I couldn't even see the key as it splashed into the icy water below us. Watson was stonefaced and pale as his gaze slowly rose to meet mine.

"Holmes..."

"I am aware, Watson."

"That was the key."

"Was it?"

"The only key-"

"Well of course it was the only key. I don't expect to find another like it just lying at the bottom of the river."

"For heaven's sake, Holmes! Now is hardly the time for this!"

"You know, it's funny." said I, looking down at our manacled wrist. "Here we are, strung together with no hopes of possible escape all the while worrying about how we go about fixing this. It's quite a mess, and yet somewhere out there we have our culprits sighing in relief. Isn't it strange?"

Watson looked at me with more venom than a cobra. I shook our wrists and watched as his was forced to move with mine.

"Alright," he started. "How do you propose we get out of this?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Do you fancy a swim, Watson? I imagine we'd find it eventually."

My dear companion looked at me with such contempt that I could have sworn I was staring at the devil himself. Without even a little smile, he stood on his feet, dragging me up with him, and started pulling in the direction of the streets. Perhaps I was taking this more lightly than he, for I found our present situation amusing rather than cumbersome.

I matched my pace with his and walked along side him. "Do you know, Watson, I think we may learn a few things by sticking together like this. Just for a few days,"

He huffed a humorless laugh. "I suppose this means you have no idea how to get us apart?"

"I would never want to part with you, my dear fellow, but I suppose you could make an argument. I could try pick these locks but unfortunately my picks were lost last week. I meant to get replacements eventually but they are so hard to come by at times."

"No matter," said he with a hopeful voice. "We'll find a smithy or someone else who can part us."

"I don't think it will be that easy. These cuffs are singular... fascinating, really, yet completely impractical. A smithy could easily cut through a chain and yet I have no idea how they'd be able to cut through solid mechanism without also removing our hands. These were built with a key, and without said key, I'm afraid they've lost half their function."

He groaned at my analysis and leaned heavily against me, impeding my stride. "Then what the deuce do you suggest? We can't stay together like this! How will we live? How will we work our professions, eat our meals, bath and sleep?"

"I suppose we'll do all that together now."

"What!" He was looking at me with worried eyes and I could not help but find the humor in them, though that was the last response he was wanting to see. "Holmes, be realistic here. We must find a way to free ourselves before this... this joke goes on much longer. I don't care if my hand need be removed, I just want freedom and privacy!"

I put my freed hand to my chest and looked at him in mock surprise. "Watson! I am offended. You can't really be that eager to be away from me?"

His eyes bored into mine, but he didn't take my bait. Instead he clapped a hand to his forehead and looked round him.

Mrs. Hudson was most curious at our entry but we pushed past her without acknowledgement. It was none of her business, anyway. Watson and I sat together on the settee as our usual chairs would have proven difficult. He was agitated and in a glaring mood. His impatience starting to rub our wrist raw.

"Care for a drag?" I asked, offering up my cigarette. He leaned forward and accepted my offer. He settled back heavily in his seat and exhaled.

"Perhaps if we douse our hands in oil the cuffs will slip off?"

"Watson, you are slipping. As a doctor it should be obvious to you that our hands are too big. Well, returning to my original proposition, why don't we just concede and accept this as it is? I have no open cases, your practice is quite slow at this time of year, and really, this could be a lesson for the both of us." I was serious in this proposal yet I spoke with a softer voice which would hopefully play upon Watson's more sensitive side. I was elated to see him smile and bump his shoulder to mine.

"I just don't know how we're going to do this." he said lightly.

"Together, as I've said. I promise you, Watson, I will be working all the while to fix this. But for now... well, I feel it justified to tell you that I'd rather be tied to no one else but you."

He smiled, and then he laughed. "Alright, Holmes, I trust you." My dear Watson, always one to make my heart skip a beat with his unbridled loyalty. It is enough to make one feel guilty... about a great many things.

Two hours were spent in the sitting room, on the settee, reading books. That's what Watson did, anyway. I was too consumed with boredom to actually focus on who knows which volume I had lifted. The manacles were becoming painful with the hard metal against bone. Watson didn't argue when I suggest he use some of his medical bandages to wrap our tired wrist and spare us further pain and discomfort. But after that, I did nothing for the extended time. I'd've liked to have worked at my chemicals, but that didn't happen. I wouldn't have minded going to my room to examine an interesting necklace I found, but that happened neither. I couldn't even exercise my vices with Watson at my side. So I gave up and reread the same page of the same book for upwards of, how long was it? two hours.

It was thus that I warmly greeted the pressure building in my bladder. I stood without warning.

"Holmes, what on earth-"

"I need to use the bathroom."

There was no arguing with me as I dragged a reluctant Watson behind me. He stood awkwardly at my side as I finished my business.

"Do you have to go as well, Watson?"

He looked up at me. "No, and I'm beginning to think that you didn't really have to go either."

I laughed. "It would have happened eventually, I'm afraid. Anyhow, I'm glad I bathed last night; it's one less thing to worry about!" I smiled at him and, to my slight horror, he smiled right back at me.

Pipe smoke filled the washroom quickly as I sat with my arm over the edge of the tub. Watson was scrubbing himself with one hand while he, and I, kept our respected arms neutral. I was turned away from him to give him his privacy with nothing more than tobacco to entertain me. I had the slight suspicion that Watson was taking his dear time bathing this night.

"Could you pass me that washcloth, Holmes?"

"Of course."

Water dripped over my sleeve and leg as he reached over for it.

"Thank you."

And then I felt my arm twist at a painful angle as Watson plunged both his arms into the water, half dragging me in as well.

"Watson!"

"I'm sorry, Holmes, I forgot you were there. My apologies."

I looked after him for some moments as he smiled shamelessly. I leaned forward and rested my chin over our connected arms. "Mind if I join you, Watson? I'm thoroughly soaked and feel as though a bath might actually ease my nerves."

He had stopped to regard me with confusion clouding his features. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm quite serious. Look at my clothes; I think the Thames left me drier than this tub did."

His laugh was nervous. "Unfortunately, there's not enough room-"

"Nonsense!" I gave no warning as I quickly slid over the rim of the tub and settled myself against the back with Watson's knees pressed up against my chest.

"Holmes!" He cried, sloshing half the water from the tub.

I wrapped my still fully clothed arms round his torso and pulled him forward. "Isn't it funny how this position is easily doable and yet we still cannot walk four feet from the other?"

If there is one lesson to be had of that day, it was that Watson was a soldier till the end. My forehead still hurts from that incident.

Nonetheless, nighttime found us both settling awkwardly down in my bed. It was not the first time Watson and I were forced to share blankets, but it was the first time we weren't allowed to face away from each other. Indeed, we seemed to be presented with two options: we could have had a lover's embrace and slept comfortably facing each other with our hands resting between us, or, as it happened, we could have slept on our backs.

I didn't mind that Watson wanted to sleep this way, but after a few minutes in such a restrained position I attempted to roll myself over and attribute it to sleeping habits. But Watson wasn't so easily fooled; the moment my arm fell across his chest it was thrown right back over.

"Perhaps the settee would be easier," I heard him say.

"Nonsense. We won't fit." I replied.

"Actually, I was thinking that I'd have the entire thing to myself while you slept on the floor."

"How incredibly thoughtful of you, Watson. Actually, I do like that idea. Would you like to move downstairs?"

"No," he laughed. "I know that the moment I settle down you'll roll yourself over and pull me to the floor."

"How right you are!" Do you know? I'm not usually this much of a bother at night. "Tell me you love me, Watson." I whispered close to his ear.

"Shut up, Holmes." he stated rather solidly. I nestled closer.

"I know that you do, why won't you just say it?"

"Because you're an idiot and I loath you."

"Watson, you'll wake the children if you use that tone of voice." I used my free hand to toil with his hair. All I could see in the moonlight was his brows drawing in frustration.

"They're not even mine, why do I care?" said he, playing along.

"Because we raised them together and it doesn't matter if you're not the real father, Watson, what really matters is that I love you and so do they."

He turned to look at me, our noses ever so gently brushing each other's, and smiled. "Holmes. Do shut up and go to sleep."

I kissed his temple before hurriedly flipping onto my back, avoiding his gaze.

Breakfast next morning was no more difficult than it usually was, except that it required the both of us to hail Mrs. Hudson. And then the shocked look on her face upon seeing us still manacled together was worth saving in my tiny brain attic. We were forced to swap chairs and scoot them closer together, but that was no problem. The only real problem arose when we opened our correspondence when the mail arrived. Since my left hand was chained to Watson's right, I had no problem writing back to my senders while I watched Watson struggling. I sighed, took the pen from his hand and wrote it out for him.

The time was ten 0' clock and we'd been awake for two hours then. I was, admittedly, a bit snappish as Watson had dragged me out of bed two hours prior to my normal waking hours. But no worries, it left more time during the day to run both the errands of a detective and that of a doctors.

At half an hour past ten, Watson and I headed out, hand in hand, towards Scotland Yard to fill out the report of yesterday's situation. None of the officers noticed our manacled wrist and so the walk through London's finest was simple. Until we entered Lestrade's office. He was copying excerpts from his notes onto another pice of paper when he started his usual greetings. However, he didn't get to finish it as he looked up and instantly caught our hands. That horrendous burst of laughter will always be the greatest mystery to Scotland Yarders present that morning; Lestrade was sworn into an oath of secrecy.

Which, I already knew, meant nothing.

So after everyone had their laugh and suppressed their giggles, dear Lestrade collected himself and pulled out an envelope.

"Got a new case for you, Holmes. Some broad lost her sister down in the East End. Here's the full account and detail collected by local constabulary."

I reached for the envelope and started to read over the notes.

"When will you need us?" Watson asked.

"Well, the sooner the better. Soon as I finish his report, and you two yours, the three of us can take a coach and make way down there."

Watson hummed, turning to me. "I have a patient in my office at noon."

I stopped reading mid-sentence. Well surely it couldn't be that important. "Tell them to reschedule; this case is most interesting and I simply cannot pass it up."

Watson grabbed the notes from my hands, scanned over the written interviews, and handed it back to Lestrade. "Try asking her if her sister fancies toffee apples. There's a fair round the corner of her location and I'm sure that's where you'll find the 'loving, caring little angel' of an eleven year old. Come now, Holmes, else I'll be late."

A few hours later:

"Are you sure he isn't insane, Dr. Watson?"

"No Mrs. Turner, he's not insane. Please put your arm down, I need to take your temperature."

"I think he is insane. Why else is he looking at me?"

"It's because you're an awfully old looking thing, Mrs. Turner," I responded, mystified.

"Holmes! Please, quiet down. Almost done there, ma'am."

"Doctor," she whispered into Watson's ear. "I think you ought to do something about him. I think he's a demon of some sorts and he's contriving something evil!"

"His hair is always like, but it's not by evil doings."

I scoffed.

"Anyway, you're perfectly healthy Mrs. Turner. Your headache can be attested to bad weather. Might I suggest a weekend in the country?"

The devilishly old woman nodded her head and left the room. This was the third patient Watson crammed into the space of one and a half hours; all three staring in wonderment at my presence.

"You had me pass up a perfectly good case for that?"

"As a doctor, I never know what's going to step though my door on any given day."

"If you'd allow it, I could tell you exactly what would step through your doors, Doctor, and it sure wouldn't be things like that horrid old woman."

"To be honest, I have no idea who she was. There wasn't supposed to be an appointment after the last one."

"You mean she just walked in and... that's it?"

"I'm glad I could share this experience with you, Holmes. How about we get some lunch? I'm famished."

I raised a brow at him, lifting my left hand and jingling the cuffs before him. He frowned. "Right. It might not be the smartest idea."

"No, it wouldn't.

He sighed and sat down in his seat, I standing to the side. Watson's free hand went up to brush the stubble over his chin which he wasn't able to shave that morning. It wasn't a particularly giving move, but I could tell from the look in his eyes that this burden of ours was starting to bear on him. I kneeled down in front of him, taking his hand from his face and gently placed it on my shoulder. He watched as I did that, my free hand landing atop his.

"I know this is trying, Watson, but buck up old boy! We'll get through this. I mean, it's only a piece of metal, surely I'll figure something out."

"Have you yet?" he asked, eyes filling with hope. I smiled, but shook my head.

"Not yet, I'm afraid. I wish I could play you something on my violin to pick your spirits up, but... what the deuce, I don't think I can do even that."

He leaned forward, resting his head against my shoulder. "I say, the moment we get free, we kill those bastards."

"They signed their own death warrant; you won't hear me protesting."

We sat for a little while longer before I suggested lunch at Baker Street.

The next few days followed much the same suit they did earlier. Watson and I would sleep uncomfortably still each night, sit in new arrangements at breakfast while I filled both our mail responses. I would then help Watson shave, we'd both grimace at the shirts we weren't able to change (despite some clever maneuverability when the bath beckoned) and we both accompanied each other to our respective callings of the day. Dear me, even Lestrade started taking pity on us.

And yet, the physical difficulties weren't our only issue; Watson and I both love each dearly, but being literally locked hand in hand for days on ends was difficult for us both. Exposure outside was minimal and even our domestic activities were limited. Watson probably found it a positive note that I couldn't indulge in cocaine, though I was mortified because without my stimulants, I wasn't even able to distract myself with the violin or my chemical studies. Watson, too, was denied his pen. The journals he kept, both medical and personal, were left untouched by their owner. I offered to write for him (still a welcomed distraction) but it was no use. It got so bad at one point that I even asked if we would write a fictional story together; Watson forming our ideas into words while I recorded them. It sounded endearing while we discussed it, but our ideas didn't match and Watson got annoyed when I ignored what he told me to write and wrote my own words. As you can tell, the book will never be finished.

Dinner went by without conversation. Mrs. Hudson's cooking was alright, but I enjoyed the variety I got outside of Baker Street. But still, it didn't help to watch as my dear friend merely pushed his food round the plate. He was down in the dumps, worse than I was, and I couldn't figure out why. Oh Watson, always the mystery. Still, once dinner was over, we sat together before the fire and enjoyed plentiful amounts of brandy and tobacco. This would mark the week of our joining together in what I thought of as marriage.

Watson was on his third glass while I hadn't yet finished my first, too enthralled with my pipe and the flames in our hearth. His mannerisms were starting to slip up as he began filling his forth glass.

"Holmes," said he, his speech just barely impaired.

"Yes, Watson?"

"You're letting me drink all the brandy. We'll be nearing the second bottle and I've no inclination to stop."

"And I have no inclination to hold you back. I think we deserve a night of self pity."

He laughed, falling back into the settee and burying his face in his hand. I reached over and tugged him closer, patting his shoulder.

"Perhaps we should retire to bed now," I suggested, pulling him up with me so as not to allow him to drown himself in alcohol.

"Why've we been sleeping in your bed the entire time? I miss my own."

"I miss my own bed too, old chap. But it is on ground level, no narrow stairs to challenge us, and so it's more-"

"Practical?"

"Yes, practical."

We entered my room, removed our collars and cuffs along with our boots. It isn't comfortable to sleep in full shirtsleeves, waistcoat AND great coat, but it wasn't so bad. Actually, it was quite unsettling how the only article of clothing we've been able to change out of so far was trousers and undergarments. Though highly indecent, the trousers went with the boots and so we slept fully dressed from the waist up while in nothing else but our undergarments from the waist down. It was better than nude, we kept telling ourselves.

Watson swung his legs up, scooted himself to the far left and brought the covers up and over us. He settled down and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to bring us the new day.

Is it a wonder that I decided to kiss him in that moment? Slowly bringing myself over him, placing my lips to his? Or how about when he started with a jolt, only to murmur some ill-felt protest before completely falling into me? I can only say that Watson readily accepted my advances with little to no inner protest.

"Holmes," he murmured against my neck. "What is this about?"

"This, Watson?" I ran my fingers through his hair, tipping his face up to mine. "This is nothing; absolutely nothing," His jaw was rough against my lips, his freed hand running over my stomach beneath my shirt. "Unless you, of course, make something out of it."

"Of course I make something out of it. I'm not you."

"Thank the heavens for that! I could never fall in love with myself."

I watched as the corners of his mouth hitched up into a slow smile. He looked up at me as he licked his lips, eyes shining in a way I've never seen before. "But you could love me?" he whispered.

I only smiled, not giving him an answer which even I was unsure of. Instead, I stroked back his hair, trailed my thumb over his lashes and down his nose. Watson murmured something which I could not hear before lifting himself off the bed to put his lips to mine.

Even though our hands were locked together, and even though Watson was drunk and the both of us incredibly stretched to the point of insanity for these past few days, my dear doctor's passion and love filled me with such a desire which I could no longer ignore. I pushed him back on the bed, raising myself over him and sliding my tongue along his lips. This elicited a satisfying groan from Watson, a sound which I shan't ever forget. Even within my own belly there burned a fire of lust; eating away my will to hold back. So I didn't.

It was to the point where our breath had become haggard and the skin beneath our shackles rubbing raw; I was happily pressed between the mattress and my lovely Watson when my hand found itself knotting his shirtfront. I removed him from my neck, pushing the both of us in a sitting position as I clutched him close to my chest.

"Watson," I breathed into his ear. "You do not regret these days with me, do you?"

"I never regret a moment with you, Holmes."

"Do you really mean to say that?"

"Do you think I'd be with you if that were not true?"

"I have a firm belief in never supposing anything about you."

"You will never find my loath in you presence, Holmes. We've been through so much," we were parted now, but still close together. So incredibly close. "I will never envision my life without yours."

"What a disgustingly romantic thing to say, Watson. Unfortunately, I cannot see you staying."

"Holmes-"

"Shush, Watson," I said softly. "I do not mean to say that you will leave me. I only mean that I cannot, nor will I attempt, to keep you should you wish to leave."

"Leave? Holmes, what are you getting on about?" He held me at arms length and stared heavily into my eyes. His own were wide with worry as his face fell at my tones. I pushed my head up beneath his jaw, taking his hand into mine.

"I do love you, Watson, but not for this. Never for this." His arm was round my shoulders, the hand not in my own gently playing with my hair.

"Of course not, Holmes. It is not why we are here tonight." He paused, hesitating at the question he was about to ask. "But isn't it?" I shook my head as he pulled me closer, his mind racing with the introspection I no doubt ignited. "Holmes, tonight... it all means something, doesn't it? That is to say, you of all people would never agree to what we've done tonight unless you truly... well really, we only kissed which isn't so awful,"

"Watson,"

"My God, Holmes! You are a masochist if this is what you've been keeping from me! What a dullard you must think of me!"

I laughed, I kissed him, I held him closer. "My dear Watson, I hardly knew myself. Of course I had an inkling, but not like this. But you're right, my Watson, perfectly right. I would not have done this unless something were to provoke it."

"Holmes, you talk as though..."

"It is nothing, Watson."

"Is everything alright? You aren't in trouble, are you?"

"Not at all, and I can assure you most heartily on that fact. You alone, Watson. Only you."

"Then what-"

"Can't you tell? I've been trying to tell you," His lips were parted in his worry. I grinned at the sight of them, his teeth glinting in the moonlight and his tongue just waiting to taste mine. I saved it the torture and I kissed Watson deeply. "I've been trying to tell you that you need not feel obligated," He nipped at my bottom lip. "You need not lie to yourself, nor others," Watson moaned as I work my hand towards his war wound. "And most importantly, you need not oblige me in anyway," I've reasserted myself on top of him, moving my body so that there was only a few inches between us. "You need not even smile, Watson, when I tell you that I'm in love with you."

He gasped at the words which tumbled from my lips to his ear. Rendered quite speechless in the most fashionable way, I'd say. Not allowing him time to recover, I asked, "So out of curiosity, my dear man, what say you?"

"I'm in love with you, Holmes, dear God, I love you,"

"Do you now? Never will you part from me, never will you hate me... never will you grudge me?"

"Never. Never,"

"Good,"

I bent to kiss him, a kiss which was different; a kiss which sealed an agreement and a promise. New life was tasted and pushed and drunk while I held him and he held me. I kept Watson distracted as I freed my hand from his hair, trailed it along my own body and slipped it into my pocket. My fingers brushed against something small and metallic, something akin to a spare key pilfered from the pockets of our adversaries from the start, something which had been so elusive yet ever present. A key which fit snugly into the lock holding our wrist together and, with the smallest twist of a wrist, emitted the tiniest click imaginable.

What a shame Watson heard it.