AN: I wrote this all (amazingly) in one sitting right after watching the movie in the theater, many months ago, and yet only now have the courage, and remembrance, to post it. GAH! Robert "Sherlock Homygod" Downey Jr. and Jude "John Hotson" Law were just too good with their interactions to pass slashing them up. I really enjoyed writing this, I worry about it because it's not very original but I tried! I also tried a new writing style, to try and match the tone and time period of the movie a little bit more. I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

Three Monosyllable Words

It was a rainy, humid summer afternoon in London and one detective was lounging in his chair, unattended pipe hanging languidly out of his mouth. He was staring at the windows and wondering why people would have them open instead of closed-off with blinds like he usually did. They didn't see the window at all, they only saw what was beyond it's translucent glass; it was practically invisible for all it's worth that nothing else could replace.

In a way, Holmes allowed to sulk low enough to feel like that himself.

The sun that filtered penetrated through the glass had been annoying the detective since it'd splayed its first unrequested ray, but the dark-haired man either didn't have the energy or desire to close the dark-toned curtains, despite his new-found annoyance for the thing that made everything possible on this circular heap of rock and metal that was the world. Because, with a huff that made his pipe bob up and down for a moment, Holmes reminisced on how the last time Watson had walked through his room he had pulled away the heavy cloth.

The good doctor had also tidied up the room for a final time, moving scrapped piece of machinery and wood in one corner, organizing books, sweeping the floor and gathering all his neglected coats and top-hats, but all those touches were gone. The room didn't take a day to be clean before it was clustered again and clothes were splayed around like the aftermath of a laundry explosion, but Holmes didn't touch the curtains.

He actually hadn't touched them in two weeks, the same time period that John had been gone for.

Holmes had actually just gotten a letter from his faithful friend, describing how the country house was and how the most dangerous practices he had to deal with were scrapped knees and fractured wrists from the farmer's children. He finally shed light on why he wasn't in the city anymore- there were no houses for sale and rents were too high for comfort and Mary had an additional house outside the skirts of the city and they had decided to preside there for the time being. Sherlock had the brief sense of dread that he might come back with his fiancee in tow to this rent; it was already bitter enough knowing that he couldn't have his friend on cases anymore but to have him right there and useless - Sherlock was sure it would be a way to make him legitimately mad.

But, alas, at least even then he could have quips and chirp with his friend every now and then; as he looked down at the scrawled handwriting of Watson he knew that twenty miles really wasn't so very far away like China or the budding America, but it was still enough to have post take a few days and for there to be a wall that Holmes wasn't comfortable with climbing.

Sure, he had given the couple Irene's diamond he'd snapped from her neck before exchanging it with the key to let her free, but was his intention true to heart? When he had given it to a jeweler to fit (who had almost fainted at the sight of it, too) he felt that maybe the gaudiness of it would cover for his half-smile of content as he gave it to Watson whose pupils seemed to become as large as the diamond itself before he enveloped Holmes in a hug that caught the dark-haired genius off-guard.

But before he could pat Watson on the back, the doctor had extracted his arms and was marveling at the over-sized jewel again while gushing on how Mary would be overjoyed; he didn't notice how Holme's misshaped smile had failed.

Holmes let his eyes drift from the infectious sunlight to the miscolored ceiling of his room, dropping his head against the backrest to allow the change of view. As he inspected a mold pattern that reminded him of a blood stain in it's flaring pattern, he couldn't really blame Watson for falling for a women; it was the demise of all good men (who weren't taken from bullets, collapsing mines or viruses beforehand). He himself had allowed himself to be tricked on a numbered amount of occasions with Irene Adler (two and a half), the woman whose only match to her intelligence was her beauty.

But even with the image of her glowing face in his mind, curls framing her face as eyes were alight with mischief, he still couldn't help but feel like fermenting grapes exposed to air. He wanted to lie to himself and say it was because he was staring at mold and old explosion marks (along with a few burned bullet holes) he knew it was because his broad thoughts were still focused on one John Watson.

As Holmes angled his eyes to glance at the rugby ball the was precariously balanced between a few tomes on the top shelf of his bookcase, he knew he wasn't oblivious or dense to know that Watson would never leave their private investigation partnership. When Watson had first agreed to room despite Holme's eccentric persona, the doctor angling on his cane much more then he did now-a-days and blue eyes dull, Sherlock was gleeful at the idea that his roommate was equal in wit (and possibly skill, if his common humanity sense didn't weigh him down). He immediately reminded himself after Watson had done the first case with him that it wasn't 'if' he was going to move out and leave him on missions solo, but 'when,' being the realist he was. Forever was a figment of disillusion, one of the many reasons he hated marriage vows.

Honestly, the detective had thought Watson would have moved out sooner, with his errant gun shots and twiddling violin supplementing for the a turntable. But it was still three long years before he'd met Mary and then one more before it was now in the present; father time's hands still ticking away in Sherlock's precarious lifestyle. Maybe it was surprising that Watson wasn't seriously with any women in that roughly 50 month time, but the mustached man was similar to Holmes in how he was quite finicky with his partners.

Mary was pretty enough, in a way that Holmes thought ferrets were pretty in their sharp teeth, angling lunges for the neck and gluttony. Her sharp nose and fiery hair gave her the image of someone who belonged dancing on tables and taking innocent men's money, not his innocent partner's heart. He could barely believe her to be a governess with her ready-to-topple emotions and anger.

Holmes usually had a clear process, and although he knew others better then he knew himself, he still knew self enough to not be bitter for no apparent reason. Maybe he was irked at the fact that this Mary had already been married and yet was still thirsty for more, not satisfied with her previous husband or his abrupt death that might have made her feel cheated. Maybe he was irked at the fact that Watson was getting the girl before he was; Irene Adler hadn't been heard about for the three weeks, despite his impeccable information searching in London, since he'd slipped that key down her blouse.

Or maybe he was irked about how Mary was taking away his Watson.

Holmes sat up in a start after that declaration, alarmed by his sudden possessiveness enough for physical movement. As he sat with his back now hunched and hands in his unruly hair, he tried to think of the reasons why he'd think such a statement with 'his Watson.'

Watson had been there with him for the past four years, it was only natural with human behavioral traits to feel betrayed and at a loss.

But this anger might just be misplaced from jealousy; jealousy at Mary.

Holmes pulled at his hair in anger at his brain, it had never betrayed him like with the possessive and how it had done it again, he should be jealous of Watson for finding a suitable wife and home! Not Mary, what had he to be jealous of a woman for?

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes off to his pipe that had fallen to the ground, Sherlock told himself to simply relax and get himself together (he hadn't taken anything illegal today had he?). He was sulking because he felt betrayed, not jealous. And that betrayal of Watson dropping him like a squashed top-hat might simply be blinding him with annoyance and anger.

He allowed this to stew in his mind a little, letting it take a few laps around, before he leaned back and sighed, the leather material of the chair cool against the exposed nape of his neck.

But... if he was somehow jealous of Mary, it would explain this twitch that his chest seemed to have caught.

He opened his eyes and focused on the impersonating bloodstain again but thought he better get something more stimulating to do if he was to attack these emotions he was toying with.

Getting up, he grabbed his violin nearby and went to the window, squinting his eyes to the world outside as he began to seemingly aimlessly pluck at the strings, although the jumbled notes did have purpose.

If he was jealous of Mary, the obvious reason was because she had taken Watson from him. Sherlock had never had such a trustworthy and constant crime partner in his life, he only used the police for their blatant power over the masses on occasion. He shut his eyes and he exactly recalled the day that Watson had followed him out, curiosity overriding the dread he must have felt as he trailed Holmes. When he found out he was a detective in profession (Watson later admitted he thought he was a con artist of some sorts) he was only surprised more when he found out about the boxing.

Holmes remembered being wary and hesitant, taking easier cases at first with Watson, but then discovered he could take the more elusive and heavier planning ones because he had more arms and eyes to work with that wouldn't be held down with connections or blinded by greed.

Recalling on what he'd told himself before, it was only natural to have human emotions of treachery from having a constant for so long and then loosing it. And since the cause of this was a person and not some inanimate reason or event, he could then feel justified in blaming said person. Although Mary's eyes were shifty and her fingers always uneasy around him, he doubted she deserved the scorn he so readily felt for her.

Maybe she deserved something for taking away Watson but-

His plucking stopped, but not before he picked a string too hard, a loud twang echoing the now one-person inhabited flat as the material snapped. Curling his upper lip in distaste, he continued on with the loss of the string; like he was carrying on with the loss of Watson.

But like the string gone, he now couldn't hit certain notes and get melodies he desired no matter how hard he tried.

He knew that Watson would be irreplaceable, but he never quite realized the implication it held until now. Although Sherlock always detested cliches in their over generalizations, he couldn't ignore the justification that 'you don't realize the importance of something until it's gone' meaning.

Feeling a wave of strength tighten his muscles, he thought of what right that Mary had to come and take Watson. Sure, she was female in sex and had the desire to seek a mate, but there were hundreds, even thousands of other eligible bachelors out here in London and elsewhere. Why did she have to take this certain bloke?

To Holmes, it just wasn't right.

She should have clearly seen that Watson already had a place with him and that no women was needed at the time; his occupation was full-time (and Holmes meant full-time). And how was it that she was changing his lifestyle in its entirety? He never thought of Watson dovetailing his fiery courage and passion to throw away and become a spineless husband who was afraid of his wife's soup ladle.

No.

As Holmes finally put down the wooden instrument and fished for his jacket he knew he had a new case, or more correctly, a new mission.

For he was off to save his dear friend from domestic demise.

- SH/JW -

Holmes rapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden door in front of him and waited for the old house to start making the noise of someone coming to the door. He was prepared for it to be Mary but when he made out the distinctive three-legged walking pattern of his friend, he had to hold down his grin.

When the hinges squeaked and were used to bring the wooden flank back and for two old buddies to see each other's visages, Holmes couldn't stop the right edge of his mouth from twitching up in amusement; in seeing Watson but in also how the doctor's face was scrunched up in such incredulousness.

"Holmes? How did you get here?"

Resisting the urge to verbally slap him for saying such a rudimentary question, he lifted the letter and pointed at the return address right below Watson's now-broken green wax seal.

"I deduced that I'd have to see the neighborhood where you're going to waste your superiority away in eventually," Holmes said with a dignified sniff, with it smelling ink and when he looked down he saw that there was slight discoloration on Watson's fingers with black.

"Writing, are we old chap?" the detective asked as he brushed by John, not waiting to be invited into the house that seemed to hold a mix of Gothic and Byzantine theme in the high ceiling and ornamental wallpaper with fake-gold leaf that made Holmes think of distasteful femininity.

"Holmes, what are you doing out of the city? You never leave your room, much less the city limits, unless highly provoked," Watson said in apparent exasperation as he came to the shorter man's side.

"My curiosity is never satisfied."

"That seems like the appropriate euphemism of the year," Watson mumbled under his breath, yet Homes caught it and let out a barking laugh, catching the doctor off guard.

Slapping the taller man's shoulder a few times, Holmes' grin was wide as he turned to check out the den.

"What has got you in such a clipper mood?" Watson asked with a small smirk, allowing his emotions to be obvious as Holme's was turned away. Although he'd never admit it to his friend, he'd rather perish then admit how intimidated he felt when those scrutinizing dark orbs would settle on his persona.

"Would it be bold of me to say it is the result from simply seeing you?" Holmes shamelessly answered as he turned and arched an eyebrow before turning to his pipe and tobacco.

Flushing at how bold and unforeseen the statement was, Watson turned away before his friend could take in the drastic change of his face.

"Now, now, don't be ashamed at being flustered from such a compliment; with it being from me you rightfully ought to be," Holmes said with his ever constant humility as he lit a match, Watson realizing that turning away only set Sherlock's enjoyment at the situation higher from his uncontrolled emotions.

John did a mix between a sigh and growl before he sat down in a nearby couch, the fireplace in front of him without fire and dead, only charcoal and ashes from last night's burning remaining. Moving his stormy blues from the black, he just caught the sight of Sherlock plopping himself right on the couch; the doctor noticed that from the detective's lips trickled out smoke form the burning herb.

"If you are attempting to convert me to your aid for your newest commission, I will save your lungs effort and most kindly decline now," Watson declared after a few long minutes of silence, the smoke twisting and coiling in the air making the seconds seem all the longer.

"Why are you enfatuated with Mary?"

The question made Watson blink before tilting his head to see his long-time friend was staring at the fireplace, like he was calculating the remainders of last night and how hot and fast the flames had to be to leave what it had.

Feeling a slight pinch at the bottom of his spine, Watson sat up in the fabric a little more and tried to get his mind's gears working again. Maybe it was because he hadn't talked to Holmes in fifteen days and he'd gotten lethargic in mental exercises, but he knew his brain was mostly stunned just from the innocent enough question.

"You want me to explain my besottedness?"

"That would be beneficial on my part."

Resisting the urge to ask why it would be profitable for his friend to know his love-life (he out-right ignored the urge to jump up and run away) he began to explain, "Although overdramatized, it was love at first sight."

"Do you mean lust at first sight? Unless your deductive reasonings have exponentially expanded to be level to mine, I would highly doubt you fell into admiration for any person. And if you did analyze her, you wouldn't have missed the fact she'd been engaged previously by the tan-line and I do not believe you would have furthered your connections with her out of plain fear or intimidation," Holmes shared before blowing out a smoke ring.

"She was wearing gloves when we first met," Watson said in a hurry.

"What? Only going to explain that part and not how you two are artificially in love with each other?"

John stood in a huff, walking stick striking the ground a little too hard as he adjusted himself to stand in front of a relaxed looking Homes. "That is the most profoundly rude thing you have said about Mary yet."

"I was also talking about you," Holmes said in his constant blantantly-truthful way.

By now Watson's face was flushed with raw anger as his grip on the cane was making his knuckles lose color. Finally, after he closed his eyes for a few moments to tell himself to calm down and not loose his temper or head, he said, "I think it would be best if you left before Mary returns and go find yourself a case."

The doctor expected him to be up and gone once he opened his eyes but when he opened them after a long moment of resigning silence, he viewed that the detective was still seated in front of him. He opened his mouth again to spit out another command to kindly leave, but then he really looked at Holmes.

His shoulders were hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, one hand barely holding onto the pipe that had pitifully gone out without the man's breath. Although his eyes had been downcast to his scuffed shoes, he looked up to Watson with eyes that looked like they belonged to an abandoned kitten. The lids were pulled back more, making his dark brown eyes seem all the more pitiful. The fact that Holmes was starring at Watson like that, like he'd just stabbed him in the back with his own cane, was too much for the doctor to take.

John sighed before he took the few steps back to the couch and sat down next to Holmes again, feeling guilt come in waves as he saw Sherlock's eyes were still focusing on him the whole way through. He had never seen Holmes in such an (almost outlandish) display of despair that bordered on melancholy. Watson remembered few times when the police would take the credit for a case when Holmes looked similar to this, but he had never seen him so deep into the gallows.

"Holmes, why are your visiting me?"

"What I said before was true, I simply wanted to see you."

"Honest?"

"You must know I don't lie to you on occasion Watson," Holmes said in a whiny tone that had Watson suddenly bristling again. Holmes was turning this around so that he looked like the victim and Watson the offender, punishing Sherlock for no good reason other then to have the satisfaction.

But then Watson remembered the first days he'd moved into the apartment with Sherlock. At the time he had no idea he was even a detective, he thought he was more of a drug-dealer with his flurried activities and unorthodox tricks and characteristics. But he also remembered how simply desolute he had looked, at to which he explained no-one had lived or been in his constant proximity in quite a while.

Watson, being the model Samaritan he was, had immediately gone out and gotten him clothes and had cleaned his living space, even going as far as to force the man into a bath (he probably hadn't had one in months by the way his hair stuck up on end).

Even though it now had not been even a month, Watson realized Holmes was dependent and always needing someone there; to tell ideas and to literally save him from experiments that might induce permanent affects.

"Holmes, you have to get someone to take you in hand," John finally sighed in defeat.

"You were doing a fine job," Holmes voiced his belief as he finally looked away from the taller man.

Watson had to remember to breath for a second, he was never used to such blatant praise from Holmes, especially on something of this level, before he managed to get out, "You need to find a new flat-mate."

Sherlock was suddenly angry as he got up, pipe now stuck back in his mouth as he paced. "Good God Watson, can't you at least acknowledge I'm asking you to come back?"

"I was never aware of the offer," he lied.

"Watson!"

Holmes said his name in such fevor and when he stopped to look him, Watson didn't know what at first to do. What did Holmes want him to state? Watson knew that Sherlock was waiting as he stood there, legs spread and hands limp at his sides. Although he didn't have the motions to move his lips and make his vocal cords buzz, Watson didn't break the eye-contact where he noticed the flicker of pleading.

But it was suddenly gone and broken (or maybe even more enhanced?) when Sherlock continued with, "It doesn't matter. I see that you are perfectly happy with your ferret and mundane house."

Ignoring the 'ferret' title that was no-doubt for his soon-to-be wife, he watched as his past-partner in crime investigation stormed to the door and opened and closed it with a squeak and bang. He heard a very loud "Confound this house to hell!" before he heard Holmes take five steps down, skipping the last one as he was no-doubt in a hurry to be out.

Watson got up in a hurry and went to the door, opening it to see Holmes stomp down his driveway.

"You did not bring a coach?" he asked in disbelief, the city was a good twenty miles or more out, and it was mostly of rolling hills that hid the buildings from sight here.

"Silence you stiff-lipped Victorian!" was all he got in return from the fumbled detective, not even breaking his pace to shout the insult.

Arching an eyebrow at the unoriginal title, he knew Holmes usually did much better in insulting, he opened his mouth to offer a ride but then Holmes boomed from the bottom of the driveway, "And to not think you have the right to speak more, you have done enough harm to my health!"

Watson's other brow arched up to join the first as that statement sounded so potently ironic it was farcical.

- SH/JW -

When Watson got a very disturbing letter from Mrs. Hudson explaining how Holmes had not moved from his room (or really even around it according to the lack of usual noise) for nine days (and so eleven now thanks to slow postage if Holmes had no-doubt continued to sulk) he was out in a car for London before even telling Mary. Arriving at 221b Baker Street made a sense of nastalgia hit him like a wall, impending his movement forward for a few seconds and simply marveling at the invisible weight.

Knocking on the door, he didn't even hear a croak from Holmes but calmed himself by saying it was only because it was a quarter past nine and that he was surely still sleeping. But Watson knew him as a light sleeper; he kicked the door open with more vivacity then needed.

He was surprised at the light that he was met with and not the anticipated darkness. After the initial blindness, he spotted Holmes sitting in the shorter of the two chairs towards the middle of the room, a set of tea that looked ancient sitting cold in the middle of the table. Although he didn't want to, at seeing his own dark leather chair aside of Holmes, he had the desire to sit and converse about frilly things like the latest opera or police chief like they used to do not two months ago.

"Holmes," he said his name delicately as he closed the door he'd viciously kicked in (without even checking the lock; he saw that now he had been unlocked).

The dark-haired man didn't say anything as he continued to have his head tilted towards the windows.

This intrigued the doctor; why was he looking at the windows as if expecting something to explode or propel in? But when he got closer, he realized that Holmes actually wasn't looking through the windows but something just aside of it- the shades.

Or, even more specifically as Watson stood next to Holmes and saw the direct line, it was the tie that that he'd done a good month's ago to hold the curtains back. The bow was simple enough, although it was double tied as if to defer Sherlock like a little kid unable to figure it out; nothing extrordinary enough for the look of longing that Holmes was giving it. Watson was genuinely surprised that the curtains had been back to let sunlight filter in but now he was all but physically bowled over with the fact that Holmes hadn't changed, even touched (it looked like from the coat of dust) the curtains he'd pulled back all those days ago. He mentally shook himself and reminded himself why he had literally ran out of his house.

"What are you doing Holmes?"

When he didn't answer him, Watson felt a slight tremor go down his neck before he pulled his old chair next to Holmes, setting his bag and cane down before sitting, then grabbing Holme's head to turn in his direction. When he saw Sherlock's pupils expand from lack of light he knew he at least wasn't completely catatonic. But his eyes were still glazed over, probably from sleep deprivation and mal-nutrition.

"Holmes, is that egotistical brain still working?" he asked as he shone a light in his ears; nothing worrisome there.

"Yes, quite fitly indeed, considering its projecting a perfect image of you right now," he said in a drawl before Watson put his index and middle finger to his wrist to check for pulse. It took the doctor a few seconds, forgetting about the pulse, before he deduced what Holmes had meant.

"You believe that I am a figment of your imagination?"

"Why else would you be here?" Sherlock asked like a spanked child as his head lulled back to staring at the curtains. Watson opened his mouth to talk but Holmes continued with, "I insulted your fiancee, degraded your love and displayed myself like the wreck I truely am."

Watson had never heard Holmes insult himself; to say he was deeply troubled at the moment would be an understatement.

And in that moment, as he watched Holmes stare at that bow he'd done carelessly and yet seemed like the anchor for the decaying (only at the moment) genius and saw the bags under his eyes that were hooded in brooding coupled with the sickly pale color of his skin, Watson forgave him.

"I'm not nearly as deeply affronted as you believe by what you said," Watson said truthfully, although if this had been said when he'd first barged in it would have been a lie.

"Hm, I didn't think that my brain would pity me so; I conjectured it would make me suffer," Holmes said as he closed his eyes and sighed. "But it is not entire unconventional to everything I've done over the years to poor Watson."

"Don't speak of me as if I'm not in the room," the blue-eyed man said in a spark of amusement, hoping that maybe Holmes was coming around with the apology.

"But I suppose if my brain isn't the one causing me greif, my heart is picking up the slack."

"Your heart? Is it hurting?" Watson said in now obvious worry as he brought out his stethoscope, undoing the first few buttons of Holme's shirt to press against his skin.

"My imagination is absurd, it even remembers the bitter cold of the metal," Holmes hissed.

"There is nothing that sounds wrong with it," the doctor observed in relief.

"Now, fondness has physically ailed me to this point, I wouldn't doubt if it continues. Here you are, a conjecture of my brain, probably a defense mechanism to turn me into a lunatic but at least a healthy one-"

"Holmes!" Watson interrupted, his loud yell causing Sherlock to finally look at him, "What are you going off about?"

With a grim smile that made Watson hold down a grimace, Sherlock said, "Quite simple, old dog. I've realized my infatuation for you."

It took a good few minutes of simply staring and breathing, his mind at a stand-still, before Watson exhaled, "What?"

"Well, imaginary Watson sure asks as many questions as real Watson."

"I am real Watson," the doctor said, realizing a second too late how ludicrous he'd just sounded in both third-person and context.

"Of course, of course," Holmes waved off, "But if you were real Watson I think you might understand it to be true."

"Then politely explain it to this supposedly unsatisfactory Watson." He hated playing along to Holme's odd game, or at least he truly hoped it was a game, but he needed to figure out just what the bloody hell was going on in this man's never-ending thought stream.

"Well, when I went and visited him, I felt such a surge against my ribs and when he blatantly chastised me for my behavior and rather stood on the side of Mary and not me, I felt absolutely abandoned. I had to leave before he saw how distraught he was making me. I knew I always got on his nerves with what he most likely thinks is an incurable superiority complex, but this time I fear I made too much damage to ever compensate for."

Having already forgiven him, Watson suddenly feel guilt jumble him like a stick in whitewater. Holmes was doing far worse from their verbal (it was a surprise it hadn't turned physical) onslaught than he, and he had been the one taking blows.

"But," Watson started in hopes of changing conversation and focus, "That doesn't explain why you've fallen for me." At the statement, Watson couldn't hold down the blush that spread across his cheeks, even going to the edges of his ears. It wasn't ridiculous to talk of love, but between such a close friend like Holmes, it felt like it was equal to heresy in its breaking norms. He had never even thought of Holmes feeling such passionate emotions, much less for him. They had always had a bond that was scarce even with fellow army veterans but John had never thought it would turn to the passionate side.

"Before I went and confronted Watson himself, I debated why I was feeling so downtrodden and acknowledged the fact I was angry at him but also discovered I was jealous of Mary. After I came back from our argument, I realized that I wasn't just angry with him for leaving me, it was because he'd broken up us. We had never been romantically involved, yes, but we know more about each other then most couples and trust each other with our lives. Or, at least I do."

Watson was speachless as he'd never seen Holmes reveal so much about his thoughts towards him in one sitting. But Holmes wasn't even done yet as he continued, oblivious to how John's jaw was open and threatening to catch flies, the hammer he was going to check his knee with useless in his limp hand.

"I tried to think of what type of ardor he'd evolved in for me. First it was Irene Adler, but then I had the realization that what I feel for her isn't love, but more masked fascination and the desire to overpower; the most basic level of that being physically, and with her being one of the fairer sex my behavior towards her turned sexual. I thought of my brother, and we do act as brothers in our actions, but my actions aren't trapped by blood like with my real brother. I steal his clothes even though they're too big on me for their comforting presence, to know that there is someone there to rely on. Scent lingers, and my confidence grows from it. I still have that blasted rugby ball because it's special to him, and so me. I had the urge to throw his bed I often shared with him on colder nights out the window from the memories it holds for me."

"You should have said that to him when you visited him," Watson said, managing to find his voice.

"It's not easy to say you're passionate about someone when there is the constant fear of rejection, the other person in denial of the feelings. Watson is kind, this would only burden him and hurt me in the proved case of him not reciprocating the feelings."

Watson was silent as he felt a pain in his chest, obviously Sherlock had thought about this for his week of immobility. He suddenly thought of Mary at their country house, no doubt waking up to find him not there and maybe panicking. But he realized he didn't especially care to think of that at the moment, he had much more pressing issues at hand.

But before he could think of something to say to Holmes, he felt himself being ripped from his chair and landing on the wooden floor with a thump, his ears ringing from the impact it had on his head. Blinking out black spots in his vision, he looked up to see the looming face of Sherlock.

Feeling a bead of sweat trail down his forehead, induced by the already hot early-afternoon, he gulped before asking a question he could say in his sleep, "What are you doing Holmes?"

"If my imagination is for anything, it is for escapism and pleasure."

Watson suddenly felt a cold-sweat break over his body that was most definitely not from the strong sunlight.

"My brain had conquered you up and I'm going to have my amusement with you since I will most likely never have Watson."

Before the doctor could refute, Holme's head dipped and his lips crashed onto his own.

Feeling like his head was going to explode as one of Holme's hands trailed the length of his side, Watson did anything a man being molested would do: punch the offender in the face.

Holmes reeled back at the impact, cradling his jaw and bleeding lip as he scurried away from a heavily panting Watson.

"How is it that a fabrication can cause me real life pain? To have something feel this real..." Sherlock's eyes widened. "This is reality."

"I am most gratified that you have finally come to that conclusion," Watson said as he stood, his legs needing the support of his cane now more then ever.

"Oh."

The doctor watched as Sherlock's face contorted into a number of different expressions in morbid amusement but when his face became still, Watson felt dread creeping up on him again.

His inkling was right as Holmes looked him straight in the eye and declared, "Well, you should know that I love you."

Opening and closing his mouth in rapid succession as to try and get something, anything, out, John finally exclaimed, "What is wrong with you Holmes! I'm not here for barely a month and you're already delusional and idiosyncratic enough to state you love me!"

"Do you not understand my logic?" Holmes asked as he stood, a hand still to his vulnerable jaw.

"I've been sitting here for the past good fifteen minutes listening to your babble; I think I get the gist of your fallacy Holmes!"

"Fallacy? The word has never been muttered in even the slightest context of my name and yet you declare it without the slightest regret," he said, seeming to glare at Watson before beaming and saying, "You candidly are my match."

"Blasphemy! You are only sprouting lies based on misconceptions!"

"Why would I be lying, what do I possibly have to gain by it?" Holmes asked with gusto and drawn brows.

"My utter, complete bafflement and confusion along with infinite annoyance coupled with sudden mistrust," Watson answered back with sky eyes wide.

Holmes sighed as he took a step forward, causing Watson to take a hurried three back.

"Stop Holmes, I am beginning to feel ill," Watson suddenly declared with an undertone of pleading, he had come to make sure his friend wasn't sick, not to be so overwhelmed by events that he was becoming just that himself.

"I believe people say that is a side-affect of the infection and vicious thing called love."

Watsons' cane suddenly caught one of the chairs behind him and he lost balance, Holmes not missing a second to take advantage. Before he hit the ground, John felt Holmes grab for his wrists and position his knees to be on either side of his mid-chest, thanks to their height difference. But this time, Watson was sure not to allow his head to hit the ground and so was able to dodge Sherlock's mouth as it tried a second assault.

"What in" he curved his head left now to avoid another jab, "God's name," chin down so Sherlock only got his hair, "are you," he arched his neck at the same time as his hands and didn't manage to pry free, but to roll over so now he was hovering over Holmes, "attempting?" he ended his broken sentence in a huff.

Holmes, not answering the question, simply blinked at the disorientation of being on the ground now before he gave a toothy smile, saying, "I think you are just in your position, I'm actually quite shy in these matters."

Face heating up in such rabid succession he was sure to put rubies to shame, Watson said in exasperation, "What has gotten into you Holmes?"

"I'll resist the urge to sexually answer that and instead say, I've just revealed what has been dormant in a cavern of my head."

Watson knew that Holmes almost never used metaphors, much like with underestimating or scorning his actions, so it caught him off enough to lax his defenses, Holmes taking this opportunity to angle his head up and have their lips meet again.

Maybe because it was the second time and so there wasn't such a huge dosage of surprise, but Watson didn't give him an hooked undercut and instead simply raised his head to get out of Holme's lips' range.

"Holmes, I still don't understand," the veteran said in disbelief and sadness, "Why are you doing this?"

"Why do you love Mary?" Holmes asked in retort, yet his eyes seemed like at the fireplace den - defenseless and truthful, begging for agreement and understanding.

"Holmes," he sighed the name with a tint of exasperation, but mostly still in wonderment.

"I see what is happening here, you are afraid and sheltered from our homophobic society," Holmes suddenly said with fervor, "Because I am a man like you, you will never see me romantically no matter how tinted those rose-colored glasses you wear are."

"I am not afraid," Watson said in arguement, afronted that he'd be viewed as cowardly by a man who had seen himself risk everything.

"Then why is it that you do not accept me? Am I really so inadequate to not be your partner?"

This caused Watson to stop movement in actual thought before saying what he'd been holding himself back with, "I have been your friend for so long, how can I view you as a lover, especially when I already have one waiting at my home?"

"You know that she doesn't deserve that title from you; I know much more about you then she ever will or care to learn. You also know your home is not in the lackadaisical countryside but here in the heart of the city where life oozes even from the exhaust of chimneys."

"Stop!"

"No, I will not stop Watson," Holmes said as he actually strained against Watson's iron grips on his wrists, he knew on a normal day he could easily overpower the doctor but without eating and sleep for the past few days he was in complete exhaustion. "I won't halt until you understand the epiphany I've felt!"

This caused Watson to lose his strength and he was on his back again, Holme's hands cupping his face as he pressed lips in a frantic sort of way. For a second, Watson felt like screaming about Holme's utter incompetence on such aspects, but that wasn't before he felt a hot tongue slick against his lips, causing the doctor to gasp and for Holmes to dart in.

Wondering why there weren't kisses with this electricity when he was with Mary, even when they had made love the few times they had, he felt himself slowly melting. Moving his hands from his sides, he dug them into Holme's greasy hair while angling his mouth for better access to him.

Watson didn't know how long they were kissing but they eventually had to break off for breath, Holmes retracting his head to lean his forehead against his, their rushed and hot breaths mingling, their eyes still closed.

A sudden bark broke the breaths and Watson snapped his eyes open to see their dog nearby, furry head cocked to the side and ears perked in curiosity.

It was an odd way to be thrown back into reality, but it did the trick for John as he suddenly pushed against Holmes and was literally sprinting towards the door with a speed that he hadn't used since the battlefield.

"Watson, why must you resist?"

The question that seemed to echo in the room and his conscious caused him to stop his lunging and turn back to Holmes who was still on the ground, cross-legged as he propped his chin in his hand, dark eyes sparkling with agog.

"I am not resisting, I am being realistic!" Watson hissed in raw irritation, his still-heaving chest dramatizing his words.

"I do not fancy the follies of what most couples do, holding hands and kissing in public, it's quite unsound. And if you are worried about the circumstance that our involvement being revealed, I highly doubt anyone would suspect. We have been living together for the past four years, they may suspect it already."

"Had lived together for four years, we aren't living together anymore!"

"That isn't such a difficult thing to alter," Holmes said as he got up, dusting his pin-stripped pants off as he did. He then slipped his suspenders back up on his shoulders and Watson tried to frantically remember if he was the one who had slipped them down, he had the sinking suspicion he had.

"Leave me be Holmes, I love Mary."

"The only person you are fooling is yourself, and even that is a half-hearted attempt," Holmes said as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

Watson simply sniffed in fractured pride before be was out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Holmes, as he counted the steps the doctor took to go down, suddenly felt immensely better without any sound reason. He strolled over to the windows, lightly whistling as he did, and looked out to see Watson rush towards his car in inimitable timing. He cocked an eyebrow as he saw the doctor pause in getting into the black car and had to hold down a wide grin as he saw him glance up at the window Holmes himself was standing in front of.

Sherlock merrily waved and he saw Watson do a somewhat wince before he had climbed in and reved the engine; speading down the lane and breaking a few traffic laws as he went out of the infamous detective's sight.

- SH/JW -

Watson actually took longer then Holmes believed he would as five days rolled away until there was a knock at the door and a haggard looking Watson was standing there, bags under his eyes and hair curling in odd directions.

"Why, the good doctor has finally come to visit me," Holmes said form his chair, the door having been open, contently sipping on a cup of tea as he nonchalantly motioned with his hand for Watson to take a seat in the chair that Watson had missed when he sat in front of the fire these past few nights, unable to sleep.

"Are you getting some sick fascination out of all this? Do you find sick amusement in ruining a marriage that hasn't even happened yet?" Watson asked, with obvious apprehensive of what Holmes might try if he went a step closer as he stood by the door-frame.

"Come here and sit so we can talk like the educated men we are," Sherlock said, not answering either of Watson's questions. "I don't bite."

Biting on his bottom lip in obvious thought, John finally took the steps necessary to get to the chair, swearing he heard Holmes mumble "Unless you like that sort of stuff" and hesitantly sat down, positioning his walking stick right next to him either for defense or running, Holmes personally hoped for neither.

"First off, no, this isn't some sick fascination I'm using to pass the hands of the clock; I am serious... even if I don't know how to show it," Holmes suddenly fumbled for once, causing Watson to feel safe enough to take the other cup on the tray.

"And what was that about about me ruining your impending marriage? I am quite keen to hear."

"Of course you would be, you never liked Mary," Watson muttered as he leaned back into the chair, bringing the cup to his mouth, not noticing how Holme's eyes held on them for a moment before turning away.

"Those reasons for displeasure were discovered," Sherlock stated the obvious.

"You have no right getting in between Mary and I," Watson said, his feathers beginning to become ruffled.

"And no man has any right to go into a marriage without love and complete dedication."

Knowing Holmes was obviously alluding to how he had given into and even aided their third kiss, Watson put his tea cup down and huffed.

"Why couldn't you just not fall in love with me?"

"Quite impossible, we are equals in many aspects and I see only you who I can share and be fully-intimate with considering the trust and history."

Blushing once again at the obscurity of the situation, Watson turned towards him and spit, "Mary knew."

"Knew what? That we rolled around on the floor and kissed?"

"That too," Watson said with a grimacing, no doubt remembering Mary confronting him about it, "But also how she'd never fully have me."

"Do tell."

"Because... she knew that our relationship wasn't similar to other men and their friend relations. She said that not many would constantly work together on such reckless missions, where saving each other was more important then saving self. She came too late in my life, I was already ensnared by your genius and ability to manipulate and control the strings. When we moved away she said I became sluggish and unresponsive to a lot of my surroundings, like I'd left my true self in London; that was when she realized I could never fully love her. Mary said she tried all that she could, the only thing she hadn't done so far is give up. "

"I do no such despicable things or at least to you; I do not manipulate you."

"Because those kisses were just friendly greetings," Watson snapped out.

"No, they were my clumsy attempts to showcase my emotions."

John looked up from his tea cup he'd been unforgivingly glaring at to Holmes who had put down his cup and was twiddling his fingers in his lap, shoulders upturned and foot twitching the slightest. Once again, Watson realized that Holmes really might be in love with him and was risking it all. How uncanny.

"You are quite soundly in love with me?" John asked.

When Holmes looked up and shyly grinned, the left side of his mouth much more elevated then the right, Watson couldn't help his mouths' edges twitching up as well.

"I suppose it's not so entirely outlandish," he said as he leaned back in his chair.

"So you believe me?" Holmes asked in eagerness that Watson only remembered seeing glimpses of on some of the harder cases they'd been through.

"How could you, infamous Sherlock Holmes, be wrong?"

"Well, it is the thing that boggles the minds of even human kind's greatest. I used to believe that women were the demise of all good men like myself but it seems that love is the culprit."

There was only the loud snoring of their dog before Holmes broke it with, "Was it that kiss that changed your mind?"

Watson, barely saving himself from choking on the sip of tea he'd just taken, said, "No, it was just good dominating you."

"Excuse me? Dominate? I was obviously the one in control," Holmes said in defiance as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Oh yes, that moan was definitely to overpower me."

And then Watson did something he'd never seen Holmes do before: blush. It was only the slightest pigment just below his eyes, not directly in the middle of his cheeks, but it still made the doctor give out a few bouts of laughter.

At his vocalized amusement, Holmes said, "So your engagement is off."

"Mary is staying in the house, she said to visit her ever so often when we can. She is thinking about going after a childhood friend now, he seemed like a clipper lad when I met him when we moved."

"You are then moving back in with me?" Holmes asked in excitement.

"To think, if I could have realized you were enamored with me, it would explain for so much. I wouldn't find annoyance in half the things you did," Watson said with a laugh.

Holmes narrowed his eyes as he realized, "You still haven't fully matched my confession."

"Three monosyllable words mean nothing to what they connotation," Watson said with his mustache lifting in a grin.

"And what do they undertone?"

Holmes got a shiver as Watson focused his clear eyes on him and answered, "Let me show you."

- END -