Yes, it has been a truly disgustingly long wait. BUT IT'S DONE! Seriously. This is it. This is the end. Finally. I promise that no one was more frustrated by this process than I was, and I thank all of you who have stuck with this monstrosity and reviewed it. It means a lot to me!

WARNINGS(for this chapter only): It is incredibly long, just so you're prepared. It also includes sexytimes, angst, not to mention depictions of war and the bloody/gory things that go along with it, though not in great detail, if any of this squicks you. Otherwise I hope you enjoy!

NOTES: I hate doing this to people, but you might want to reread the chapter "A Kind Gesture" as well as "A Change in Circumstances" for the big elements of this to make sense, just so you remember stuff. But having made all of you wait so long, it seems rude to tell you that, so...it's to your own discretion.

A Forged Connection

There was a telegram from Mycroft waiting with his breakfast the following morning, when Holmes roused himself around eleven to find that Watson had already breakfasted and left the rooms, no doubt to deliver the files of patients he had cared for in Dr. Severson's absence to the man, now that he had returned to London. He was also likely to stop at the tobacconist's around the corner, since Holmes's slipper of shag was woefully nearing on empty, and Watson was nothing if not thoughtful. Holmes made plans to slip a pound note into his pocket at the next available opportunity.

But yes. The telegram.

Holmes knew without looking at it what the subject matter would be, since the only other cause Mycroft had to contact him was over money, and Mycroft was decent enough not to pester Holmes about trifles – especially ones he was not currently able to afford – so it couldn't possibly be that.

Which left but one other option.

Holmes would rather not read it. He had solved his puzzle, and yes, the moment of epiphany had brought with it a soothing effect, like an irritated wound that has finally been lanced and cleaned. But in the light of day, away from the strange fragility and closeness of last evening, everything looked different. Everything was warped and vaguely tilted – even Mrs. Hudson's tea set looked markedly disapproving – and Holmes knew what the telegram was about, he knew what Mycroft wished to discuss, and he knew that, however difficult it was to admit, Mycroft was the only one certain to adequately assist him in this situation.

But Holmes was not entirely sure he wanted this situation to be real. He was in l- . . . he could not say it, not even within the confines of his own mind, not while the harsh, grey sun poured in through the window behind his chemical table and the entirety of London bustled around just outside his front door. There were rules about these things, he was more than aware of that, and by and large such rules didn't hold much sway with the consulting detective, and societal norms were infuriating when not directly useful, but Holmes was only ever willing to overstep his boundaries when the reward far outweighed the risks. Most usually, they did.

This was a far more complicated step.

Polite society could hang for all Holmes cared, so long as he was assured of a favourable outcome; otherwise he simply invited unnecessary trouble, and he was mature enough to recognize that, despite his brother's annoying misgivings. But in this, he was not assured of a favourable outcome. And to discover if the outcome was favorable could destroy everything he already had, which was not something Holmes could survive. But the knowledge was there, though, the thought would be forever hanging overhead, tucked in the back of his mind whenever he beheld that lovely face, or caught a trace of familiar soap in the air, or heard that deep, alluring chuckle. In every word and every expression and every touch it would be there, like a disease, like a rampant infection burrowing through cells and tissue until it choked the life out of vital organs and left him a husk of what he had been.

He could bury it. Though it would always be there, he could simply pretend that it wasn't. Ignore the symptoms, overlook the weaknesses, refuse the temptation. He could throw himself into his work, whore himself out to petty problems he otherwise would have turned his nose up at, payment optional. He could work from morning until night and hardly ever come home, become absorbed in his chemical equations when he couldn't avoid coming home, and pretend that all others besides himself didn't exist. He could lock himself in his room with his research and his filings and only receive food at the door from Mrs. Hudson, could climb out his window and down the drainpipe so he wouldn't have to brave the hallway.

He could never see Watson again.

Something sharp and jagged hooked in his chest just then and jerked, hard, as though it were trying to yank his heart out through his ribcage, and his hand was in the air, halfway to clutching his shirt before he realized what he was doing, and forcefully threw his hand down on the arm of the chair with a scowl, disgusted with himself for such a display of emotional weakness because of course there was no actual hook there. That he even thought such a – but no matter. Lapses in rationality were part and parcel with such . . . predicaments, as Holmes currently found himself in, however annoying and inconvenient they were. If nothing else, it proved that such extreme measures of denial would be of no use in this situation, if even the contemplation of them tricked his heart into thinking it had been impaled. He would no doubt lose his mind completely inside of three days, not to mention the sheer bloody madness that would befall should Watson turn his attentions elsewhere in Holmes' absence; he had never once considered himself amenable to any criminal activity, but murder under such circumstances was disturbingly appealing.

Holmes was well and truly buggered.

And yet . . . It seemed utter folly to even contemplate, and Holmes would no doubt do himself more harm than good for even entertaining the thought, but . . . there did remain the very, infinitesimally small chance that Watson perhaps, maybe, felt the same way. If nothing else, Holmes owed it to himself as a scientist and a great reasoner to approach all possible avenues, exhaust every option to reach a satisfactory conclusion.

Regardless of how this little exercise was sure to ruin him.

Well, then.

What evidence existed for Watson's . . . feelings, for lack of a more precise term that Holmes was as-yet unwilling to use? To begin, the good doctor was steadfastly loyal. This was not conclusive data in and of itself, as loyalty seemed to be a defining attribute of Watson's character, not a habit particular solely to his interactions with Holmes—he decided at that moment it would be unforgivably childish of him to wish it otherwise. So, loyalty: neutral input.

There was then the inescapable fact that Watson cared very sincerely for Holmes' well-being, to the very abandonment of his own, if the man's willingness to parade into dangerous situations with him was any indication. Again, this was not so very determinate, as Watson was, in fact, a doctor. More than that, a doctor currently without practice: it was a perfectly reasonable conclusion that a man naturally prone to helping people and administering aid would be rather desperate to help anyone, even someone as intractable as Holmes, especially if he had no other occasion to do so. Not that Holmes wished to detract from Watson's spirit of altruism and good will, which was of course perfectly evident, but even the best people had some small, selfish motivation for their deeds, and it—

-This was a dangerously tangled mess. Perhaps he should move on.

After that, however, there only remained the more . . . subjective evidence which mostly consisted of the worryingly large mental roster labeled merely, "Watson's Looks"; an impressive compendium of every expression Holmes had managed to document to date about the doctor's face. So far he had identified nearly every standard, recognizable human expression at one time or another, from contentment to anxiety to fury to agony, and he knew what effect each one had on the precise shade of blue in the doctor's eyes. Being as well acquainted as he was with the man's very expressive face, he could tell also when Watson was walling himself off from someone, keeping his emotions and reactions tamped down and neutralized, and he could say with a strong degree of confidence that Watson rarely, if ever, did so in Holmes' presence. Even with people generally more decent than the occasionally—frequently—churlish detective, Watson seemed to reserve some part of himself, willingly preventing himself from becoming close to any specific person. But not Holmes. Whether he was delighted, hurt, confused, incensed, he never hid it from Holmes. He was never polite, he never once tried to spare him what he was feeling at that moment, and Holmes had devoured every second like a man wasting away amongst the desert dunes. The only retraction to this confidence was the ever-elusive Something that had plagued him for years. It was a look he had no basis of comparison for, no way of cross-referencing, researching, identifying outside of the mortifying route of simply saying, "Dear chap, whatever are you thinking when you look at me that way," which would no doubt end in confusion at best and a pained, awkward silence at worst.

A silence that lasted forever.

As to the conclusion of, given the data available, whether Dr. John H. Watson feels . . . similarly, towards Sherlock Holmes as Sherlock Holmes feels towards Dr. Watson, the answer was: inconclusive.

However, Holmes thought, fingers pressing speculatively to his lips, if the question were instead: whether, based on the data available, Dr. Watson was capable of feeling similarly towards Sherlock Holmes, the answer was: possible. Perhaps even probable. The facts were before him, after all, and despite his—according to bloody Mycroft—utter lack of social grace and understanding, he had had occasion enough to observe couples together, and the circumstances did not seem so altogether different.

This was, of course, all based on his analysis of what he thought he saw, Holmes realized with a deep, wearying sigh. It also wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he had merely twisted all his data to suit the theory he so desperately wished to be true. In matters of emotions it was, almost by definition, impossible to be objective.

So what was he to do, now?

He supposed the traditional response would be to begin a courtship, which frankly seemed a bit ridiculous given how close they were already, not to mention the very real possibility that he had deduced this all wrong and Watson was in no way, shape, or form inclined towards the relationship Holmes now had in mind. Which would be quite devastating, understandably.

So again, how was he to proceed? Did there even exist a course of action that didn't end in Holmes' ruination and Watson's complete estrangement from the consulting detective? And even if courtship was a viable option, there was no conceivable way Holmes could achieve it. He didn't even know what it entailed, or where one began, or what the usual procedures were. He had never been so irrevocably stuck in his life, and there wasn't a soul he could turn to for counsel, since the only person he knew to be at all familiar with the courtship practice was Watson himself, and novice Holmes may be, but even he was able to recognize the sheer insanity of asking courtship advice from the one you wish to court.

It was then his eyes landed on the as-yet-unopened telegram from his brother, and he felt an illogical surge of indignant fury because he could hear that overfed walrus mocking him all the way from the Stranger's Room. He swiped up the correspondence and viciously tore it open, seething, feeling distinctly like a madman.

The message he uncovered deflated him rapidly:

KNEW YOU WOULD CATCH UP EVENTUALLY STOP. A NICE DINNER WOULD NOT BE REMISS STOP. GOOD LUCK END STOP.

- M

It was ridiculous. Completely and in all ways ridiculous to take advice from his hermit of a brother on subjects of the heart. What did Mycroft know about romance, of the subtle art of "wooing," as he'd heard it called? Mycroft hadn't felt anything more passionate than bland indifference for someone since he was old enough to realize that he was vastly more intelligent than anyone he would come into contact with – which Holmes wagered was around age three. And perhaps that was neither a fair nor accurate assessment, but Holmes wasn't nearly charitable enough just then to censor his thoughts, most especially when his aforementioned genius brother was not there to divine them.

A dinner. How tragically mundane, Holmes thought, mutinously.

He glowered at the floor. Then shifted his gaze to the telegram. Then checked the clock on the mantle.

He was in a hansom to Covent Garden and the box offices in less than five minutes, which he felt sure was some sort of record.

If anxiety had been Holmes' companion earlier that morning, it had been swiftly kicked aside once exuberance made his acquaintance, which it did on the ride back to Baker Street. It was strange, this bubbling, insistent charge throughout his limbs, anticipation and excitement, which was completely incongruous with his previous deportment, and only really proved once and for all that this entire enterprise—though worthwhile and undeniably important—was also completely fickle. Emotions were such a delicate little disaster, but rather addicting once engaged. Something about Mycroft's terse message had solidified in Holmes' mind the chance that Watson at the very least could be persuaded into romantic feelings towards the detective, if he wasn't already possessed of them. Mycroft was observant, of course, at times more so even than Holmes, and especially with regards to social entanglements. Clearly he had seen something Holmes hadn't, whether because he was much too close to the situation or out of sheer ignorance of what the situation even was. Regardless, now armed with the proper data, tickets to a Sarasate concert in Covent Garden, and that elusive mistress called Hope, Holmes thought his prospects considerably improved since a few hours' time.

It was with these high spirits that the consulting detective hopped lightly down from the hansom—after over paying the driver egregiously, but what did it matter, anyway?—and barreled through the door to 221 B, alighting the stairs and hurrying up towards the sitting room doors.

"Watson?" he called, glancing around, finding the rooms more or less the same as when he'd left them. "Watson, are you in? I have important matters I need to discuss with you."

Footsteps could be heard from the landing above, coming from Watson's room, and as they descended Holmes was taken by a flight of mischief and quickly concealed the tickets in his jacket pocket, not a handful of seconds before the doctor appeared at the door, poking his head into the room and looking prepared to be alarmed.

"Holmes? Are you all right? It's nothing serious, is it?"

Blue eyes wide, pupils contracted with concern, cheeks flushed just the slightest bit from the rush he made getting downstairs; he still clutched a yellow-back novel in one hand, fingers curled around the pages to keep his place. His jacket had been removed, but his waistcoat and collar were still fastidiously present, military lines of his mustache clean and precise.

Ah, but he is lovely, a stray thought wafted through Holmes' mind then, which he tried to tamp down, but was more and more seeing the pointlessness of such a gesture the longer this madness of his persisted.

Holmes couldn't quite wrestle down a smile. "I am perfectly fine, old boy, not to worry."

"Your bandage doesn't need changing, does it?"

He looked down at his arm, wounded late last night, and was surprised to see a few speckles of dried brown. To be honest, he'd forgotten all about it.

"Ah. Well, perhaps when you have a moment, but that isn't material just now."

"Holmes," the doctor sighed.

"Yes, all right, if you must," he resigned, excitement trying to sour into jangled nerves the longer he was made to wait for his grand reveal.

But Watson flashed him a small, grateful smile, his eyes sparking like a crystal catching an errant ray of light, and Holmes was spellbound again. It seemed intensely unfair that a mere tilting of the head could render him insensible. He would complain, were he not so very agreeable to it.

Watson set his book aside and retrieved his black Gladstone bag in a matter of moments, digging out the bandaging and the vial of clear liquid.

"It doesn't hurt at all, does it? No itching, no burning?"

"I hadn't thought about it at all, as a matter of fact. I assume it is fine."

Watson shot him a look. "Holmes, I have the inescapable feeling that you wouldn't notice if a lion made off with your entire arm, given the proper distractions."

"There is a modicum of possibility."

The smaller man laughed at that, eyes pinched half-shut and lips tilting upwards in a full, delighted grin.

"You madman."

Holmes smiled at this, felt safe in doing so as Watson studiously unraveled the old wrapping from his wound, gaze trained on his task.

"I have been called worse things."

A warm, close silence fell as the doctor carefully pulled the once-pristine cloth from Holmes' flesh, teasing it away gently where dried blood had adhered it. Then he tore another strip from his roll and wet it from the vial.

"It looks very well, so far. The color is decent; pink, not red."

Gently, always gently, he blotted the gash with the antiseptic, which still made Holmes suck in a breath through his teeth, but was otherwise negligible compared to the soothing, almost unconscious strokes of Watson's calloused thumb over the skin at the inside of Holmes' wrist.

He swallowed, realizing that Watson really was rather close. If he breathed in, just deeply enough, he could smell traces of honey and fresh, clean soap, and the tang of iodine from the clinics. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the heat from Watson's skin reaching out towards his own, could feel himself being drawn in, lulled, swaying nearer as a charmed serpent. He was an utter fool for ever thinking he could have escaped this; this deep, all-consuming thrum throughout his body, sinking into his bones, loosening muscles and agitated nerves even as he felt his blood course faster. It was a distraction, certainly, but Holmes couldn't bring himself to care, not when this particular distraction came in the form of a well-fit army doctor.

A brief tugging sensation, and Holmes opened his eyes, glancing down to see that at some point in his drifting a clean bandage had been tied off around his arm. Watson's hands lingered, and Holmes felt his pulse speed up, thought perhaps it was evidence of an oncoming heart attack, and he wanted, just as he had the night before, a sharp stab of need, needing to grasp, needing to possess, needing to pull impossibly close and . . . and—

"Come to dinner with me tonight."

In the spirit of fairness, there were infinitely worse things Holmes could have chosen to blurt out in that moment. It was undeniable, however, that that wasn't how he had intended to extend the invitation: his plan had included more coy, teasing remarks and smirking confidence, and less raspy desperation.

Watson blinked heavily, as though emerging from a fog.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Holmes drew in a breath. It was now, or never.

"Come to dinner with me tonight."

For a few, brief seconds Watson seemed to glow from within, mouth opening, tongue slipping forward to press against his bottom lip as though preparing to say something, preparing to say yes—

-And a shadow fell over his features. His mouth snapped into a thin, unhappy line and his hands—which had still been cradling the detective's arm—hastily withdrew, now smoothing imaginary lines from his waistcoat, now touching his starched collar, now jamming themselves into his trouser pockets; all jerky, jittery movement.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid I can't, Holmes," he said, a certain stiffness in his tone.

Holmes frowned. Something had gone awry. Something wasn't right. What was it?

"Why ever not?" he asked, perhaps more harshly than he should.

"I made plans to dine with Stamford tonight."

A sudden jab of acidic fury in Holmes' gut, and he dimly registered that this must be what jealousy feels like. And he'd known that already, had read it in the opened letters addressed to Watson sitting upon the sideboard last night. Had he forgotten? Not likely. He just hadn't thought it mattered. He had thought he knew where Watson's loyalty lied; he had thought the doctor would prefer his company. He thought Watson preferred him.

Something was slipping away. He could feel it, draining fast between his fingers before he'd even grasped it and what was happening?

"Cancel, then," he pressed, a frantic urgency creeping into his blood.

"I can't cancel, Holmes!" Watson said, looking affronted. "The man is an old friend and dear enough to have found me employment! The least I can do is attend a dinner that I've already agreed to."

"And I have done nothing for you?" Holmes very nearly snarled.

The doctor started, eyes wide with shock. "What did you say?"

"Never mind. Off you go then. Don't try the lamb, Simpson's tends to undercook it. T'would be a shame if it spoiled your evening."

He didn't wait for a response. Watson's startled look of reproach was the last image that filled his vision before he turned his back and stormed into his room, legs threatening to buckle the entire way. Holmes felt his whole being tremble as though it were a fault line, the tectonic shifting of his world threatening to send him to pieces and his only wish was to have his bedroom door safely closed before it happened.

At some point, perhaps two minutes or two hours later, he heard footsteps again, steadily climbing down the stairs and he hadn't noticed that they'd ever retreated from the sitting room, but they must have because they were now returning. They paused at the landing, in front of Holmes' door, and he was seized with clawing dread that the steps should leave, and desperately feared that they might remain. There was a pause, where no further sound could be heard above the thudding of Holmes' pulse and barely-controlled respirations. Seconds dragged on, inexorable, and no move seemed to be made in either direction. He felt a damp sweat across his brow. His hands shook.

Then the steps resumed, slow and deliberate, as they continued down the second flight of stairs, growing dimmer and more indistinct with every heartbeat, until the front door opened, and closed.

The flat reigned in silence. His ribs seemed to have become a vice intent on squeezing the air from his lungs, and he clung on, shamelessly this time, nervous hand coming up to clutch at the space above his heart. The crinkle of paper brought him up short, and he remembered the concert tickets in his coat pocket.

They made poor kindling for the sputtering fire in his bedroom grate.

Everything was grey. A deafening howl throughout his mind. He couldn't seem to breathe.

Watson has moved on, a voice whispered, unrelentingly practical. Or he is beginning to. And why shouldn't he? Surely Stamford would never keep the good doctor up at all hours of the day and night. Surely Stamford wouldn't worry him into a nervous collapse. Surely Stamford would treat Watson the way he deserved to be treated.

But Holmes couldn't help but think: and how do I deserve to be treated? He was not proud for bringing it up, since he had never had any intention of throwing it in Watson's face nor of extracting any return favors, but it was true nonetheless that since he had returned from Afghanistan Holmes had done nothing but attempt to support the man. True, it did not always produce the results Holmes had intended, and perhaps his aim had not been entirely selfless, but there remained the desire to help Watson. And yet that was so easily turned aside? So callously forgotten the moment another friend calls on his time and attention? It was awful, and utterly incongruous with the man Holmes knew the doctor to be, and part of him rebelled against this thought near instantly . . . but that voice, so calm and cool and logical, saw fit to point out one easily over-looked detail: he didn't really know the doctor.

Oh certainly he fancied he did; often liked to think of how Watson was back at university: the affable chap everyone liked but no one knew. No one taking issue with him or finding fault in his manners or having a single unkind thing to say about him for the sole reason that not a one of them was close enough to the boy to have anything else to say. A superficial acquaintanceship only.

The fact that Holmes had, up until recently, been Watson's only companion had not been lost on him, and he had relished that fact. Luxuriated in the knowledge that he had gotten closer to this fascinating creature than any before him. Gloated in the conviction that no one else would ever get as close. He had hoarded every scrap of information he had on Watson like a dying man would clutch at sand in an hour glass; always with the notion that one day it would run out.

And it had.

And Holmes knew, he wasn't entirely a fool, for all that he had allowed himself to be deluded into thinking this might last; he knew why Watson had recoiled at his invitation. It was so horribly clear, every last disgusted shudder. Holmes had made himself vulnerable. Holmes, for once in all his life, had shown his hand, and Watson had seen it. Had seen the emotion, the deep, persistent longing and desire and saw only perversion. He had seen it and pulled away, eyes distant, voice cold, every line in his disposition tightening and twisting until Holmes barely recognized him. For the first time in their friendship Watson had truly known Holmes, and he'd fled.

Well, the voice said, more calm and composed than the rest of Holmes felt at that moment, since he has known me, I shall finally know him. And then he will be gone. And I will be alone. As it was always meant to be.

Something inside him quivered and died just then, sitting heavy and limp and foul in his abdomen. But he schooled his mind nonetheless, pushed everything into a single corner until he was left with a wide, blank space, numbness enveloping his sense.

He had always been a proponent of justice. Though moral law denounced the practice of "an eye for an eye," Holmes could see the appeal. So with a final deep breath, he opened his bedroom door, marched up the stairs, and entered the doctor's room.

Gone was the warmth, the intimacy and the dark seclusion from the night before. Now all was sunshine and austere furnishings and a neatly made bed. And there, on the doctor's handsome writing desk sat the brown, leather-bound book. Holmes was across the room in a matter of strides and carefully lifted it up. The leather was soft and slightly scratched in places, from going in and out of the doctor's pocket; the spine had been well-worn, pages bent and torn at the edges from use. All in all, it looked very convincing. Holmes even managed a reluctant smirk at how very clever his doctor could be when he was properly motivated.

But this was not the book he was looking for.

The one he was really looking for was in the locked drawer at the bottom left of the desk, shoved in the far back under medical records and empty bottles of antiseptic waiting to be refilled.

The journal he'd kept at Chichester.

The one Holmes had tried to steal and had been denied.

Watson wasn't dull, of course. He was obviously less brilliant than Holmes, but he was far from being as slow as the average man. He knew Holmes was the inquisitive sort, and he knew that, given the opportunity, Holmes would try and sneak the journal again. He would have tried eventually, even if things had turned out in his favor—don't think these things old boy, you're doing yourself no favors, concentrate!—but until now had been trying to avoid incurring the doctor's wrath in a bid to curry favor. But he was forced to admit that Watson was craftier than he had supposed.

Rather devious of him to employ the use of a decoy.

When space in his old journal had run out, he had clearly hunted around for one that looked similar enough, beaten it up an a rather convincing fashion, and left it brazenly on top of the desk, intentionally drawing Holmes' attention and, theoretically, convincing him that it was in fact the same journal. Here was the one he had been recording case notes in for the last few months, the one Holmes had watched him pouring over late at night as he wrote up his fanciful stories, and he knew the look of it intimately.

Therein lay the downfall of the doctor's plan.

Holmes knew for a fact that the real journal, the one he tried to swipe in Chichester, had a small, barely visible stamp in the leather at the top edge of the spine: a tiny insignia for the East India Trading Company. And this one sitting on the desk did not.

It was a matter of seconds to pick the lock of the bottom drawer, and the blink of an eye to shove the random detritus out of the way and there, just where he had deduced, rested the real journal.

Beaten, wrinkled, unnaturally dry from sun and heat exposure so the corners turned up a bit, dark stains along the edge which could be ink but were more likely blood. This was the journal Watson had taken to Afghanistan. The journal he had kept with him during firefights and raids, the solace he had turned to on frigid nights when people had been dying mere hours before, with smears of blood still wet on his fingers because they'd hid in the shadows of a guttering lantern as he'd tried to wipe them off.

The journal where Watson had bared his heart.

Since Watson had had his glimpse of Holmes' heart, it seemed only fair now for Holmes to peruse his. Justice, in the loosest sense of the term.

The leather cracked and suffered under his hands as he slowly bent it open and the doctor's neat, angular scrawl greeted him. He very nearly smiled, but caught himself, unable to reign in the painful squirm in his chest at seeing something so familiar and fond.

But no.

This was not about affection. This was not about caring. This was decidedly the opposite of either of those things. This was, very simply, revenge.

The first several pages were entries about school, alarmingly enough. Watson had started keeping this journal sometime just before graduating Cambridge, and had recorded his exam scores with some measure of pride. He talked much about Afghanistan, of his reasons for joining the army, of his desire for adventure and a thirst to do great things and see foreign lands. He wrote of how he would miss his companions, the boys he played rugby with, a girl that he thought he might fancy—Holmes felt a slow, threatening burn in his stomach at such a thought.

No mention of the detective was made. He hadn't expected there to be. He knew better than to expect that, but he had hoped, because he was hopeless and foolish and a glutton for pain. He remembered very vividly the row they had had in Watson's dorm room that Holmes hadn't even realized he knew the location of until he had found himself there, flushed and breathless and furious about something he never understood until many years later. Clearly such a memory had not made much of an impression on Watson.

Holmes struggled to smother the sharp, insistent ache in his chest.

The next several entries were merely lists of supplies he would need, reminders of forms due to the registrar, dates for training, and eventually his departure schedule. Interspersed were melancholy ruminations on how his mother would have been worried for him, how proud his father would have been. Watson himself seemed to dwell agonizingly over what would become of Andrew in his absence or even—Holmes' lungs seized momentarily—were he to never come back. He seemed quite lonely during this time. Holmes told himself he no longer cared.

Then something intriguing happened. The method of recording changed after those last entries, and rather than more private accounts of his thoughts and feelings and experiences, Watson appeared to be writing letters to someone. No name was mentioned, but it was unmistakable that he had a specific recipient in mind as he wrote them, though they were all clearly unsent.

As he read, Holmes began to see why:

November 18—

I arrived in Bombay a week ago. It's a lovely place, to be honest; full of colors and sun and rich smells and chattering people, the very center of life itself! I realize we are at war, and that my proper deportment should be something far more grim, but the shooting has yet to begin – for me, at any rate – and I can't imagine when I'll be afforded the opportunity ever again to see such wonderful and foreign sights. I shall enjoy them for as long as I am able.

It is strange, isn't it, that I choose to write to you. I can't help but think it strange. Although in many ways, it makes some modicum of sense. Who else do I possibly have in my life that would care? I can only hope you do not think it too ridiculous of me. I wouldn't be surprised, however, if you do. It is ridiculous. I don't expect you to write back, only I pray you do not burn this missive. But perhaps you should. I don't even know why I am doing this. My apologies for the incoherent nature of this letter.

Sincerely,

John Watson

December 2—

It has been quite a while since I last had the moment to apply pen to paper. I have been detached from the Fusiliers and reassigned to the Berkshires' infantry. We are currently stopped in a small village just outside Kandahar. There are several small boys who all stay in one tiny, thatch-roofed hut. I don't believe they have any parents. They never approach our tents, but every night they crouch among the dunes and point sticks at us, held cocked on their shoulders as though they were rifles. The youngest in our fold is not more than seventeen and the oldest is barely thirty. Everyone else falls somewhere in the middle. The greatest sin of war, without contestation, is how it warps and ruins the young. I have never felt my heart go out to anyone quite how it does for these poor boys: British and Afghani alike. It is a tragedy unlike any other. Tomorrow we head towards our next removal.

I realize the last missive was not sent yet, but I swear the both of them will find you soon. I think of you more than I expected I would. Doubtless I have already passed from your thoughts, and I assure you I am not being petty. I never expected you to think of me. That you ever did remains the most remarkable experience of my life. Perhaps when I see you next, if I can find you and you deign to see me, I will be able to explain all of this better. Until then, I shall remain,

Sincerely yours,

John Watson

December 6—

We saw first action today. Thirteen dead, at least forty wounded, though we beat back their numbers in the end. The sergeant wished to press the advantage and sent out a squadron of nine men to give chase as the Ghazis rushed through the desert wastes. They returned after dark, alive and accounted for but disheartened as their quarry seemed to have disappeared into the night as though they were made of sand themselves. James Brewer died three hours after the brigade returned. He had held on with a chunk of bayonet lodged in his abdomen for many hours as I rationed what morphine for him as I could. He hemorrhaged near dawn as I attempted once more, fruitlessly, to remove the broken piece of metal. James Brewer was the boy I mentioned in my last letter that you never received: the youngest of our ranks. I had thought that he was just barely seventeen, but at around midnight he had told me, with a wry grin, that he'd just turned fifteen last week. He confessed at the time he'd thought himself very clever for having fooled the drafting board. "Now," he'd said, tearfully, "I only wish I had me mum."

My orderly, Murray, assures me his passing was no fault of my own; that perhaps my final surgery was more than his body could withstand, but he was sure to have expired before another hour was up even without it. Perhaps he is right; perhaps the lad's death was inevitable and I had merely saved him another hour of agony. But perhaps the boy resented me all the same. I will never know for certain.

We move again in a few hours, in an effort not to fall too far behind our elusive foes, which will undoubtedly result in the loss of many more of our wounded, since time is of the essence and they lack the strength to endure. I confess myself drained, though I have relatively little to complain of. It is arduous, of course, as it is for all of us, but being in the medical tent as I am, I am spared the worst of it. I only wish there was more I could do.

I promise these letters shall make it to you, although I can't think when. Our constant movement over the next few weeks will make it near impossible to get to a post of any sort, and we seem to be drawing further away from civilization with every removal. I hesitate to think of where the journey will take us, only know that you shall have these; even if I must track you down to the ends of the earth, you shall know my heart. What you do with it then, of course, is to your discretion, and I swear to you I have no expectations of even the smallest attention, not to speak of regard. But know that I think of you often, daily even, though I haven't the faintest notion why, and that whenever I do I feel comforted. It's nearly laughable, isn't it, that you are my solace and you aren't even aware of it?

Yours,

John Watson

January 15—

Our third removal in as many days, and we always seem to be grasping at the enemy's heels, but no closer. A hysterical frustration is taking hold of the men. Some have begun babbling in the night. The youngest ones have screaming nightmares. We are just outside the boundaries of Maiwand at present. There have been several raids of our camp in the night. More men have died. Some were abducted. I shudder to think of their fates. We hear voices over the dunes, and I care for my patients as best as I can but we are low on antiseptic, and I have taken to shredding my linens for bandages and sleeping with my coat for warmth. There is no morphine, and every day sees more casualties. We are running out of ammunitions and have been unable to communicate to the cavalries for support. The men weep.

You will never have these letters, will you?

Yours.

There is a fire and it may be in my head but my fingers and toes are freezing and I thought warmth spread so it must not be a fire but then why are there sparks behind my eyes the bright flashes of light and then there is Brewer in the sand in the blood in the sand always sand the stuff is in his hair and in his nose and in his eyes and in his blood in the wound and he screams as though he's being murdered and then I remember he is and that I'm doing it

my hands are red.

everything is red and dark so dark and there's cold now the fire is chased away by a deep bone deep chill and it eats its way through muscle I can feel it feel as it slithers and claws and it is insanity and fear and pain so so so so much pain and Wellis screams in the dark and Jackson hits him awake and the boy cries and Jackson puts a hand between his shoulders and no one says a word because we all do the same and when was the last the I slept do I sleep I don't remember no linens

no just sand. and red always red always dark and hot and cold and bright lights and pain pain deep and I feel as though I've been ripped in half and WHERE HAVE YOU GONE WHY HAVE YOU NEVER RESPONDED HAVE YOU VANISHED?

but you probably didn't care and I don't know why you would only I wish you would I wish you were here and would give anything to keep you away safe away from this place this hell where everyone screams and no one sleeps and there's nothing but sand and red and

I love you

May 14—

I hadn't ever intended to write in this infernal thing again, given my last entry was made during a rare moment of lucidity while I was in hospital in Peshawar and nearly out of my head with fever. I had every intention of burning it, in fact. But I haven't. Obvious. I don't know why I haven't. It seems especially dangerous to keep it now that I am back amongst society, even more so when that society includes the frighteningly intelligent Holmes'. It seems akin to a death wish, to be truthful. But there seemed to be something wrong about merely leaving things as they were, despite the fact that you haven't read a single one of these missives, so in truth there is no rational reason for me to offer an explanation, not in the least because you are clearly aware that I'm not, in fact, dead. But I feel explanations must nevertheless be offered.

I will not write about Maiwand. I cannot. Not now, and perhaps not ever. If I ever have a say in it, you will never know anything about the horrors that took place there. You've horrors enough, no doubt, without adding to them my own. But I tell you, even when I was wounded, even as Murray threw me over a pack-horse like a sack of flour and sent me off over the dunes back to our encampment, even as I lay in that dreadful, pestilent hospital overrun with screams and blood and nowhere near enough supplies, all I thought about was you. All I thought about was how I would never see you again, how I would never hear your voice, or watch your eyes spark with intrigue and excitement, or see your pale cheeks flush with indignation. Yes, even when unpleasant, I treasured every moment I was allowed to see you, and desperately wished for more. I realize that at times, more often than not, I was rather brusque with you, perhaps not nearly as affable as I should have been, to the extent that, should you ever read this by some horrible mischance, you would surely think me a liar. I regret that every moment since I have left you, that you should ever doubt the way I feel, but it's not as though I could ever blame you. The blame lies solely upon my shoulders for that count. But you were as vexing as you were radiant, and I am damnably proud, and I feared ever being honest with you, convinced as I was that you would eviscerate me and leave me in the dust. I was a coward, and for that I apologize. Although chances are you never spared a thought for me in that regard, and are no doubt relieved by our current separation. I can't help but think it must be so, as you never appeared to have much interest in me other than in brief, passing thoughts. But you have ever remained a fixed point in my mind and in my heart, and if for no other reason than my own sense of peace, I put it down here and pray you never have occasion to find it. For through my delirious ramblings of the previous entry, I find that one salient point was utterly honest: I do love you. With every meager scrap of myself, I love you dearly. And despite your disinterest I feel the need to put it to paper so that I, if no one else, will know that I was and always shall be,

Yours, body and soul,

John

Holmes' hands trembled, a deep sea of turmoil balancing precariously on the edge of his mind, threatening a deluge of his senses. He could hear the din of cacophony at the base of his skull, insistent and frustrating as gnats, and a terrible whisper of dread encased his bones.

Watson was in love.

It was an unalterable fact. Somewhere in this world was the object of the good doctor's affections, and she did not return the sentiment. Holmes felt rage curl and slither through his intestines. Somewhere in this world Watson's lover sat careless and sedate, uncaring of the man she had scorned. Somewhere this woman went about her life, having known the doctor, loved him, and forgotten him. Had sampled his fine features and his remarkable character and his heart – that heart of hearts, the heart Holmes would gladly hang the world to possess – and had cast it all off like so many tarnished gems.

And Wastson! That foolish, brainless idiot, for having fallen in love with such a thoughtless tart, for having given his heart to her – and of course there would be nothing left now, Watson did nothing half-heartedly, least of all matters of the heart itself, and so he would forever remain fragmented and partial and Holmes' insides rioted as a fierce pressure built inside his skull and behind his eyes, because he had never felt so thwarted, so cheated before in his life.

He knew it would fail, from the very beginning he knew, from the moment he saw Watson limp down to the pier, broken and alone and he made that ill-conceived offer of respite; he knew this entire affair would explode in his face like a miscalculated chemical reaction, and still he permitted this to fester and grow, had even nurtured this ridiculous preoccupation and he should have known better, he had known better, how could he have possibly fooled himself that the outcome would be anything other than debilitating, and the answer is that he hadn't, he hadn't, but still he persisted because he'd been happy, God, he had been happy, for the first time in years, the first time since they met, and yet –

There were footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, uneven, firm. Watson was home earlier than Holmes had anticipated. How had he not heard the front door?

He was about to be caught red-handed in the act of violating his flatmate's privacy, a very serious offense that would have equally serious ramifications for their relationship.

Holmes didn't feel guilty in the slightest. Or anxious. Only deep, molten anger.

"Holmes?" he heard the doctor call as he made his way up the stairs to his room. "Holmes, are you still here, old boy?"

Hand on the doorknob, quick turn, door pushed in.

"Stamford and I finished early, so I thought we might -"

Watson stood in the doorway, his proposed activity lost for all time to a dumb, shocked stupor. "Holmes, what are you -" then those blue eyes spotted the brown leather-bound journal, and they widened with horror.

Holmes didn't flinch.

"What do you think you're doing?" the doctor demanded.

The taller man merely twisted his gaze to look with feigned disinterest at the book still clutched in his hand.

"So, when shall you be leaving me, doctor?" he asked coolly.

Watson blinked, expression slowly heating with anger. "What? Holmes, I asked what you are doing with my private journal!"

"It was mere child's play to deduce its location. Only a complete imbecile would be taken in by your frankly pathetic attempts at subterfuge." Watson winced at that, but Holmes shoved the answering spike in his chest away. "And now my question, dear Watson: when shall you be leaving me?"

He shook his head roughly, "Holmes, I'm not -"

"Don't you dare lie to me!" It hadn't been bellowed, but the sheer fury managed to somehow resound through the small attic room. "It was perhaps blind naïveté on my part that I thought you might surpass the predictable, prurient prophesy of Reginald Musgrave, and I am reasonable enough to own that. But it is evident from recent events that you are developing a circle of associates that does not include me, and who have begun to take precedence in your life. And then there is the matter of these . . . letters," Holmes barely choked the words around the disgusted dam in his throat, "if one could call such one-sided drivel a real correspondence. You clearly are in possession of those insipid and utterly useless softer emotions as you have expounded endlessly on them to someone, a spoiled society man's daughter, no doubt, who has found better prospects since you left for war. And you knew, even as you wrote them that she would never love you back, yet you foolishly poured your heart out regardless. How tragically pitiful."

Watson looked wrecked and miserable and utterly broken, because of course he'd known all this, he'd said as much in the letters themselves, but Holmes simply could not help himself, couldn't seem to stop reiterating every painful, venomous fact.

"She was undoubtedly of average beauty and completely vapid, the sort that generally appeals to the hopelessly romantic. Probably now wed off to a cretin who treats her horribly because she was too unspeakably idiotic to wait for someone at least halfway decent, not to mention -"

"—I will not hear another word against the object of those letters!" Watson cut in, his look of bleakness thrown off in favor of ire, defensive, righteous anger, defending her, and Holmes felt his vision go red, but the doctor heeded none of this and pressed on. "I know them to be the best and wisest person I ever met, and I won't stand for you belittling them so callously!"

"Oh, so the good doctor displays some spine at last!" Holmes sneered. "I had wondered about its existence, you see."

"A coward? Me? You are accusing me of cowardice?"

"I realize the remark may have been above your pitiable level of cognizance, but yes, that was the intention."

Watson's glare grew dark. "How dare you -"

"—How dare I? Simply, when I hold the proof of your cowardice in my hands! Despite your floridly-stated adoration, you couldn't even manage to send your lover a single one of these infernal letters. You are forever running away, John Watson, it is the only thing I have ever known you to do in our acquaintance!"

"Perhaps because you were never there at all! You accuse me of retreating with my tail between my legs, when you were so cowardly, you were never even present! You hid, every single bloody time!"

"And your fickle lover, John, did she ever write to you? Did she ever wonder where you were? If you were alive? I'd wager she forgot all about you when you ran away from her as well. I would wager she never thought of you to begin w-"

"—They were to you!" John suddenly shouted, breathing hard, face red with rage, eyes wet with abject misery.

A thunderous silence fell in the small space, broken only by harsh respirations, the subtle creakings of old houses, and the gentle implosions of Holmes' mind. He was certain he had misheard. He had to have. Anything else was impossible. Unthinkable.

His ears were ringing.

He couldn't breathe.

"I . . ." John started, "I wanted—they were . . ." he sighed. "They were all written to you. All of them. I never addressed them or included details, for fear of someone coming upon the notebook in my tent and . . . finding me out. It . . . you were all I—it was cowardice." He looked so low, defeated, and Holmes had done this, had reduced such a wonderful, such a perfect man to this.

He felt ill.

"It was cowardice that stopped me from ever sending them. I knew you couldn't ever . . . I mean, how could you ever think of a simple farm boy, why would you ever want to? And then I was dying and it didn't matter anymore. But then I recovered and was slated to return to England, and it mattered even less, because surely you would have forgotten me by then. And when you suddenly appeared at the docks-"

Watson broke off with a sad, grim smile that was more heartbreak than anything.

"It was unbelievable. It still is, to this day, that you would ever – that you could ever think of me—I knew I could never let you see the letters, or risk losing what small regard you had for me and that . . . it simply couldn't be borne. I am so very, very sorry, Holmes." He swallowed heavily, eyes over-bright and staring at the floor. "I'll be gone as soon as I find lodgings, if you would be kind enough to permit the imposition. Only I beg you not to notify the police."

And Holmes' heart—which had heretofore been of dubious existence—shattered into microfragments. He still couldn't breathe, and his doctor simply stood there, sad and sweet and so damnably beloved, and Holmes knew in that moment if he did not touch John Watson immediately, he would die.

The book fell to the floor somewhere, he didn't know where, there was a thud, it didn't matter, John was on the other side of the room, thank God it was so small, it only took three long steps, and –

- Holmes' hands were on him then, finally, heart beating wildly as he wrapped arms round the smaller man's shoulders, fingers sliding up into soft brown hair, and Watson seized up sharp as though pained, and Holmes nearly panicked, nearly let him go just as fast, until the doctor gasped a soft, wet sound and went languid in his arms, and he decided then and there that he would never let Watson go again for as long as he lived.

It was a foolish and irrational thought.

He didn't care.

"Holmes," Watson breathed, desperate, and then his hands were clutching at the detective's back, fingers curled ruthlessly in the fabric of his waistcoat and hanging on as though a strong wind were trying to wrench him away. Holmes tightened his hold, touching his temple to John's and nuzzling fervently into the soft hair above his ear. He could feel the doctor's breath against his throat where his collar had come askew and he swallowed heavily, possessed of a sudden, overwhelming need to taste.

"John," he whispered, lips pursed in a firm kiss against the man's smooth, sunned skin just above his jaw. "My John. My dear doctor," more kisses, light and almost frantic, pressed to the side of that lovely face as Holmes spoke, "how can you still feel this way for me? How is it you don't despise me? I am monstrous."

Holmes felt something sudden and sharp against the tendon in his neck and he gasped, surprise giving him pause before the blood in his veins heated to a simmer as he realized Watson just bit me. He thought his brain might be liquefying.

"You are nothing of the sort," Watson muttered, his lips still cradling Holmes' skin, bristles of his mustache scratching deliciously at the bright new mark on his neck.

Holmes shuddered and drew them closer together, bringing their bodies into an instinctual alignment that he had never once thought about but knew nonetheless, and he thought his mind, so imminently practical and logical and ordered, would be protesting more to this animalistic abandon, except it wasn't, as though all those previous occasions of contact with John, where his mind had simply shut itself down, were all priming him for this, this deep, breathless insistence, this insane need to bite and lick and press and own.

He wouldn't stop if the murder of the century took place that very moment in the hall right outside the bedroom door.

With a slight rumble at the back of his throat, Holmes took the hair twined round his fingers and tugged, swallowing the surprised gasp from Watson's mouth by pressing his own to it, wide open and devouring. If he was cataloguing taste and texture and the differences between their respective teeth alignments, he wasn't doing it consciously. All he was truly conscious of was heat and wet and more, more, deeper, want.

Fingers were curled in his collar, snaking into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Watson was plastered so tightly to the entire front of his body, making these lovely, lost little sounds into the detective's mouth that Holmes was very nearly driven mad with the desire to take this wonderful man apart, hear him whimper and beg. His hands roamed down the doctor's back, pushing aside his coat, fingers slipping beneath the waistcoat still a little too big on Watson's thinner-than-normal frame, marveling at the warmth of hidden flesh radiating through the white cotton shirt. He wanted that skin desperately, wanted to press his finger tips in, leave bruises that would never fade, mark this man as his in the most primal way.

Watson moaned, pulling back to take a much-needed lungful of air, tugging sharply at the fabric on his shoulders even as he pleaded softly, "Please, I need to touch you, please Holmes, please," and Holmes growled low, all the way down to his shoes as he pushed the doctor back and began tearing at his own collar, seams of his waistcoat protesting, buttons from his shirt flying away in his rough treatment and suddenly Watson was right there, strong, calloused hands mapping his torso, curling around his prominent ribs, stroking down his flanks to the waistband of his trousers. Holmes bit his lip and stared, enchanted by the hypnotic feel of those hands all over him and the sight of dark skin against his pale, concave stomach. As a curious finger trailed a slow circle around the skin of his right nipple, Holmes tipped his head back and groaned, his own hands reaching out to bring the doctor closer once more, feeling something tight and unbearably hot coil in his lower abdomen. Lips followed the hands, Watson bending to suck kisses against his throat, nibbling at bowed collarbones until finally he ducked even lower and took Holmes' other nipple in his mouth, fingers still tracing and tweaking at the right and it tore a shockingly loud moan from Holmes' throat before he could even think of holding it in, body shuddering and fingers twisting tighter into the hair at the back of Watson's head. He growled in reply, nipping the skin still between his lips and Holmes made a softer, more helpless noise at that, his thoughts in sincere danger of being inundated by all these foreign sensations and that simply wouldn't do.

He refused to let Watson undo him entirely before he even managed to get the daft man's jacket off.

No matter how good he was with his hands. Doctor's hands, even, firm and confident and—oh—dexterous. Very dexterous. Holmes couldn't . . . he—oh God, harder—he couldn't think, he could barely breathe, he . . .

"—Christ, Watson," he groaned, bucking his hips sharply and delighting in a new, deeper pleasure as the heat between his legs met the inescapable hardness in the doctor's trousers and he needed to remove this man's clothes immediately or perish.

"Off, get these off," he snarled, ripping the tweed jacket from Watson's shoulders and starting just as mercilessly on the buttons of his waistcoat while the doctor stood there, panting and wide-eyed, still too preoccupied with Holmes' skin to help with his own disrobing.

That is, until all that remained was the white cotton shirt, at which point Watson seemed to realize what was happening; muscles tightened and those blue eyes darkened not with desire, but alarm. Holmes felt a brief moment of panic that he had somehow misread this situation—insane as that idea was, seeing as he was bare-chested and in possession of several lurid bite marks all over his neck and shoulders. But Watson's body was very clearly closed off, his own shoulders hunching and curling inward even though he could not seem to bear removing his hands from where they were grasping Holmes' waist. His gaze was averted to the floor.

"Watson?" Holmes asked, hands leaving the partially open folds of shirt to slip under the fabric where he had pulled it from the man's waistband, part of him rejoicing in the feel of warm, smooth skin even as the rest of his faculties were bent toward solving this new dilemma. Did Watson regret starting this escapade? Was he unsure of Holmes' intentions? True, he hadn't actually said anything about his own feelings on the matter, but he had thought it fairly obvious. Maybe Watson needed further assurance?

He sighed, thumbs stroking in circles against the doctor's hips.

"My dear, are you all right?"

Watson cleared his throat.

"I'm . . . yes, I'm fine, it's only. . ."

He broke off, eyes squeezing closed, fingers digging in tighter against Holmes' sides.

"What is it, love?"

Watson's gaze snapped back up at that, and no, it had not been a slip of the tongue. Holmes said it with full intention. He was also adamantly not blushing as Watson stared at him with eyes bright and impossibly blue.

"You," he breathed, "You . . . you said -"

"I did, yes. Do you have any objection?"

He also would deny sounding like a petulant child just then until the day he passed from this world.

Watson blinked. "No. None at all, just . . . you never gave any indication, or . . ."

"To be fair, I hadn't properly identified the sensation until last night after leaving your room," Holmes said briskly, but when the only reaction he got was a nervous swallow and another fluttering blink from Watson, he smiled soothingly and murmured, "I've felt it for some time, though. I merely lacked anything with which to compare it, and as I have been told on several occasions, matters of the heart do not come naturally to me. It took rather longer than the average person might for me to finally apply the correct term to the feeling."

Watson smiled back, looking sly yet infinitely fragile, "I love you too, Holmes."

And yes, he had seen it in writing, though that was before he knew it was addressed to himself, but it was something else entirely to hear the words from Watson's delectable mouth, to hear his voice curl tenderly around the words, how sincere they were as they brushed softly against Holmes' ears.

A tightness seized his throat just then, and he wanted to taste Watson all over again.

But first . . .

"Let me see you, then. Please, Watson," he said, a near whisper, plucking at the loose tails of the half-open shirt, and Watson blushed but still twisted his eyes to the floor again, gnawing on his bottom lip.

"I'm not -" but he stopped, letting out a shuddering breath before straightening his shoulders, steeling himself for whatever unpleasantness he thought was about to take place. "I'm not how I used to be, Holmes. I'm . . . very much different, in fact. I don't really look . . ." he paused, swallowed, "I don't look like I did before. At Cambridge. I'm not -"

Holmes dove in and claimed the doctor's lips firmly, mouth closed but full of passion, trying to stop the outpouring of nonsense that Watson seemed so stuck upon.

When he pulled back Watson was breathing heavy and staring at him with something like wonder in his gaze. Holmes smiled.

"Watson, as I said a moment ago, I hadn't even confirmed that I wanted you until last night—or early this morning, if you rather. At Cambridge, I had no idea what to think or feel about any of this. It's you, as you are right now, that I cannot live without."

Watson inhaled sharply before seizing Holmes by either side of his head and pulling into a searing, bruising kiss, tongue thrusting urgently into the detective's mouth and Holmes groaned, pulling Watson closer, relearning the exquisite feel of their weight shifting together. While he was kissed to the very edges of his sanity, he felt Watson let him go, never losing the contact of their lips, to make short work of the rest of his buttons and shrug his shirt off as though he'd never experienced a moment of insecurity in his life.

It pained him, but Holmes finally broke the kiss, but only to better see the delights Watson hid beneath his finery: lush, bronze skin overlaying firm muscle that had perhaps been diminished by sickness but no less present for all that, and Holmes' mouth went dry as he watched those abdominals ripple and contract as he lightly ran his fingers down the center of Watson's belly. Copper nipples were already peaked, tight and reaching out for him and he was helpless to resist a quick swipe of his tongue over one, fighting off the smug smile when Watson's gasp of pleasure met his ears. He was so responsive, so lovely, Holmes' long hands encompassing almost the entire breadth of the man's waist when he spread them wide, and while part of him vowed he would fatten the doctor up just as soon as he had the means to do so, another, very visceral part purred to see Holmes possessing the man in such a blatant way.

And then, left to the last deliberately, was the scar. It was both less and more than he had expected: it wasn't nearly as large as he thought it might have been, though it was substantial, looking more like a sprawling spider web than a pitted cavern, with clear indications that it had not been the initial wound but rather the subsequent illness that had caused the most damage. It was also much pinker than he'd anticipated. Despite the months of steady recuperation it still looked raw and new, and perhaps painful, so Holmes barely breathed as he leaned down and gently, soft as butterfly wings, laid a kiss to the center of the web.

Watson's reaction to this was the most unexpected part of the entire affair. He didn't shiver or hiss and flinch away and try to hide again. Instead he gulped a stuttered sob and, with fingers still twisting restlessly in Holmes' hair, dragged him firmer in, closer, panting, "More, Holmes, more."

Holmes then pressed the flat of his tongue against the scar and laved it in strong, broad strokes, curling one hand down over the man's resplendent arse and hauling him tight against his body while the other hand pinched and rolled a tempting nipple, relishing the agonized moan this drew from Watson like a starving man would a luscious steak. When Watson began thrusting helplessly against him, Holmes choked on his own wild noise as he tore himself away from that fascinating scar to claim the doctor's mouth once more.

"I need to have you," he grunted, both hands now gripping at cloth-covered arse and rolling Watson's hips faster. "Let me have you, John. Let me take you, right now."

"Oh God!" Watson wailed before sinking his teeth into Holmes shoulder, nails scraping down his back, movement of his hips becoming more desperate and Holmes could only shake with the need of it. A deliciously hard suck at the new mark made Holmes' vision white-out briefly, and then Watson dragged his mouth up to his ear and nibbled along the edge, huffing out around a moan, "Anything, Christ, Holmes, anything!"

Something inside the consulting detective completely and irrevocably snapped.

A snarl grew violent and deep in his chest and he was moving, moving Watson, pushing him back across the room and suddenly the desk was just behind them and he pushed, pulled, maneuvered Watson up on to the edge of it before insinuating himself between the doctor's spread thighs, remembering to give extra care to the injured one through sheer luck alone as all the rest of his focus was centered on now and heat and John and nownownownownow and it took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that he was muttering furiously while trying—unsuccessfully—to undo the fastenings on the other man's trousers.

"I want to feel you," he growled, mere inches from Watson's gasping mouth, "I want to make you forget everyone and everything that could take you away from me, I want to make you mine."

Watson tugged sharply on his hair, drawing his attention to his blue eyes wide and blown inky black with lust and love and everything else that has been hovering between them for much too long.

"I am yours," he said, deep and final, the tone of voice Holmes imagined he made good use of in the military. Something dangerous clenched pleasurably in the detective's gut, and he knew he would never let this man go for the rest of his life, not to anyone and certainly not to imbeciles like bloody Stamford! To prove his point, Watson untangled one had from its passionate grip of Holmes' hair to press, firm and deliberate, at the throbbing length in his own trousers and Holmes threw his head back, made a long, unintelligible noise at the blinding pleasure coursing through his blood and making it sing. There was tugging and pulling and soon a draft followed quickly by warmth not his own and calluses where he had none and Watson was touching his cock—

"Ohhh!"

It sounded broken and helpless but Holmes could not be bothered to care, couldn't bring himself to feel shame anymore than he could stop himself from burying his face into the crook of John's neck and jerking into the loose circle of his hand. His cock was blood-gorged and more erect than it had ever been, foreskin pulled back to reveal the head pearly with liquid and the sight of Watson's hand—tan and strong and sure and weathered—wrapped around him was quickly proving to be too much—

Watson whimpered just then, eyes trained down, watching what Holmes was watching and gnawing on his bottom lip, hips twitching in sympathy.

"Touch me, Holmes," he begged, free hand gripping now the back of his neck to keep him close. "Please, God, I need your touch, I need to feel you too, please!"

Holmes rallied himself as best he could—given the circumstances—and went once more for the doctor's trousers, bypassing the perilous fastenings to simply rip them open at the seams, pushing the folds of fabric out of the way and feeling through the opening of his pants and there—oh God, there—was Watson's cock, thick and hard and steadily leaking in a patch of hair several shades darker than the hair on his head and he fit so perfectly in Holmes' hand. Watson sobbed in relief, hand tightening on Holmes' shaft, which in turn made Holmes grip Watson harder, until they were both pressed as close as possible and rutting against one another frantically.

Watson drew his legs up and wound them around Holmes' waist—an image that would stay with him every waking moment until senility struck—and squeezed Holmes somehow closer, mewling and gasping into his ear. It was meltingly good, but the angles were awkward and the space limited and Holmes was starting to get frustrated until Watson let him go, grabbing his own hand to stop him as well, muttering, "Like this, follow me, do it like this, love."

With that, Watson wrapped Holmes' long hand around the bases of both their cocks, pressing them hot and dripping right up against one another, while Watson's hand surrounded the sensitive heads. "Now go."

And it worked, thoroughly. It took a few seconds to develop a proper rhythm but soon they slid together effortlessly, Watson clinging to Holmes' body as he rubbed frantic circles into the gathering dew at the tips and Holmes braced one hand on the desk as he thrust into their combined channels, dragging sweetly against the hard length of Watson, both of them needful and hurried, breathless, the slick sounds in the room loud and obscene even as it was drowned out by moans steadily going hoarse. It was gorgeous and lightening and so, so good, but it couldn't last, it wasn't an activity designed to last, and they licked feverishly into each other's mouths , sloppy, uncoordinated, as they bucked and thrust and ground together, leaking oh God leaking faster, hips faster, Watson's hand in Holmes' hair yanking and Holmes' nails scraping over wood and muscles shivering, contracting, the heat low in their bellies uncurling, reaching, growing pulsing—oh oh oh—

They found completion at the same time, completely silent other than their harsh, panting breaths and quiet murmurs of satisfaction. Holmes was a long while coming back to reality, only dully aware that they were both covered in sweat and semen and that his trousers were no doubt irredeemable. His face was still pressed to Watson's neck, breath coming in great heaves, luxuriating in the feel of their chests touching with each exhalation, the doctor's fingers gentle in his hair now, soothing the ache his passion had caused. Words seemed impossible to contemplate, much less produce, but Holmes knew he had to, or at least thought he had to. Don't people usually converse after something like this? Especially two sodomites who risk the gallows with each meaningful touch? He was more than out of his element in this matter, and though animal instinct had served him surprisingly well until now, now was the point where those individuals who had any experience or idea of what they were doing would be most useful.

Holmes was decidedly not that individual. So he nuzzled closer, inhaling the luscious aroma of skin and sweat and sex and Watson, filling the room and cocooning them both for just a few moments longer.

Of course it was Watson—with nerves and a sense of duty forged in some of the most hellish places on earth—who soldiered them forward, moving his hand from Holmes' hair and pressing it against his face, pushing him back just enough so that their eyes could meet.

He was smiling, happy and delightfully post-orgasmic, but with the slightest hint of hesitation in the way the corner of his lips trembled. Before he could even think to stop himself, Holmes moved in to kiss, quick and chaste, at the corner of that lovely mouth, then leaning back again to look into Watson's blue, blue eyes lit up with something startlingly like joy.

"Hello," he murmured soft and the slightest bit rough, the pitch of it sending a sluggish, pleasant shiver down Holmes' spine.

His own lips tugged upward without thought.

"Hello, Watson."

He was gratified to see a beautiful blush spread across the doctor's cheeks at the sound of his voice. It was comforting to know that he was not the only one frequently driven to distraction.

Watson laughed then, exhausted and a bit delirious.

"We are choice fools, wouldn't you say?" he said, thumb rubbing gently over Holmes' cheekbone, which somehow caused warmth to bloom in his chest.

"It has been a most absurdly convoluted process, I will admit. Though I feel I must take the bulk of the blame."

Watson arched an eyebrow at that.

"How so?"

Holmes shifted a bit, uncomfortable as always to be admitting his faults. His thumb circled around the doctor's bare hip in an effort to distract.

Watson was having none of it.

"Holmes," he said, tone both questioning and warning.

He huffed, trying to arrest his mouth before it twisted into a pout.

"I only meant, my dear, that had I been more observant we might have been spared much of this agonizing wait."

The doctor's smile then was soft and a little rueful as he dragged gentle fingers through his hair.

"If I had been less of a coward, we would not have needed your skills of observation," he said.

Holmes shook his head, removing his hand from the desk to press his thumb against Watson's mouth, momentarily enjoying the contrast between plush lips and bristled mustache, and he wanted to kiss him again, perhaps forever.

"You are not, and have never been, a coward. It was wrong of me to ever have implied otherwise, and I ask that you strive to forget my injustices, manifold as they are. You were merely being practical. Why would you bear your soul to me when I so rarely demonstrated that I even possessed one? Why would you share your affection when I never once treated you as you deserved? Why would you risk your very life and freedom to reveal your true feelings when I acted as a heartless, thoughtless monster? No, dear, if one of us is a fool it is I, for never realizing that you only offered your heart to me every time we have ever been together since the moment we met. I believe it will remain my life's greatest failing."

Watson had blushed to the roots of his hair and tears welled in his eyes, making them burn a bright sapphire and Holmes was right, it was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, so very beautiful, but this time he could rejoice in it because this time it did not mean shame or agony for his love, but elation; incandescent joy.

And Holmes had done this.

He could die happy, he supposed, but only if he could spend eternity thereafter kissing John Watson.

Which he was now currently engaged in, as Watson had made a desperate sound in the back of his throat and then surged forward, grasping the back of Holmes' neck and taking his mouth like the world would crumble beneath them. Holmes pulled him close and sunk into it with the abandon of a natural-born addict.

"I love you," Watson whispered between feverish kisses, "I love you so much, you are so gorgeous and so brilliant, it's hard to believe you are real." He pressed his forehead to the detective's and stared intently into his eyes. "Tell me to stay. Tell me to stay, Holmes, and I will never leave you."

"Stay," he breathed. "Stay with me. I cannot promise I will never hurt you again, but I can promise that I will always want to be better. You make me better. Stay, my dear. Be mine."

They kissed again, passionately at first, but then the weight of spent emotion and spent emissions began to dull their ardor, and the kisses gentled to affectionate nudges and shared breath. Watson chuckled then, sighing giddily, "And to think I loved you before I even knew your name! It seems so terribly Shakespearean."

Holmes snorted in amusement and bent to nuzzle at Watson's throat again, when a sudden thought managed to wriggle through the thick wall of pleasure and satisfaction in his mind to finally draw his attention. Something about what Watson said tugged at his memory—loving him before he knew his name . . . the first time Holmes ever recalled Watson using his name was when he had been packing in his dorm room and Holmes had barged in to tell him what a fool he was being for having enlisted. So Watson had loved him before that? That was possible, but that wasn't quite it, there was something more, something about the remark of not knowing Holmes' name, as though it were odd. When was it odd to not know a person's name? When you loved them? When you were related to them? When you saw them every day? When you knew everything else about them? But for all that those situations fell well within the purview of being "odd," most of those scenarios could be amended from the very beginning with a simple introduction—

That was it. The introduction.

On a small hillock in Jedburgh, on summer holiday to Scotland, a young lad playing at swashbucklers had introduced himself as John to a younger, much smaller boy who had sat in the grass and watched him. The younger boy never gave his name.

You hid, he remembered John shouting, not even an hour before, You hid every single bloody time.

He hadn't noticed, too wrapped up in jealousy and rage and cruelty to realize what Watson had truly said. All these years, since the moment he saw John run into the chemical lab at Cambridge looking for his misplaced doctor's bag, he had thought he was the only one to remember that hillock in Scotland. He had thought he was the only one to have been affected, to never quite be able to strike that brief, innocuous interaction from his memory, because John hadn't seemed to recall him. He thought he was being hopeless and pathetic; delusional, even. But as he reviewed those moments of interaction, those memories of Watson that he hoarded greedily in his mind, when Watson was only his and not another soul was there, he remembered his eyes most of all. The glow of their blue irises, the way they melted and shifted to suit his temperament, and those quick flashes of something, the Something, that he always saw and never could define.

"You remembered," he said, before he knew he would say it, and Watson simply looked steadily at him, watching him, before a slow smile quirked his mustache and brightened his face as he read the Great Detective's mind as only he could.

"Of course I did, Holmes. You are a very hard man to forget, after all."

And then his smile grew broader, wide and guileless, and the Something was there, beaming before him with the weight of all the day's revelations behind it and finally, finally, Holmes understood.

He did not know what his answering smile looked like, but he imagined it couldn't be very different.

"You are a most remarkable individual, John Watson. I do believe this partnership will be quite successful."

Watson laughed loudly and pulled Holmes into a fierce embrace that he was loathe to leave. And now he would never have cause to. Later there would be talks of discretion, the proper way to carry out their affair to avoid suspicion, and mournful mutterings of all the lost time, but for now they were unfettered by such dark considerations, thoughts concerned only with each other, and the remainder of their clothes and the rather sturdy bed mere feet away.

Much later, after Holmes had made a thorough study of every bare inch of Watson's skin and laid claim to it with fingers and tongue, and the sun had began to sink further behind the buildings across Baker St., Holmes had thrown on his trousers and Watson's dressing gown from the wardrobe door to run down to the sitting room and retrieve his pipe—"And supper, Holmes, I heard Mrs. Hudson bring it up an hour ago and some of us have a keen interest in keeping up our stamina." It was upon entering the cluttered room that he noticed, sitting propped against the tin cover of their meal on the sideboard, a telegram which had not been there before. Clearly Mrs. Hudson had brought it up with their food—and they were sure to be scolded blisteringly tomorrow for not eating properly—along with the rest of the evening post. A deep suspicion was growing in his gut as he picked up the thin envelope and tore it open.

His suspicions, as always, were proven correct.

CONGRATULATIONS ON CESSATION OF YOUR BLIND IDIOCY STOP. WISHING ALL THE HAPPINESS YOU ARE CAPABLE OF STOP. GIVE THE DOCTOR MY REGARDS END STOP.

-M.

He had thought that was the end of it, but a brief post-script had been included, near the bottom of the card.

PS. I WILL ACCEPT PAYMENT FOR CHICHESTER DAMAGES AS SUITABLE SHOW OF GRATITUDE END STOP.

Holmes growled and crumpled the telegram up before throwing it into the withering sparks of the sitting room fire, though his irritation could not quite stop the upward curve of his lips. He would probably never pay the money he owed Mycroft, and he knew he would never say thank you. But perhaps there were other concessions he could make.

His eyes slid over to the Moroccan case sitting boldly in the middle of their mantle piece before he looked away again, grabbing his pipe and the Persian slipper and dashing back towards the staircase.

"Holmes, if you do not have that tray of food with you, you can forget about entering this room again for the remainder of the night," Watson called before he even reached the landing and he stopped, looking down at his hands empty of any kind of legitimate sustenance, and he permitted an amused snort loud enough that Watson heard, which started him laughing as well, and Holmes turned and headed back to the sitting room lest he incite his lover's very formidable temper.

Tomorrow would be a day for oaths and sacrifice and secrecy.

Tonight, Holmes wanted to know what cranberry chutney tasted like when licked off the thighs of a singularly enthusiastic Army doctor.

THE END (END STOP).

Yes. It's over. We can all breath a sigh of relief. I am actually really worried about the effect of the pronz, having never written book!canon Holmes/Watson before, and therefore having no concept of the proper way to write Victorian smut. If it felt like I lost the feel of the period there, I apologize greatly. Also, Holmes=MASSIVE OOC, but I also just explained it to myself that him being in love is OOC to begin with, so how much can I really muck it up, in the end? (Answer: spectacularly). Again, thanks so much for reading this, and reviews as always make my life worth living!