Hello everyone,

glad you found this little work of mine. It only is a little oneshot but I do hope you still like it.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are not mine but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's and Guy Ritchie's.
This story was beta'd by High-Functioning Ginger, thank you so much!
The only warning applying here is the slash warning for the pairing of Holmes x Watson.
Have fun reading and I hope you enjoy it.

A collusive game

The grey slush that was snow sat upon London's streets, it had lost the crisp whiteness a considerable time ago.
It was now starting to melt beneath the warming rays of the February sun. It urged people from their homes and blankets, onto the streets and into the world, though winter still hung close. It made for an unusually warm spring in England and most people took advantage of went out by going more often, meeting with others for strolls in Hyde Park and sitting down in little cafés to chit-chat and talk about everything and anything.

Except for one person.
Sherlock Holmes, the great London Detective, spent the whole day standing behind one of the living room windows of Baker Street 221B and glaring down morosely at the cheerful and bustling activities on the streets. Every time a hansom passed he rolled his eyes. He moaned in annoyance when an amorous couple walked by, arm in arm.
He angrily huffed at his pipe, causing huge smoke rings to hang in the air.

«Holmes?»Somebody called from the door with a light knock. The detective started slightly at the unexpected interruption. He turned swiftly on his heel to find his dear friend and flatmate Dr. John Watson watching him with a look of mild concern. Composing himself he threw John a smile and answered

«What's the matter, old boy?»

«Oh, nothing», was the answer, «I am just a bit worried about you. You haven't had a case in some time. You haven't left the flat from the first day of this month and it's already the 13th. It's not good for you to be hulled up in these dingy chambers for so long», he continued, a mild reproach in his explanation, allowing concern to further soften his features.

Holmes grunted contemptuously and turned back to the window again muttering «Ridiculous.»

«It's not ridiculous. As your doctor, I can tell that you most certainly need fresh air and soon! Just look at you, Holmes! » Watson looked insisted and drug him in front of the mirror that hung above Holmes's desk as of late.

Holmes grumbled at first , trying to shove Watson's hands from his shoulder and move away, but with his military training Watson was able to hold him firmly in place. Eventually he gave in and looked at himself.

He was stirred with a sense of disquiet at his own appearance, but managed hide his concern from Watson. He was unbelievable pale, contrasted by dark circle under his eyes. His cheeks were gaunt and sallow and he felt exactly as morose and weary he looked. He let a soft sigh escape him. was unbelievable pale, his cheeks were shrunken and he felt exactly as sad and tired as his eyes looked.

He sighed.

«See», Watson said, «You need to go for a walk!»

«I don't want to.» Holmes grumbled, before tuning him out. He'd learned that when he sulked Watson's sympathetic nature born of his medical training took over and he would usually step in to entertain and care for him. He would fill the silent smoky air with his amiable chatter, focusing on subjects liable to interest Holmes and enliven the conversation with his occasional streak of sharp-witted humour that always ensured a smile from Holmes.
Those were the moments in which Sherlock did not feel so alone and he craved them.

«Why not, Holmes?», the doctor enquired.

«The people outside are so cheerful. It's irritating. They're so easily entertained by their dull lives. Sunlight and fresh air are not my forte. It's predictable. », the detective responded and crossed his arms.

Watson let out a sigh of exasperation, casting his mind about for a solution. Holmes couldn't stay in here on his own, he'd make himself ill. Loyal as always he offered, «Holmes, what would you think about a walk with my company?»

He had many other obligations that he should be tending to with his practice, but he cared more for his long-time friend than the patients awaiting him.

«If needs must...», Holmes conceded with a reluctant sigh, disdain evident in his voice. «But not today!», he continues with a light of mirth in his eyes. Watson may be steadfest and insistent about the matter but that doesn't mean he's going to play along easily. What's the amusement in that?

The doctor nodded, agreeing. «Then we'll meet tomorrow at one o'clock PM sharp next to the green bench in Hyde Park. You know which one I mean. And be on time», he finishes, throwing Holmes a firm look.

Holmes turned sidewards and held his head high, arrogantly. «I've never been late to anything in my life», he retorts, with an air of mock offence at Watson's inference.

«Of course». Watson answered with a grin at his friend's antcis. He patted him upon his shoulder and then left their flat to attend to his businesses.

Holmes sat down on his armchair, thus being able to see both door and window, crossed his legs and continued to smoke his pipe. He was deep in his thoughts.

Usually, Watson wasn't that permissive when it came to the detective's health. It surprised Holmes that Watson had not insisted on walking through London immediately.

However, Sherlock just shrugged and didn't concentrate on this issue anymore. He secretly looked forward to their meeting the next day and spent the rest of the day with smoking, playing the violin and grinning, though he couldn't explain why if you asked.

The next morning, late riser Holmes was already awake at eight and moved around the house smoothly feeling as fresh as the new morning. Mrs Hudson was cleaning the decorations in the hall and was very astonished when she heard her tenant walking around at that time of the morning - and by the sound of his perky steps he was wide awake.

Curious, as it was her nature, she put down the feather duster, gathered her dress and walked up
the stairs to the apartment that was inhabited by the detective and the doctor. Cautiously, as she never knew what manner of experiment she might find, she pushed the door open to find the living room empty. The sound of Sherlock whistling from the bathroom pervaded the air of the flat, lightening it's mood. She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or concerned at his change in persona, as murders and macabre puzzles where usually the cause for his delight. But it's certainly better than contending with his boredom and black moods which often resulted in knives in her furniture or an explosion from his office.

«Mr Holmes», she began and raised her voice so it carried clearly across the distance, «I'm surprised to find you out of bed at such an hour.» She hoped he would answer her indirect question, but he carried on whistling, paying her no mind at all. She tried again: «I daresay that you are unusually animated this morning.» Again it was a question, implying the contrast between this and his usually cantankerous morning mood.

His voice came from the bathroom and due to the walls it sounded hollow, «I am indeed. And I hardly know why. I feel different, enlivened, content. Marvellous, isn't it?»

Shortly after that, the door swung open and Holmes's head and his naked torso were shown. He grinning, no, beaming from ear to ear and holding a razor loftily in his hand.

Mrs Hudson gasped, quickly squinnied and turned away from the seminude man.

«Mr Holmes!», she protested indignantly.

«What is the problem, my dear?» Holmes inquired with a laugh colouring his tone. Puzzled, the landlady frowned. Her tenant is never like this, his behaviour was completely atypical. He usually was quiet, serious, mature.

He had his eccentricities to be sure, but generally one would describe him as reserved and stoic. Being so exuberant and cheeky weren't in his nature. Not at all. And the fact that he shaved himself, by his own choice, did not fit his character either for he usually kept a three-day beard. Utterly bemused, she turned her mind for some explanation and the only one that manifested itself in her mind was that he might've taken something or was on a case and polishing his acting skills. Troubled by the oddity of it all she rushed from the room.

Holmes continued to get himself ready for the walk with Watson and stepped out of the house at about a quarter past twelve. He flagged down a Hansom carriage and was chauffeured to Hyde Park. There was a lot of traffic today, apparently there were thousands of excursionists that wanted to enjoy the sunny day.

It came suddenly into Holmes's mind that it was Valentine's Day. A day of foolish recovery for those naive enough to believe in romance and sentiment. The thought of amorous couples impeding upon his afternoon stroll was nearly enough to drive him back to 221B. But he'd promised Watson a walk, and he was adept at ignoring those distasteful to him, so that is what he would do now.

About twenty minutes later, Sherlock arrived at Hyde Park. He paid the cabbie, patted the elegant bay draft horse on its neck before putting his hands into his coat pockets and strolling to the entrance of the park.

In his typical way of observing everything around him he looked around and examined the people from afar.

Young, blonde woman. Well-dressed. Pretty nervous. Rumpling up her dress, negligent. Seems to have a date with somebody who is important to her.

He looked at an elderly gentleman.

Waiting impatiently, continues staring at his watch. Seems like a gambling chap has forgotten their

date. I can see the corner of a playing card peeking out of his jacket.

Holmes breathed a sigh.

He did miss deductioning and combining, puzzling out answers. A lot, in fact.

It was his work, his life.

As Watson had said yesterday, he hadn't had a case in far too long. No mysteries to entertain his mind, no criminal to track and chase. Would that explain his peculiar behaviour?

Quite possible.

His mind needed stimulation or else it would turn upon him. But that didn't explain his extreme, almost ecstatic happiness to finally see Watson and to spend time with him. What is the reason for his quickening heartbeat, though? What, just what? Its a mystery to him, but not one that he enjoys lingering on.

Holmes shook his head desperately, trying to shake his errant thoughts from them.

He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the clock-watch. There wasn't much time left.

He tilted his head back and looked at the blue sky. The Marble Arch rose up to it in a majestic way.

Sherlock smirked. He loved being here in London.

But only the presence of Watson could make this day perfect.

Slowly, Holmes went to the green bench in Hyde Park. He and John had started their very first walk together at this spot, shortly after the doctor had moved into Baker Street. But he wasn't there yet. That was quite unusual for him. Punctuality was one of his virtues that Sherlock most appreciated.

Holmes leaned back and closed his eyes hoping to hear the familiar clattering of the doctor's walking cane on the cobbled path soon. When he opened them after about twenty minutes later, there still was no sign of Watson. He was seven minutes late.

Alarmed Sherlock sat up. Hopefully John was alright, hopefully nothing had happened to him. He looked around carefully and looked for any indications that would probably be able to tell him where Watson was. When he looked next to him he saw a little white piece of paper lying on the bench. In elegant cursive it was written «To Sem Loh».

Sem Loh?

Oh - Semloh.

Meaning... Oh- right. Holmes.

Somebody had mirrored Sherlock's name and only Watson did this when he wrote his best friend a little note. It was a sort of inside joke between them. Undoubtedly John had drafted this note. Quickly, Holmes took and unfolded the piece of paper and read what was written on it:

«My dear friend,

I do hope that you will forgive me for not being able to come to our arranged meeting.

You see, other things were in my way. Things that I cannot reveal to you yet.

Please come to Waterloo Station.

I will wait for you there.

Locker number 15.

Yours most respectfully,

John Watson»

Holmes sighed, folded the slip and put it into his pocket.

«Then I'll go to the station», he muttered to himself sullenly and hailed a carriage again.

But when he stood in front of said locker, no Watson was there. Slowly a wave of ire rose within him at this. Suddenly one of the security men came up to him, wordlessly thrusted a key into his hand and went away.

It took a while for the puzzled detective to realise that this was the key to the locker Watson had mentioned in his first note. As fast as possible, Holmes searched the locker, opened and found another piece of paper and one box of his favourite chocolates.

«My dear, dear Holmes,

I had to leave again.

As a compensation I left some chocolates for you.

some sweets for the sweet detective.»

Wait, what?

Holmes stared at the line that Watson had written and did not trust his eyes. Sweet? Surely this was a jest? But he continued reading, a grin working its way onto his face.

«To find the next venue, you have to solve a riddle, Holmes.

It shouldn't be too hard, though.

13.5 tons, used to be 17.

Born in Whitechapel.

The Voice of Britain.

Your faithful,

Watson.»

Holmes smirked.

That really was simple.

It was obvious that Watson was talking about Big Ben, the largest of the five bells in the clock tower of the Houses of Parliaments.

It used to weigh 17 tons due to a miscalculation. It broke soon after that and was replaced by a Whitechapel Foundry's new, lighter bell that, in colloquial speech, is called the Voice of Britain.

Sherlock was almost offended because Watson had asked him to solve such an easy riddle but he flagged down a new cab and made his way to the Houses of Parliament and the clock tower.

John was never to be seen there as well.

Holmes was prepared for that, though. He had never thought that their walk would start there.

But he also didn't see a piece of paper anywhere around him nor did he find something that could have helped him otherwise.

Luckily, a cabbie who was dressed very elegant tabbed him on the shoulder soon afterwards and indicated to him to get into a nearby carriage.

Holmes got on a Hansom cab for the fourth time this day, a small smirk quirking at the corner of his lips. Watson knew how much he enjoyed games and he was creating one just for him.

Next to him lay a book.

It wasn't a printed one, it was no novel, it was handwritten.

It appeared like Watson was the author who had also placed it in this carriage for him.

Curiously he took it and opened it.

«Holmes,

if you are reading this you are almost finished with this quest.

The journey through London will bring you to me.

Yours,

John»

Just a little note, quite impersonal, nothing else.

When the carriage passed Westminster Bridge, Holmes turned to the next page. It took him a bit until he understood that this was Watson's diary although the entries were addressed to Holmes. The most intimate thoughts of the doctor were now revealed.

«My dear Holmes,

do you remember our wild chase on this very bridge? When we chased this homeless boy Billy who stole our bread?

I remember it as clear as day.

Here, you've taken my hand for the very first time, Holmes.

I felt your warm fingers interlacing with mine.

An indescribably beautiful feeling.

Yours,

John»

Holmes gulped.

He did remember that moment, the moment he instinctively had grabbed Watson's hand and the moment in which he felt kind of electrified.

«Oh, Holmes,

the Thames. Our beautiful river.

I've spent my best birthday ever on it. You had invited me for a cruise on the Thames. It was not only the amazing view I had but it was your presence that made this day so unforgettable and enjoyable.

I will never forget your friendly hug you gave me when you congratulated me.

Your forever faithful John»

The following pages also contained memories of almost all places in London where Holmes and Watson had been together at least once. And every single letter revealed more and more of John's feelings and thoughts.

Somewhen the carriage stopped, Sherlock got out.

To his surprise he found himself in front of Baker Street 221B, walked up the stairs and entered.

He found Watson already awaited him and smiled at his presence.

«Well, how was your tour?», Watson inquired with a small smile playing about his lips.

«Interesting...», Holmes responded, unsure of what else to say. He peeked unnoticed at the large dining table which was already set. There were some candles on it as well.

The doctor rose and took Sherlock's hand into his own.

«You know what day is today, do you not?»

«Maybe», he responded, fighting to keep his voice neutral.

«Do you know why I sent you here?», Watson asked, keeping his hand within his grasp.

«No», Holmes admitted honestly.

«Because I feel home here. And I feel safe. Because you live here», Watson sighed, «This may sound a bit clumsy, Holmes, but ... I don't know what to do, to say anymore. I've liked and honoured you for years, as you have read in the letters. But... I don't like you just as a friend, if you understand. I've been suppressing those thoughts and feelings for quite a long time now. But now...»

He interrupted himself and took a deep breath. He then looked into the brown eyes of the smaller man.

«Holmes, I ...» He lifted a hand and cupped one cheek of the detective which had turned a lovely shade of red in the meantime.

The two men felt both comfortable and uncomfortable in this situation. Comfortable because it was the two of them, dear friends always able to trust each other. Uncomfortable because their known world was teetering upon the edge of something new and different and neither was sure what might come next.

«What is it, Watson?», Holmes prompted, his voice sounded unusually husky thus sending pleasant shivers down John's spine.

«I don't know how I am supposed to say it, Holmes... You know, it's Valentine's Day.»

«I know.»

«And I've arranged all this, the whole paper chase, only to express my feelings. My feelings for you.»

A smile found its way to the detective's face. «I know.» His tone was almost triumphant.

With a sigh of relief, Watson's facial muscles relaxed. He covered Sherlock's hands wholly because he felt more confident now.

Holmes shivered due to that touch and closed his eyes.

He still couldn't believe that Watson had the same feelings for him that he had for Watson.

Softly, Watson caressed the detective's face with his other hand and made a step towards him. They were only separated by some inches. Both had their eyes closed, felt the warm breath of the other one.

«So, what exactly is the reason you did all this, John?», Holmes asked, using his first name as opposed to the usual surname.

«The reason was ... love», Watson whispered softly.

«And the reason I participated was love as well», said Holmes superfluously. That he felt the same had been obvious by the fact that he embraced Watson instead of still holding his hand.

Soft lips captured Sherlock's, Watson's moustache tickled a tiny little bit. It was a pleasant tickle.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson kissed each other shyly and warmly and stood in their living room in a tight embrace.

It truly was their living room now. And it would always be.

Thanks so much for reading! I would love to know what you think about it!