Disclaimer: These characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, rest his superstitious old heart. Film portrayals which inspired this fic belong to Guy Ritchie, as do any references to the film's storyline. Performances belong to Jude Law and Robert Downey Jr.

A/N: This takes place in movieverse, prior to the events of the movie, but I've tried to integrate it a bit with the details and events of Doyle's canon.

--

I. The Caribbean Shrub

He never meant to do this. He never means to do what he does with Holmes, which is the most delicate way Watson can think to put it. But, come to think of it, John Watson must admit that euphemism is an accurate summation of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes altogether: he never means to go chasing off on some wild goose hunt with Holmes who won't tell him the first damned thing of what's going on if it costs them their lives. He never means to relapse straight back down into gambling because Holmes likes it when a crowd likes him (a novel and unusual feeling for Sherlock Holmes, the effect is usually quite the opposite). And he never means to wind up playing personal physician to Holmes when he's gotten himself into trouble, which is far too often.

So when he does this latest thing he will regret, he doesn't mean to do that, either. But with a mistake of such monumental proportions, Watson suspects it doesn't much matter.

When he does it, Holmes is drunk to near madness, no, drugged to near oblivion. In pursuit of a case, he is examining some sort of drug to see if it works. It does. He will not discover this until tomorrow. For now, he is busy rediscovering the world through what appears to be a brilliant new lens.

"Watson," he slurs. "Watson, do you know I have powers of deduction."

To him, anyway.

He is slung over the settee next to Watson, legs uncomfortably slung over Watson's and head lolled back as Watson tries in vain to check his heartrate and temperature. "They're not powers," says Watson, pressing his hand to Holmes's forehead again, "they're abilities. You disbelieve in powers, ones that be or otherwise -- I really shouldn't have to tell you that. Was Gladstone unavailable?"

"Gladstone," Holmes gives Watson a very deceiving beatific smile and cranes his neck to look at him, a mere few inches away, "has colic today."

"Oh, a victory, I see. Canine colic thoroughly averted."

"Quite," mumbles Holmes, and leans back on the settee. But a few moments later he changes his mind about the settee and sits bolt upright in one motion. He is still half on and half off Watson, a fact which Watson is only tolerating because he is so drugged; and really, Holmes has brought this entirely upon himself, so he really oughtn't. But for the moment he does and he's uncomfortably aware when Holmes shifts his legs and crosses one over another, and is even more uncomfortably aware when he sits up fully and rests most of his weight on his lap. He is incredibly uncomfortably aware of Holmes's hand as it brushes his hand, brushes his trouser leg, brushes his hair as Holmes smooths a few stray locks of Watson's with an expression that suggests he has eaten from the Tree of Knowledge and seen the ghosts of Christmases past, present, future, pluperfect, and so forth. In fact, Watson is so busy being uncomfortably aware that he does not at first notice that Holmes has closed the gap between them, put his hand in Watson's hair and pressed their lips together.

Holmes tastes like pipe-smoke and brandy. For a moment Watson wonders, paralyzed, if this too is some sort of experiment. But Holmes pulls back momentarily and stares at him, hazy and determined. "It did not take powers of deduction," he says, dead serious, "to deduce that you had sexual desire for me. Would you like me to explain the process."

"Holmes," is the only thing Watson can really think to say at the moment, "I do not have the slightest idea what has gotten into you, but consider me sufficiently impressed with your poison. Now we are putting you to bed."

"Is that impatience I hear?"

"Holmes!"

Holmes kisses him again. Watson is expecting it this time, and pushes him away the instant after he does. This is horrible. This is embarrassing. By all rights Watson ought to shove him entirely off his lap and onto the floor, report the results to him and ban him (ha) from ever experimenting with poisons like this on anything but Gladstone, though God only knows what effect this would have on Gladstone. Holmes tastes like tobacco. Holmes tastes like salt. "Holmes, I am sending you to bed," says Watson with alarm.

"Item one, you're complacent that I view women with a general disinterest -- which could just be general disinterest in my own personal life," Holmes gestured, "yet you loathe it whenever it seems like I might not."

"Holmes." Watson puts his hands on Holmes's shoulders, gingerly, like shoving him is some kind of difficult and nigh-insurmountable task that requires preparation.

"Item two --" Holmes slides his hands up Watson's arms in response. Before Watson pays attention to what he is doing there is a short tug and his cravat has been liberated from its bondage in his waistcoat. "You enjoy watching me box. This is decidedly peculiar, given that you normally loathe the idea of me engaging in any hazardous activity and would rather pull your own teeth out than witness it without being able to intervene. A boxing match, one would think, would be the epitome of all of these factors. So we must imagine a third--"

"Holmes, was that my cravat?"

"Am I really needed to answer that question?"

"Holmes, get off me." Watson is staring.

Holmes unfolds himself a bit, and then folds himself again, around Watson. He is not exactly sluggish, Watson decides: it's not that sort of drug. If he's being so it's for effect. Watson has determined that "effect" is the heavenliest purpose in Sherlock Holmes' reckoning, never mind "knowledge" and "justice." Holmes might disagree, but he is fooling himself. The effect should not be having a, well, effect on him anyway, Watson reasons: they have been this close before. Not in such relaxed circumstances, of course, if he can even call these that. They've wrestled, and not for enjoyment, either. Watson has felt Sherlock Holmes' hips parallel to his and his knees wide open around his legs before. Watson cannot, err, say that the sensation was precisely identical.

"Item three." Holmes's eyes are unfocused -- the drug is speaking, Watson knows. It is speaking fairly articulately and with a surprising amount of motor control, but it is speaking. Tincture of Turnera diffusa, he hears Holmes say, five hours ago; devastating to inhibitions, very potent. Particularly if you want your man to commit a crime, which I suppose our man must have. I wonder what dose would drive a man to murder?

You're not testing that yourself, had said Watson with severity.

He would have to be very displeased to begin with, mused Holmes.

Holmes.

I wouldn't dream of testing it without you, Holmes assured him.

"Item three," Holmes says again, closing the gap between them again just to hover a fraction of a sliver away from Watson's face, "against all odds, contrary to all common sense and all practical considerations, after many a perilous endeavor sprung on you without the slightest warning and many a client of yours driven away by my habits or my temperament, despite a corpulent dog and the recurrent presence of bees --"

Holmes is a bloody liar.

"-- you continue to lodge here, with me. Evidential of what could only be either an intense and slavish hero-worship, or --"

"Holmes." Watson has colored. "Your experiment is over. It is more than obvious that the Turnera diffusa plant is useful for nothing apart from sheer derangement. I can only pray that you will remember none of this tomorrow -- Do you know, I imagine you wouldn't even care. Get off me," and this time he shoves him, damn his Caribbean shrub.

Holmes makes no effort not to be shoved, and in fact topples over, but not before he curls his fingers in Watson's waistcoat, in the pockets. Watson does not have the time to comprehend this odd action before Holmes falls back onto their apartment floor and Watson goes tumbling after, landing flat on his flatmate. Normally Holmes would complain. Another boon courtesy their generous Turnera diffusa, Watson supposes.

He doesn't suppose for long. He is flat on top of Holmes, with a barrier between them consisting merely of their clothing and a great deal of awkwardness. Watson is dressed as Watson tends to dress, having just come in from the cold a scarce quarter-hour ago, and then immediately sat down next to Holmes to see if he required any sort of medical attention. He now regrets that decision. Why does he worry? He worried, and now for his trouble his cravat is -- somewhere, and he is in his waistcoat and shirt and trousers. Holmes is in the same, well, not that he usually troubles himself with a waistcoat, and, err:

Holmes has started kissing him again. He arches his body up against him and kisses him again, and Watson succumbs. Watson presses his mouth against his mouth and slams his hand down over his wrist when Holmes tries to tug at another piece of Watson's clothing; Holmes is so drugged, Watson thinks when he kisses him. Holmes is delirious, Watson thinks when he grazes his teeth over Holmes's ear, over his neck, and Holmes will regret this tomorrow, he thinks when he pulls his head back up to look at him, feeling generally disgusting.

Holmes is delirious. His eyes haven't focused at all. Somehow this does not present an obstacle to him making quick work of Watson's buttons.

Watson drags him to his feet; Holmes makes a noise of startlement as Watson nearly shoves him toward the window. Toward the bed. Holmes may be delirious, Watson thinks, and he thinks he may be delirious himself, to be perfectly honest, but Holmes has no idea of the slow burn that Watson has been suffering in the two years of their acquaintance. The very genteel inferno which Watson has imagined rivals the inferno that will be his destination if he acts on it. He is acting on it now -- Watson can say now that the Lake of Fire pales in comparison. His hands are on Holmes's body. His hands are on Holmes's face. His mouth is on Holmes's mouth, in his hair. Holmes has rid him of his waistcoat; he is in the process of ridding Holmes of his shirt.

This is how Watson succumbs. They are on the bed now, mostly. He succumbs with his mouth on Holmes's neck and Holmes making a lot of ridiculous noises until he clamps his hand over his mouth, too, because good Lord Mrs. Hudson. He succumbs with confused urgency, having dreamt of something a hundred thousand times and never once done it.

He would like to say that this first time, on the bed, with the only individual, man or woman, John Watson has ever truly -- that is, with the only man with whom he's ever considered sleeping, he carries himself off like a gentleman. He does not. They're both naked and he kisses his friend, doesn't say anything, just kisses him, what is there to say -- doesn't think of after, doesn't think of next, just kisses him everywhere he can think to kiss him and spits in his hand.

Here he has second thoughts: but Holmes looks up at him with eyes that look like they're staring through him and the ceiling and the stars. He brushes some of Watson's hair from his face.

Watson kisses him again and pulls Holmes's hips up, and that's how he has him the first time, right there on their bed. Holmes sucks in a breath and Watson puts his mouth to his again, and he responds; he's so tight it dizzies him and fans the fire he has in his gut, in his hips, and he says inadvertently, "Oh, God, Holmes" as he takes him; Holmes responds by digging what feel like trenches in his back with his fingernails. They stay like that for a while, because even burning like this Watson knows a thing or two about what a man can and cannot do to another man their first round of doing it. But when Holmes tilts his hips up against him Watson moves without restraint, knowing it'll make him cry out -- and he does -- and knowing he'll have to muffle him -- and he does.

It is the worst thing John Watson has ever done. He rocks together with his friend on the bed, dizzy and flushed, past thought or second thought. He is lost in everything they're doing. He is too lost in everything they're doing to feel badly, though he cups Holmes's face and kisses him several times instead of quieting him again. There are words, foolish words, inside of him that are bursting to get out, and he doesn't know how he keeps them back. So many times he's dreamt guiltily of seducing his friend with words and each gentlemanly step, and they're left rutting on a bed like dogs, like, like some sort of, God help him, whore he's bought, like -- he doesn't care. He drives into him hard and hard again until he finds his release in the hollow of Holmes's shoulder where his mouth is pressed.

"I'm sorry," he says when they've been still for a while.

Holmes is not listening. Lest Watson protest that Holmes is never, in fact, listening, the fact this time is that Holmes has, in fact, fallen asleep -- which Watson finds more than flabbergasting under the circumstances, but which is nonetheless true. Watson disengages himself and cleans off, even goes to the trouble of putting Holmes's dressing-robe on him: which is very difficult to do on a sleeping man, he'll have him know.

In the morning Holmes doesn't want to wake up till eleven, and even then he grouses. "Watson," he says, "what the Devil did I drink last night?"

"Caribbean shrub," says Watson, not looking over his newspaper.

"I must say I feel rather unusually sick." Holmes presses a hand to his abdomen.

Watson crumples the edges of the newspaper a little. "You then went on to drink a half-bottle of whisky. I presume that means it achieves its desired effect."

"Oh, did I?" Holmes brightens. "Never mind, then, everything's quite in order."

Watson swears to God that he will never do this, or anything like this, ever again. At this point, though, he doesn't imagine he should have any trouble keeping it. He is not particularly blessed with powers of prediction (ones that be, or otherwise).