped.

“A true consequence to be sure,” he says with a grin, though really it hadn't been a consequence at all, and if he hadn't had been worn out, it may have inspired him to a third turn. As it is, he stands back and watches Watson recover the clothes he dropped, shamelessly watching Watson's behind. The temptation is far too much to resist, and he reaches out and gives Watson's ass a light slap.

“It seems only right that you might have a taste of your own very bitter medicine.” Will they ever get to the bed? He's starting to wonder, but he still isn't any more eager to fall asleep. It's almost as if he's absorbing these playful moments straight into his soul, however silly that might sound; after such an intense case, however, Holmes must return to his human self, and teasing Watson like this is like immersing himself in a pool of humanity.

Watson gave a bit of a jump. He glanced over his shoulder, laughing, and bent to pick up the collar that had he had dropped in his surprise. He couldn't quite name what had possessed him to indulge in something so outlandish as a little playful spanking, but he was glad he had, and he was glad it had been received so well.

"Do you really think that's necessary?" Watson said, smirking. "Is such punishment really deserved? How cruel you are."

He continued to be surprised at just how far he was willing to push himself with Holmes, what boundaries he was willing to explore. With most women, he wouldn't have dared, and it would have gone badly if he had.

Once Watson stands, Holmes encircles his arms around Watson's waist and backs him into the bedroom, stealing a quick kiss. Their clothes are somewhat squished between them, but he can't really bring himself to care, particularly when he gets the genius idea to lay his hands on Watson's arse as they're walking.

"I believe a jailer ought to live a night in his prison," he says, smiling against Watson's lips before he kisses him again. "If you can't handle the punishment, then don't dole it out."

Smiling against Holmes's lips, Watson gladly let himself be guided backwards, and rather haphazardly dropped the bundle of clothing in the corner before he slipped away to escape towards the bed. "It doesn't seem," he said, "like so terrible a prison." He slid into the bed, reflecting briefly on how it really wasn't any longer merely Holmes's bed. The beds in their home were shared, now, despite the names that were attached to them, and that was certainly the way things should be.

"I think I can take anything you care to dish out," he added.

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

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