Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and characters do not belong to me. Written purely for fun.

A/N: Written for my friend Steph, who is the biggest Holmesian I know of, and who got me into this fandom. (Originally was going to be posted in the book section but as I have not read them yet, it will be posted in the movie section of Sherlock Holmes). And this is my first Holmes fanfic, so please don't be too harsh.

Warnings: Contains slash. Holmes/Watson. If you don't like please hit the back button.

Grand Deductions

As Doctor John Watson locked up his private practice he sighed as he turned to face the street before him. It had been a long day. He glanced down at his pocket watch before making his move. Deciding to walk home instead of taking a cab, he took the usual route home. Walking down the familiar streets he passed a few familiar faces and despite his worsening mood, he remained his usual polite self and gave the odd greeting of the night and nod of his head.

A relieved sigh escaped Watson's lips when he finally turned down Baker Street and reached his lodgings, coming to an eventual stop outside of the door where a sign hung with the engraved markings, 221B. As the large, heavy door swung open, creaking on its hinges as it went, there was instantly a peculiar scent in the air. With one hand Watson reached up for his hat and placed it on the rack, his coat soon following.

Navigating through the darkened hallway, he soon found himself in the sitting area where two people were already. When his tall frame was noticed, both whispering voices cease their words and both people turned to him. One of them was the landlady and the other was the friend Watson shared these lodgings with. The woman smiled broadly and greeted him with a large, friendly smile.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson."

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, keeping his voice light. "I trust you are well?"

"Oh, yes, yes," she answered airily. "Was just having a small word with Mr. Holmes here."

Watson raised an eyebrow towards his old friend but Sherlock Holmes' face revealed nothing. He looked at the landlady again. "Pray tell, what has he done now?"

"Nothing," Holmes interrupted before Mrs. Hudson could say anything.

She turned to Holmes and gave him a sharp look before giving Watson her attention again. "I'm afraid your rooms need a little cleaning, Doctor Watson, but I shall have a couple of maids here within minutes. Relax and before you're ready for bed, your room will be back to how it was."

Mrs. Hudson excused herself from the sitting room, most likely to get the maids she had just mentioned, leaving Watson alone with his friend. He looked the man over. His scruffy and unshaven appearance fooled most people who did not know him but, of course, Watson knew better. The man was brilliant, intelligent and clever and the worst thing about it was he knew it. It was only then did Watson notice something that seemed to nag at him.

He took a deep breath and wondered if he should bother. He knew what the man was like. "Holmes, why are you sitting in my chair?"

"I'm not," Holmes said confidently.

"Holmes, clearly you are," Watson said, feeling as though he were speaking to a stubborn child. He pointed to the armchair near it but Holmes spoke again before he could.

"I do not see your name on it," Holmes said in the same tone.

"This one is yours, remember?"

Seeming to lose interest in the tedious conversation, Holmes shrugged as he scratched his head with two fingers before taking his pipe from the pocket of his jacket. A frown appeared between Watson's brows as he watched Holmes lit it and draw in a huge breath of smoke. He couldn't help but notice that the smell from before still lingered and it tugged at his curiosity.

"Holmes... what is that smell?"

"Coming from your room," he replied.

"Another experiment gone awry then?" Watson asked with a small sigh.

Holmes merely shrugged, still puffing away on his pipe. Watson knew it was the only answer he was likely to get right now. The messiness in his room didn't bother him as much as it should have but since it was fixable he decided he could let this slide. Besides, he wasn't going to sleep right now.

"Did you go out earlier?" Watson asked, noticing again that Holmes was wearing his jacket.

"Yes," replied Holmes.

Watson waited for more to come but Holmes didn't say anything more. The doctor nodded slowly. "And where did you go?"

"Out," came the next vague reply.

"Holmes..." Watson started irritably.

"I went to check on the lovely yet dubious Mrs. Fleckenstein and..."

"What did you do to the poor woman?" Watson interrupted.

"Nothing," Holmes said steadily. "She was in town and I decided to accompany her."

"You mean you decided to follow her?" Watson clarified.

Holmes paused for a moment. Slowly, his grey eyes looked Watson up and down, taking the man in. The faintest tinge of pink stained Watson's cheeks, telling Holmes all he needed to know. The corners of his mouth started to turn into a smirk but he managed to stop himself. He decided to continue the conversation and confess instead.

"Fine," he said louder than intended. "I followed her from her house, all the way into town and took note of what she did. And before you ask why, my dear friend, it is because if we are to take cases we must trust the people we are taking them from. This woman seemed a little dodgy from the start. She told us her son had been taken, correct?"

Watson nodded his head once. "Yes..."

"She lied," said Holmes.

"Was he with her?" Watson asked quickly, moving to occupy Holmes' empty chair. His annoyance of Holmes sitting in his chair was temporarily forgotten; he wanted to hear how he managed to figure this out. For a couple of weeks they looked into it but until now they had nothing of value.

"No, she was very much alone," Holmes answered, turning his attention back onto his pipe. "Her first stop was to see the tailor, Mr. Johnston, presumably to ask about the clothes she had dropped off to be fixed. I watched as she looked through them. Most of them belonged to her son. She then went to the butcher shop and bought more pounds of meat then was necessary. She then stopped off and had a light lunch with what appeared to be an old friend."

"And what makes you think she's lying?" Watson asked, leaning forward in his chair slightly. He had attempted not to appear too eager but he was sure the effort was failing.

"Why would the woman bother about her son's clothes if he's no longer around?" Holmes asked, looking Watson in the eye. "The appearance of them or if they needed to be tailored wouldn't matter if Mr. Adam Fleckenstein is not here. Second, the meat she bought was too much for one person. She's a widow and lives alone. And third, at the lunch she seemed more than casual. People who are usually under a deal of strain or stress will always show signs of it. She had none."

Watson paused and thought for a moment. "Are you quite sure?"

Holmes only nodded. It seemed he already had the answers to this case and it seemed to satisfy him. Watson nodded slowly, mostly to himself. The conversation of the case was now over. Holmes' silence and far look had told him so. As he let the thoughts of the case leave him, the only thing Watson could think of was taking a quick but relaxing bath before retiring to bed. It was still considered early, but Watson didn't care.

There was a long pause between the men and Watson leaned his head against the back of the armchair before exhaling heavily. Every so often Holmes' grey eyes moved towards his companion, silently gathering his thoughts together. Holmes almost seemed upset but Watson chose not to notice it. He did not have the energy to indulge Holmes tonight.

"I had thought the conclusion of this would have been more exciting for you," Holmes drawled, barely able to cover the disappointment in his voice.

Watson's eyebrows rose as he stretched his eyes wide, hoping it would keep him awake a little longer. "Hmm..." Watson hummed tiredly. "It's just been a long day."

"I take it the stroll home did not help?"

The question made Watson move his head and look directly at his old friend. It wasn't quite what he expected. For a moment, the doctor watched the white smoke from Holmes' pipe curl up into the still air, floating and bending with ease. He then looked at Holmes again.

"Such simple deductions are not your taste, Holmes. I have no doubt you already know the answers."

Watson had no doubt about the words he spoke. Holmes knew how long it took him to get home by walking and by cab. And the mood he was in could easily be seen just by looking at him. He knew he didn't have to pretend with Holmes as he did the outside world. There was no point in trying anyway. The man before him was too clever for his own good and at times it could be most bothersome.

A cough that echoed off the walls brought Watson back to the present. He looked to Holmes. The man placed his pipe on the arm rest beside him and picked up the newspaper on the coffee table and opened it a few pages in. Watson watched for a moment. He wondered if Holmes had been reading it beforehand.

A small groan then moved through the room as Watson got to his feet and walked towards the hallway. Holmes looked up from the paper he pretended to be reading and watched the other man through curious eyes. Thinking quickly Holmes placed the paper down on his lap loosely.

"I say Watson, where are you heading?"

Watson stopped and turned to face him. "To bathe then I shall retire for the night."

"Not going to eat?" Holmes questioned.

"No, I had something just before I left work."

Holmes nodded gradually and Watson left and went upstairs. After running a bath, he shed his body of clothing and stepped into the welcoming hot water. Instantly, he felt his muscles relax in the heat and he leaned his head against the end of the tub. As his blue eyes wandered across the ceiling, his thoughts lingered to his private life. Since everything else seemed to be going well for him, his private life seemed to be the only thing that was lacking.

He tried to put himself out there and had hoped to meet someone nice in the process but it never happened. A large part of him wondered whether Holmes had something to do with it. When he eventually told Holmes about a woman he had met before, Mary, Holmes seemed uninterested in meeting her or having anything to do with her at all. Watson wondered if was due to the fact that neither women nor men seemed to acquire Holmes' interest. The odd one did come along but they never stayed. The only person that seemed to stay in his was life was, well, him.

A jolt of excitement rushed through his system as he reminded himself of that fact. It was something which always gave Watson comfort but also made him insecure in the thought that Holmes could always end up disinterested in him. He did hope that never happened but still, the question of it remained.

As Watson rubbed the soapy sponge over his pale skin, his thoughts went back to the dark haired man downstairs. He felt himself blush but he continued washing himself. He was alone and the thoughts that haunted that him now had no bearing on his activity.

When Watson's skin was beginning to prune, he finished cleaning himself quickly before changing into his night clothes. He ran his hands over the material slowly, thankful that they were warm and comfortable. As he went to close his bedroom door and turn the light off, Watson thought for a moment. He supposed he could say a quick goodnight to Holmes. It was the polite thing to do after all.

Watson went back into the sitting room but he found it empty. It seemed Holmes had returned to his own room. As he returned back to his, he leaned against Holmes' bedroom door. No sound could be heard and it made Watson happy. Perhaps the night would be a peaceful one where he could actually get a good night's sleep. He entered his room again and closed the door.

Sitting upon his bed heavily, Watson exhaled heavily. When he remembered about how his room had been messy, he glanced around. It looked as though nothing had happened. The smell was still around but it was faint. Watson had no doubts that Holmes was attempting to create something new with his chemicals. He just wondered why the detective didn't decide to do it in his own room instead.

Deciding it no longer needed any thought, all of Watson's worries slid from his mind and he lay down, pulling the blankets up to his neck. Sleep took him quicker than was expected. The last thing that went through his mind was now nothing but a blur and the world he knew was a distant one.

A heavy thud echoed against a wooden floor, disturbing Watson from his slumber. He groaned as he rolled to his other side, only half trying to guess what the sound was, thinking that it would just go away but it didn't. Knowing only one person who could be making the noise, Watson got out of bed. He felt his bad mood return as he walked towards Holmes' room. He knocked firmly but got no answer.

Without waiting for one, Watson opened the door and glanced around the room. He soon spotted Holmes sitting against his messy bed, holding what appeared to be a silver knife. Watson looked to the wall opposite. There were a pile of similar weapons near the wall. Watson turned back to Holmes and gave him an annoyed look.

"What?" Holmes asked innocently.

"I'm trying to sleep," Watson informed. "It is almost midnight." A knife flew past his vision, causing him to jump slightly. "And why are you doing that?"

"I believe people call it practice, Watson," Holmes replied in a zealous tone.

Nodding his head slowly, Watson walked back to the door and paused before leaving. "Holmes if you're bored find something quieter to do. I'm tired and would some sleep, alright?"

A small shrug from Holmes told Watson that he was heard. Deciding that no other words were needed he left the room and returned to his own. The heavy thuds weren't heard again but there was a long scraping sound against the floor but once it stopped Watson promptly fell back to sleep.

Only an hour later, Watson was disturbed by something that seemed odd but it wasn't a loud or even heavy noise. It was more of rustling sound, accompanied by muttered words that seemed to be nothing but nonsense. Watson's brain felt subdued by sleepiness that it took a while before he noticed what was happening around him.

Watson heaved himself up onto an elbow and glanced around his room. A dull light from a single candle casted haunting shadows across the wall and his bedroom door lay wide open and it caused him an instant amount of alarm. He bolted upright but felt his jaw clenched when he realised that he wasn't alone. Holmes was currently in the bedroom, rummaging through his bureau, removing clothing and if it were found unworthy, Holmes threw it to the floor with distaste.

"Holmes! What on earth are you doing!?" Watson said loudly.

The detective didn't seem to hear him. He continued rifling through the clothes, muttering words that Watson could not hear. Getting out of bed again Watson moved to Holmes' side, grabbing the man's arm. It gained Holmes' attention and he stopped what he was doing.

"Something the matter, Watson?" the detective asked.

Watson scoffed. With his eyes he indicted the clothing that Holmes had disposed of onto the floor before he looked back at his old friend. "Yes, I think something's the matter," he said dryly. "Why are you going through my clothes?"

"I need something clean to wear," Holmes said without a trace of embarrassment.

"What's wrong with your clothes?" Watson asked, trying to keep his voice light but he knew he failed.

"They are dirty," said Holmes, matter-of-factly. "Some of the chemicals from before are no longer of any considerable use."

Watson sighed. He didn't think it was possible but his mood just got worse. "Holmes, I've a long day at work and now you're interrupting every five seconds."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration, old chap."

"Fine," Watson said quickly. He just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed. "Just take whatever you need and tidy up before you leave."

With an amused smirk on his face, Holmes turned to face the doctor and watched as he collapsed onto his bed. He rolled onto his side, keeping his back to Holmes. It wasn't long before the detective went back to the drawers and looked threw them. Finding a crisp, clean white shirt, Holmes' face lit up into a smile. This is what he was after but there was one more thing. When finding a dark pair of trousers, Holmes' smile widened.

Shedding his clothes, he threw them into the corner before putting Watson's clothes on. When he felt he looked respectable once more, he picked up his candle and carefully stepped over the discarded clothing and went back to his room. As he walked down the dark hallway, the smile on Holmes' face remained. It wasn't going too badly so far.

A loud explosion erupted through the lodgings of 221B, shaking the windows and all walls in the house. A startled Watson awoke. Instantly, he felt sweat escape from his pours as he jumped out of the bed and straight to the door. However, he didn't quite make it. He slipped on a few shirts that lay at his feet and he fell to his knees.

Swearing under his breath Watson kicked the clothes out of the way and went back down to Holmes room, stumbling along the way. When reaching the room, he burst through the door and looked around wildly as fear mix with shear panic in his chest. He felt his ears pounding like drums and his heart thumping against his ribcage hard.

His eyes went wide as another explosion went off and he ducked for cover although nothing came his way. As he straightened, he felt his legs wobble, threatening to give way but he managed to stay standing.

"Holmes?" Watson said loudly, still searching the room.

As soon as his name was called, Holmes stood up and turned to face the voice he heard. He heard Watson sighed again, which Holmes was beginning to find annoying, and roll his eyes. Holmes' face was covered with something that the doctor didn't want to know about but he was surprised to see that his clothes hadn't got caught in the firing line, well, except for a couple splatters on the shirt, but they could be removed. Watson expected it to be worse, especially considered the noise it caused.

"What?" Holmes questioned.

"What are you doing now?"

Using two fingers, Holmes gestured for Watson to come closer which he did without any hesitation. He then pointed into a small black pot, which to Watson looked like a cauldron. The doctor's nose wrinkled at the smell and took a step back. His facial features seemed to relax as though he couldn't be bothered anymore.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"That," Holmes started, "is something I'm working on."

"Just now?" Watson asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Don't interrupt Watson," Holmes said quickly before continuing. "Here, I have mixed potassium permanganate and ethylene glycol."

"What for?" Watson asked as he looked back at the cauldron but he quickly realised. "Holmes, ethylene glycol is poisonous!"

"I wanted to see what would happen," said Holmes, looking as innocent as could be.

Watson shifted his weight onto one foot. "And?"

"And what? You can see the results right here," Holmes said pointing to the desk.

"I'm going back to bed Holmes and please, do the same thing."

Watson left the room, not bothering to give his friend a second look and Holmes stared after him. Maybe something else would be needed tonight. He was sure tonight was the right moment. It sure felt like it.

Suddenly Watson's eyes shot open as an odd sound invaded his dreams. He pulled himself back to where he was and sighed loudly, rolling onto his back. His blue eyes roamed the surface of the ceiling, looking over the imperfections as he prayed for the sound to leave his room and willing sleep to reclaim him but it didn't come.

Mumbling incoherently under his breath, Watson threw the blankets off his body and opened his bedroom door. Glancing out into the darkness, Watson squinted, as though trying to spot where the source of the noise was coming from. He couldn't see much but it was almost too obvious that the sounds were coming from the direction of Holmes' room. He knew of no one else who played so well.

Watson hung his head, looked at the floor and sighed again. He had just about had enough of this childish behaviour. He needed sleep and so far all of these interruptions were getting him no closer to peace. As he walked from his room, he stormed down towards Holmes' room. His friend was certainly pushing it.

As Watson made his way down the dark hallway, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and goose bumps line his arms. The notes flowing from the strings of Holmes' violin had a dark feeling to them. The eerie sound filled the rooms and it filled Watson with dread. Never before had he heard Holmes play anything so mournful.

When reaching the room, he knocked firmly but the music was not interrupted and his friend continued to play. It was more than obvious that he was being ignored. Feeling his irritation hit an all time high; Watson took no hesitation in opening the door. Poking his head around, he searched the room once again and his eyes quickly founded Holmes.

The scene before him made him stop in his tracks. The man was standing at the large window with both black curtains drawn back the whole way. The full moon that hung high in the sky haunted the scene. The moonlight poured into the room, its pure white light spilling across everything including Holmes, casting deep shadows. Despite the eerie feeling of music, the sight was a beautiful one. The tall, slender figure of Holmes stood rigid as his arm moved the bow steadily over the delicate strings.

Although Holmes' back was to him, Watson could tell that the detective's white shirt was open as the hems flowed with the movement of his arm. Watson's breathing hitched in his throat as he imagined those long, slender fingers gently but firmly pressing against the instrument he loved so much.

As the music continued, Watson finally felt brave enough to step forward. This did need to stop and Holmes didn't seem as though he were going to stop any time soon. When reaching his friends side, he stopped again. Holmes' alabaster skin was slick with a thin layer of sweat, his concentration completely focused upon his timing and rhythm. Regardless of how he felt personally, Watson knew that after all these years, he was finally going to have to say something.

"Holmes?" Watson said quietly.

His voice was not heard. Extending his hand, Watson gently touched Holmes' arm. The detective came to a sudden stop and turned his head to look at Watson, a devious smile playing across his lips. "Don't you like my song?"

"It's not the song," Watson said, removing his hand from Holmes' arm. "It's the fact that it's almost three in the morning. Could this not wait for a more appropriate hour?"

Holmes gave Watson a curious look, making the doctor look a little surprised. "You've never complained about my violin playing before..."

"It's not about you playing," Watson said again. "It's the time you're playing it." He paused to take a deep breath. "Please, Holmes, go to bed. If you're bored, read or something."

"Or something..." Holmes repeated.

Watson began to leave the room once more but he stopped when a plucking sound was heard. Holmes lifted his beloved instrument back into the crook of his neck and started playing the same song. It sent a cold chill down Watson's spine.

It was only then did something snap inside Watson. Turning sharply he reached out for the violin being played but he missed as Holmes was ready for him. The music stopped and he continued moving back as the doctor advanced.

"John..." Holmes warned.

It wasn't often that Holmes used the doctors christen name but this wasn't quite the way he thought things would happen. He expected Watson to break down so he could rush in and comfort him but it seemed his misread his friend's possible reactions to his actions.

Watson launched himself at Holmes, attempting to grab the violin that was still in his hands. They landed on the floor with Holmes pinned down. The bow was knocked from his grasp but the violin wasn't. Watson reached up above Holmes head, following the detective's hands. When Watson reached it, he knocked it from Holmes' grasp.

Holmes, seemingly unfazed, enjoyed the body to body contact. A smirk covered his face but Watson seemed to notice nothing. The doctor grabbed Holmes' wrists and kept them pinned to the hard floor although Holmes didn't seem to be fighting too much but he did kick out his legs to appear like he was trying to throw Watson off. After a few years, Holmes began to miss this behaviour between them and he couldn't help but wonder if it was mutual in any way.

"Holmes, this stops now! Do you understand?" Watson said firmly.

A cheeky grin appeared on Holmes' face and Watson couldn't help but feel annoyed by it. Using the brief moment he got, Holmes threw his weight to the side and he pinned Watson beneath him. He chuckled breathily. Watson seemed to get angry and they fought for dominance and eventually, Watson won. When he firmly had Holmes pinned against the floor, he realised how heavily they both panted.

But as Watson moved his leg into a better position, his thigh rubbed against Holmes groin, eliciting a moan that stopped Watson cold. He looked down at the detective, a frozen look of fear upon his face and when Holmes' eyes reopened after the pleasurable feeling disappeared, his eyes focused upon Watson.

The pupils were wide and the grey had turned a shade darker from a dose of lust. Watson felt his breathing turn shallow as his fears and inner demon rushed to the surface at once. Watson glanced down at Holmes' lips. The detective was running his tongue along his bottom lip, almost teasingly. Watson groaned at the sight. It became too much to bear.

Using his frustrations, Watson crushed his lips to the man's beneath him. Instantly, Watson felt those nimble, slender violinist fingers ran through his immaculate hair, making it messy. Another groan left Watson and he felt Holmes rocking beneath him, urging him on. There were many things Watson wanted to ask but there was no time for words as Holmes swiftly removed Watson's night shirt.

Now that there was no point in resisting, Watson moved down and did something he had wanted to do for a while. He pressed his lips to the centre of Holmes' chest and inhaled deeply. His musky scent was arousing and the sparse hair against his face was a welcome feeling.

When the kiss broke, Watson glanced down at Holmes. He really was beautiful. This was the looks Watson wanted to burn to memory; the appearance of how vulnerable he looked. As he trails a hand over him, he notes how pale the skin is and that it feels slightly cold to the touch, which is just like he thought it would be.

Holmes smiled up at the man staring at him. "I do hope you plan to continue."

Without saying a word, Watson bent down and claimed Holmes' lips again. They moaned in unison and Watson lifted himself up just enough so he could undo Holmes' trousers, well, his trousers that the man was wearing. The detective assisted in pushing them down with the force of his legs and helped Watson moved his own down.

More moans left them as their bodies connected in the most pleasurable way so far. The thought of moving them to the bed had crossed Watson's mind but he was too far gone. This could not wait any longer. Holmes watched as Watson moved one hand down to prepare him. It was over quickly and within seconds, Holmes felt a large pressure pushing against his entrance. He relaxed his body as it invaded him.

Watson stilled for a moment once fully sheathed inside the tight heat, hoping that he wouldn't explode right there and he managed to save himself. Holmes placed a hand on the back of Watson's head and moved the man in for another kiss. They both kept their eyes open and locked on each other. It filled Watson with greater passion.

When the pressure almost becomes too much, Watson reached down between them again and strokes Holmes' manhood. His back arches at the sudden attention and a whimpered sob leaves his lips. He needed release. Watson sped up his movements and just as Holmes' orgasm overflowed, Watson's came too.

Breathing heavily, Watson rolled off Holmes and he heard the detective moan again in complete satisfaction. Watson turned to look at him, a faint, confused sight plastered across his features. The smug smirk had returned and he was gazing up at the ceiling as though there was something there that amused him greatly.

"What?" Watson asked quietly, worried for a moment that their actions just then had caused some sort of awkwardness but his thoughts were quickly proved wrong.

A bark-like laugh left Holmes' lips. "Your powers of deduction are grand John."

Watson moved to lean on his elbow, facing his friend. "What do you mean?"

Holmes turned to look at him, the smile still flowing across his lips. As Watson thought it through properly, he wondered. Suddenly, his blue eyes turned wide, his mouth making the shape of an 'O'. "You didn't... you haven't been... all this time... for my attention...?" Watson tried but couldn't find the right words to explain his outrage.

"Like I said, grand Watson, just grand."