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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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?"

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."

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?

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?"

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.

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."

"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.

"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.

"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."

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.

"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.

"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."

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."

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.

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

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