A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: Anyverse. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. One of them is injured while working on a case (I'm partial to Sherlock Holmes being the injured party, but whichever you'd prefer), which leads to intense hurt/comfort, which leads eventually to a confession of love, which leads to, if you'll excuse my bluntness, sex.
_Drastic Measures_
Ambushed in an alley by six very large, very unpleasant-looking men, Holmes wished briefly for Watson and his revolver to even up the odds a bit. But he wasn't surprised; he had been receiving strongly worded, badly spelled threats for the past several days, warning him off his investigation. Since he refused to be intimidated, this attack was expected.
Also unsurprising were the hands that latched around his throat, fingers crushing his windpipe, expertly cutting off his air until he could no longer stand but releasing him before he lost consciousness. He was meant to feel everything that was going to be inflicted upon him. He was allowed to sag to the slimy cobbles, choking and coughing, and the beating began. Each blow was carefully calculated to be painful but not fatal, thorough in raining down bruises and welts without causing permanent damage.
When the fists and feet stopped striking him, a hand fisted in the front of his shirt and lifted him to stare one of the brutes in the face. He struggled against the grip and was hit with a fierce uppercut for his trouble. Stunned, he didn't immediately understand the words growled at him afterward. "Ol' Dan wanted to get rid o' you, but the Professor insisted that you live. So here's a token of Dan's regard."
Holmes' coat and waistcoat were tugged off and he was thrown face-first over a discarded crate. He didn't have time to decipher what was going to happen next before his wrists were cruelly held down and the first stroke of the whip parted shirt and skin.
He received at least a dozen lashes, his back and shirt wet with blood, by the time this unexpected torment ended. He was pulled up by the same brute as before, who grinned at him with rotten teeth and drew back his fist again, this time striking him into oblivion.
Holmes was sprawled on his back in the alley when he regained awareness. He carefully sat up to take stock of the situation and his surroundings. His back was still bleeding profusely, so he hadn't been out for long. There was no sign of his assailants. His injuries would be troublesome but not dangerous. He gingerly shrugged his waistcoat and coat back on and hauled himself to his feet. He had work to do, and his beaten appearance would serve well as a disguise, particularly once his eye swelled shut.
Two days passed before he gathered sufficient evidence to satisfy the demands of the law. Though Holmes knew -or could infer- every particular even before he was accosted, Lestrade was forever demanding solid proof, reminding him of courts and judges that were not willing to trust a man's word, even if that man were Sherlock Holmes. And Holmes understood the necessity, even as he chafed at the delay caused by this requirement.
Lestrade was at his desk when Holmes strolled into his office, stating off-handedly that he had a gang for the Yard to round up. But Lestrade only gaped at him, at length recovering himself enough to ask what had happened. Holmes grinned lopsidedly -one side of his jaw was quite swollen- and replied flippantly, "Our quarry tried to warn me off the case. Now, are you going to pay attention or should I take this to Gregson?"
The arrests went off without a hitch, the Yarders catching the rogues completely unaware, just as Holmes had said. Lestrade thought it a bit odd that Holmes vanished before the deed was done -he usually stayed to at least watch and sometimes to antagonize the prisoners- but shrugged and hoped he was off getting a good meal and a proper night's sleep. He'd looked quite a sight, all pale and tired and ragged, his clothes stained with something that might have been blood.
Holmes left Lestrade unsupervised and headed back to Baker Street when he found himself unable to maintain the pretense that all was well. He was an excellent actor but even he couldn't fully disguise his body quaking with chills or his face flushed with fever. Fortunately the typical London pedestrian is even less observant than the police force, so Holmes shuffled home untroubled, though he did keep to the deepening shadows so as not to frighten anyone with his disreputable appearance.
He opened the front door as silently as possible, listening for Mrs. Hudson, who would surely fuss over him if she saw him. Clanking dishes in the kitchen assured Holmes that his landlady was quite occupied; he closed the door with care and cautiously ascended the stairs. Only when he was in his sitting room with the door safely locked behind him did he relax.
Holmes stood still for a moment, purposeless, and decided to send a telegram to Watson asking him to come by at his convenience. Watson would scold him terribly for leaving his wounds untended this long, so Holmes thought he might as well get that over with.
Midway through writing, he was distracted by a sudden feeling of desperate thirst. It was easily addressed, for Mrs. Hudson had left him a pitcher of water on the sideboard, but he did wonder why he didn't notice his thirst sooner, before his tongue felt swollen enough to fill his mouth.
After hurriedly downing two glasses of water and pouring himself a third, utter exhaustion set in and he slumped into his chair by the cold, dark fireplace. He thought about taking off his coat, but any movement toward that end set his wounds to burning and he felt ill. So he left it, and drank his water, and fell asleep without really meaning to.
When Watson arrived home from a multitude of errands in time for afternoon tea, he was surprised to find Lestrade waiting for him. The maid quietly brought the tea, and Lestrade immediately spoke of the matter at hand: he needed a medical opinion on a prisoner that had died in his cell early that morning. "There was an explosion," Lestrade admitted ruefully. "A small one, limited to his bunk, and we're trying to determine what happened."
"You suspect suicide?"
"We've had him in lockup before, so I'm not certain what to think."
"Sounds like a matter for Holmes."
"Oh, yes, he'll be particularly interested, seeing how he helped us arrest the man and his gang just last night. I'll be asking him as soon as I can find him. He wasn't in when I stopped by earlier. I don't suppose you've seen him?"
"No, I haven't heard from him in over a fortnight." Such was typical for Holmes when busy with cases, so Watson had thought nothing of it.
Lestrade frowned. "That's odd. He left the scene last night even before the arrests were finished. I had hoped he was going to see you." Seeing Watson's uncomprehending look, Lestrade added, "He got roughed up a bit a few days ago. Nothing too bad, I think, but you know how he is. So, you'll come and look at the body in the morning?"
With Watson's assent, Lestrade rose, shook his hand, and left. Watson retired to his study for a little while to write up notes about his errands and sign some paperwork, but he couldn't get Holmes off his mind. He wished to go see him, but did not relish the thought of traipsing about London without knowing where Holmes might be. Still, he could stop by Baker Street, and if Holmes was out, he could ask Mrs. Hudson to send him a message when Holmes returned.
That settled it, and Watson left after dinner, medical bag in hand. He spent the cab ride to Baker Street considering two things: first, at the conclusion of a case, Holmes invariably took refuge in his rooms for a while, preferably several days at minimum. Second, Holmes had a habit of locking himself into the rooms and not answering the door when he didn't wish to be disturbed. Taking both facts into consideration, it was quite likely that Holmes had been home but unwilling to entertain visitors when Lestrade stopped in earlier. Which really wasn't a surprise -Watson had had to turn away a number of callers when Holmes didn't wish to see anyone.
So why was he hurrying to Baker Street? Oh, yes, he was irrationally worried about Holmes' wellbeing, particularly now that he could no longer keep a close eye on him. He cared about Holmes, cared deeply, and would still do whatever he could to keep him from coming to harm. If nothing else, he could spend a little time catching up with Holmes and have his fretting proved unnecessary. Again.
Mrs. Hudson was pleased to see him, of course, but almost immediately told him that Holmes wasn't at home; she hadn't seen him in days. "If you don't mind, I think I'll wait for him a while," Watson said. "I still have my key."
"By all means. Just call if you need anything."
Watson headed up the stairs as she returned to the kitchen; he carefully unlocked the door and peered inside. There was no light to be seen and for a moment Watson wondered if he was wrong and Holmes was truly not there. He made his way to the mantel -there were always matches on the mantel- and managed to only trip once, slipping when his foot found a discarded newspaper. The light of the lamp confirmed that Holmes' housekeeping hadn't changed in Watson's absence, which made it likely that his other habits also hadn't changed.
"Holmes?" he ventured. He scanned the room, lamp in hand, and finally noticed Holmes stirring in his armchair, barely an arm's reach away. "Ah, good evening, Holmes," he said, and turned his attention to improving the illumination. The fire was laid but not lit, so he soon had it burning brightly. He lit the lamps and turned up the gas until he could see fairly well.
Holmes was still slouched in his chair, blinking against the light and definitely looking the worse for wear. "You'd sleep better in a bed, you know," Watson said.
"Watson," Holmes said sleepily. "Did you receive my telegram?"
Before Watson could reply in the negative, Holmes frowned and murmured, "No, that's not right. I didn't finish the telegram. Why are you here, Watson?"
"Lestrade came by and mentioned you'd been roughed up, so I thought I'd stop in," Watson explained as he set his bag beside Holmes' chair. "Now hold still a moment."
Holmes' skin was quite warm and he trembled under Watson's fingers as he probed Holmes' facial bones, feeling for breaks. "No lasting damage," he concluded, quickly feeling over Holmes' scalp for unseen injuries and not finding any. There wasn't anything he could do for the bruises at this point, so he asked, "Where else are you injured?"
"I am bruised in many places," Holmes said evasively.
Watson sighed. "All right, then. Sit up and take off your shirt. Why are you still wearing your coat?"
Holmes shrugged slightly and winced, carefully attempting to shed his coat without moving much. It didn't work very well, so Watson stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Watson grasped Holmes' coat and waistcoat and had him lean forward, with Watson tugging them off.
As he pulled the garments away, Watson saw the wreck of Holmes' shirt and could only guess at the damage to the skin beneath, the shirt was so stained and soiled. He leaned over Holmes to further inspect his back; Holmes' head came to rest against his chest and Watson could feel the heat of his skin through his own shirt. Watson scolded himself for assuming earlier that the warmth of Holmes' face was merely due to his own cold hands.
"Holmes," he said gently. "How long ago did this happen?"
"A couple of days," Holmes replied, his voice muffled somewhat by Watson's clothing.
Watson coaxed Holmes into admitting he'd been whipped as Watson tried to pull the fabric of the ruined shirt away from the angry-looking wounds, but had to concede defeat when his efforts merely made them weep profusely. "We'll have to soak this off," he said, stepping back to wipe his hands on a rag from his bag.
Holmes swayed slightly in his seat without Watson's support, his expression vacant. Watson left him there for a moment to start the bathtub taps, then returned and helped him up, steering him toward the bathroom. Holmes was fairly steady on his feet, considering his fever. Still, once they were in the bathroom, he seemed uncertain what to do next; Watson took charge and undressed him until only the shirt remained, then asked, "How long did you go without sleep this time?"
"Four, maybe five days." Holmes docilely allowed Watson to guide him into the tub, tightly grasping the edges to keep his balance. He winced as the water lapped at his wounds and the shirt billowed and pulled at the scabbing.
"How long since you've eaten?" Watson asked by way of distraction as he slowly began working the shirt off Holmes' back.
"At least as long."
"I don't suppose you've had much to drink, either."
"I did when I returned. I . . . I became thirsty while writing the telegram." Holmes spoke uncertainly, vaguely, as if trying to grasp the words through a fog.
"And that's why you didn't manage to send it."
"Yes, I think so." He hissed and tried to pull away when Watson tugged on the shirt with more force than before.
"Sorry, old chap. It'll be off in just a moment . . . there." Watson dropped the ruined shirt on the floor. Holmes' back was covered in dried blood and suppuration from the wounds; it would need to be washed before he could even begin tending the gashes. He had Holmes lie back in the water, immersing his torso, and he started washing the rest of Holmes while the mess on his back was soaking.
Holmes was certainly bruised in numerous places, with many lumps and swellings evident from blows to his arms, legs, and face. His abdomen, too, was extensively bruised, but the underlying damage was minimal -he had managed to escape without even a cracked rib, which seemed quite a feat given the evident severity of the beating. Holmes' awareness drifted off on occasion; Watson let him rest and worked in silence.
Soaking helped clear away some of the dried blood and pus, but Watson still had to blot the rest from Holmes' skin with a cloth, wincing sympathetically at Holmes' infrequent gasps -his self-control was second to none, but even he couldn't endure the pressure on infected wounds without some utterance of discomfort. Watson worked as efficiently as he could, to more quickly get Holmes into bed where he belonged; he could evaluate and treat the wounds more easily when Holmes wasn't trembling and shivering in a tub of dirty water.
Wrangling Holmes to his bedroom wasn't an easy task. Holmes was less confident on his feet after the bath, and it was difficult for Watson to support him without touching his back. But they made it, and Watson helped Holmes pull on pyjama bottoms and lie on his stomach on the bed. Then he finally took a good, long look at the damage wrought by the whipping.
Long lash marks crisscrossed Holmes' back, the edges puffy and in varying shades of pink and angry red. A few of the gashes had begun to scab over at their ends, but most of the marks were raw and seeping. The undamaged skin was warm to the touch and obviously swollen, and Holmes tensed in discomfort at the slightest contact.
Recognizing that what he had to do could be quite painful, Watson prepared a generous dose of morphine and administered it to the unresisting Holmes, who visibly relaxed as it began to take effect. As he set out his supplies and prepared strips of bandaging, he heard Mrs. Hudson calling his name in the sitting room. He went to Holmes' doorway and said, "In here, Mrs. Hudson."
"Mr. Holmes was in, then?" she asked with some surprise.
"Yes, and injured, too."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"If you could fetch a basin, I'd be much obliged. And would you be willing to send two messages for me? I'm going to need to stay with him for a few days at least."
"Certainly, Doctor."
"Thank you." Watson wrote a brief note to Mary and another to Lestrade while Mrs. Hudson retrieved a basin. They exchanged items and each went about their tasks, Mrs. Hudson off to send her errand lad with the messages and Watson pouring antiseptic solution into the basin so he could dip the bandage strips before laying them across Holmes' back.
Despite the morphine, Holmes flinched and made distressed noises when Watson applied the first strips. Watson considered giving him more of the drug, but when the next few bandages elicited no response, he decided Holmes was sufficiently insensible. He worked quickly, carefully positioning each strip to slightly overlap the one before it, until Holmes' back was covered in damp white bandages.
Ordinarily he would have then wound more bandaging around Holmes' torso to keep the bandages in place, but he would have to change the bandaging in a few hours and he didn't want to subject Holmes to any more movement -and thus, pain- than necessary, so he tucked a clean towel over Holmes' back instead, and resolved to stay up with him to ensure he didn't dislodge anything. He needed to monitor Holmes' fever, as well.
Watson was arranging his supplies for later use when Mrs. Hudson returned, bearing a bag Mary sent in response to his message. As requested, she'd included a generous handful of bandage strips and several rolls, all wrapped in a towel to keep them clean, and several bottles of antiseptic shrouded in washcloths to prevent them from breaking. She also sent a change of clothes, a nightshirt, and a note that he should let her know if he needed anything else.
With the aid of morphine, Holmes slept quietly through most of the night, including a bandage change. Watson sat on the bed next to him and dozed fitfully, one hand on Holmes' shoulder so he could feel it if the man stirred, but Holmes' exhaustion was so complete that he remained motionless for some time even after the second dose of morphine wore off.
When Holmes did throw off sleep, he was delirious and struggled against Watson's attempts to keep him still. His confusion and disorientation were so complete that he did not recognize his surroundings, but Watson was at length able to reach some rational part of his mind by speaking to him softly, gently, until Holmes recognized his voice and relaxed somewhat.
The hard-won calm lasted long enough for Watson to get Holmes to drink something and attend to certain personal matters before attempting to change the bandages again. Holmes squirmed and cried out as Watson worked, but Watson was relentless and continued despite the protests. Finally Holmes subsided to mumbling into his pillow and convulsively clutching the sheets, and Watson was able to finish and secure the bandages without having to fight him.
Holmes drew away as soon as Watson removed his hands, shuddering and trembling in pain and instinctive fear, his momentary recognition of Watson banished by the agony of his wounds. Watson let him be, and was relieved when Holmes fell asleep again soon after. Despite being given another dose of morphine for the pain, Holmes was restless and periodically tried to toss and turn, his sleep disrupted by dreams and feverish imaginings.
Watson did what he could to keep Holmes comfortable, keeping him still when he tried to lie on his back, stroking his face with cool, wet cloths, and holding his hand or murmuring soothingly when Holmes was particularly distressed. He listened when Holmes muttered and exclaimed, sometimes about what seemed to be recent cases, sometimes about past ones, and sometimes about seemingly random thoughts and observations. Watson was particularly befuddled by a string of comments about oysters and checked Holmes' temperature to make sure it had not gone higher.
Holmes remained in such a state for a full day, his wounds red with infection and his fever unabating. Watson was tired but optimistic, for he had every confidence that Holmes' iron constitution would rally. It was just a matter of how long it would take.
Still, by the evening of the second day, Watson's weariness was taking a toll on his watchfulness, and he began to wonder if he should solicit assistance from another physician. He was reluctant to do so, however, for some of Holmes' mutterings were of a sort that might shock a conservative medico. Even he had been surprised at the direction of some of Holmes' wanderings, particularly those that concerned him personally, and he did not wish to risk any embarrassment for Holmes or himself. Holmes' reputation as a mercurial bohemian was well established, but any hint of scandal could cause Watson's burgeoning practice to flounder before it truly began. So Watson maintained his solitary watch over his patient, his friend, and allowed himself to nap when it seemed Holmes was resting quietly.
.
Watson was startled out of a doze when Holmes called out, "Watson!" Watson was awake in an instant, hoping Holmes was finally returning to himself; though Holmes' eyes were open, they were unfocused, unseeing. "Watson, please. Don't-" his voice quavered then broke off as he turned his face toward the pillow, his breath coming in short gasps. Watson rested his hand on Holmes' cheek, trying to console him.
Holmes turned his head and pressed a kiss into Watson's palm, then leaned into it and clumsily settled his hand on Watson's. Watson's mind reeled, all feeling in his body centered on the warmth of Holmes' hand atop his own. Despite his concern about others hearing Holmes' ravings, he had not personally thought much of them. Now, however, he wondered how many of those statements were Holmes' true thoughts and not merely feverish inventions.
Then again, Holmes was still out of his head with fever; it was nearly certain that he had no idea what he'd just done or what he had previously said. Yes, that was it, Watson concluded with relief. Holmes was delirious; his statements and actions meant nothing. But if that were true, why was there a small spark of something suspiciously like hope in his heart?
.
The morning light brought confirmation of something Watson thought he could see during the overnight bandage change: Holmes' wounds were starting to heal. The area was still quite swollen and undoubtedly painful, but the suppuration had nearly ceased and the angry red color was fading into the more healthy pinks of healing.
Holmes' fever broke that afternoon, and he slipped into the deep, motionless sleep of the exhausted. Watson allowed him to rest undisturbed for some time, going so far as to delay the next bandage change for an hour to give Holmes just that much more uninterrupted sleep.
The one hour became three when Watson himself fell asleep and didn't rouse until there was a knock on the sitting room door -Mrs. Hudson, wanting to know when he would want his supper. After speaking briefly with her and requesting broth for Holmes as well as food for himself, Watson quickly and efficiently began what was now a very routine process.
As Watson had anticipated, Holmes woke somewhat as the bandaging was teased away from the wounds, though he was only aware enough to make a few discontented noises. Watson patted Holmes' shoulder reassuringly and continued his work. He was soon finished, and heard Mrs. Hudson returning as he was straightening his supplies in preparation for the next round.
Holmes had nearly slipped off to sleep again, but this time Watson had no compunction about shaking him awake, just enough that he was sufficiently conscious to swallow the broth without aspirating it. Coaxing the entire cup-full into him wasn't as difficult as Watson had feared it would be, though it did take some time. Only when Holmes had his fill of water afterward did Watson allow him to lie back down and rest.
Watson ate his cooling supper without heeding what it was he was eating, then stretched out beside Holmes on the bed. He would feel much better after a nap.
.
He woke slowly, his senses reluctant in returning to full function after so many hours of vigilance. He blinked against the light of morning filtering in the window and muttered oaths about having overslept, but he didn't move. He was warm and comfortable and found it difficult to care about anything but remaining right where he was.
After several moments, Watson realized that part of the warmth was due to a body pressed against him, another's breath stirring the short hairs on his neck. He turned his head enough to see that Holmes was spooned up behind him, one arm draped over Watson's side. He turned his head back again, trying not to disturb Holmes, but evidently he moved just enough, for Holmes' arm tightened around him and he burrowed closer, a half-sigh, half-moan escaping as he tucked his nose against Watson's nape.
Watson knew he ought to rise, to see to Holmes' injuries, but part of him savored this rare moment of contact with his usually aloof friend. That part of him greatly enjoyed it, shivering as each exhale warmed his skin and wishing Holmes had consciously chosen to arrange them thus. But Holmes was still unwell and hardly capable of making advances, so Watson must treat it merely as one being seeking out the comfort and warmth of another.
Finally Watson gathered himself and started to slip out from under Holmes' hand; the hand grabbed his shirt and the arm clutched at him. "Don't leave." Holmes' voice was slurred with sleep and rough with disuse.
Watson hesitated for a moment. "I'm not leaving. I need to check the bandages on your back."
"It feels better than it did; I'll be fine," Holmes mumbled drowsily, yawning.
Watson shook off Holmes' hand and stood slowly, wincing as every joint and muscle chorused in loud complaint over having to move again so soon. "You won't be fine if those weals don't heal properly. How on earth did you manage to get yourself whipped?"
Holmes snorted. "A blackguard didn't appreciate my investigation, so he set his gang upon me. They've all been arrested."
"Yes, Lestrade told me." Watson very nearly told him about the prisoner found dead in his cell, but decided it would do more harm than good -Holmes would likely insist upon rising from bed that instant if he knew. So Watson focused his mind on assessing the wounds, concluding that less frequent bandage changes would be acceptable from that point forward.
Predictably, Holmes was dozing off by the time Watson finished wrapping his torso. Watson let him be and went to investigate the smell of food that had been teasing his nose for some minutes. A small fire had been lit in the sitting room grate, and a tray sat before it, keeping warm. Mrs. Hudson had evidently slipped in and left them breakfast, complete with a small bowl of thin porridge for Holmes. Watson grinned and took the tray back to the bedroom.
After eating -Holmes did his best to feed himself, but he was stiff and sore and his hands shook, so Watson had to help him- Holmes refused to sleep unless Watson was on the bed with him. Watson knew it was only a matter of time before Holmes slept whether he liked it or not, as he was already visibly drooping, but he humored him and sat on the bed.
Holmes pressed close to Watson's legs, his arm casually thrown over Watson's knees. "I've missed you," he murmured, mostly into the pillow. Watson heard it, and spent some time mulling over what, exactly, Holmes meant by it.
"Why did you leave?" His tone was almost accusatory, and he stared at Watson unblinkingly.
"I had to go home to change my clothes, pick up my post, and replenish my supplies," Watson replied, uncertain why Holmes was taking on so about Watson being absent for an hour or so while Holmes was sleeping.
"Home," Holmes repeated with a disdainful snort.
"My new home, yes."
"You wouldn't need a new home if you had not left the old one."
"I could not have brought Mary here. Must I remind you that you gave us your blessing?"
Holmes sighed and closed his eyes. "That was before."
"Before what?" Holmes slowly turned himself over so his back was to Watson. "That was before what, Holmes?" Watson persisted.
"Before I . . . before you left," Holmes said vaguely, his voice unnaturally strained. Watson considered rounding the bed so Holmes would have to look at him, but Holmes seemed to anticipate his thought and turned his face into the pillow.
Watson frowned, torn between allowing Holmes to rest and prodding him until he revealed what was bothering him so. He sat on the edge of the bed behind Holmes and idly brushed Holmes' hair back from his face. "You can tell me what's bothering you."
"I'm not bothered," Holmes said into his pillow.
Watson snorted. "You were upset that I left for a little while, and now you won't look at me. Something is bothering you. You can tell me anything, you know."
Holmes remained silent long enough that Watson thought he'd fallen asleep. "Not this," he murmured finally, so quietly that Watson almost didn't hear it.
Watson continued combing through Holmes' hair with his fingers until Holmes was truly asleep, wondering the entire time what could possibly unsettle Holmes to such a degree. Whatever it was, he evidently discovered it after Watson removed to new lodgings, and it made him displeased about Watson's new circumstances.
He could make neither heads nor tails of it. His first conclusion was that Holmes had uncovered something unsavory about Mary, but Watson couldn't imagine that Holmes would hesitate to tell him if he had. Now would be the ideal time to voice objections, in fact, given that the wedding would not occur for another month.
His second conclusion was that Holmes somehow doubted his attachment to Mary. But Holmes freely admitted that the softer emotions were Watson's domain, not his, so it was unlikely Holmes would venture into that domain. Not to mention he had not seen Watson much of late, so he would have no observations on which to base that hypothesis. Nor should he be so disturbed by something that did not concern him in the slightest.
So Watson was left with the conclusion that something had changed since he left Baker Street, something that affected Holmes' view of Watson's upcoming marriage, but he had no idea what that something could be.
"What if I need you during the night?"
"You won't need me during the night. Your fever is gone, your wounds are healing well, and you are more than capable of using the chamber pot on your own. If you were any other patient, I would have already gone home."
"Since you're here, you might as well sleep in here."
"There is no reason that I should not sleep upstairs or even on the settee. I certainly don't need to share your bed again."
"You sleep poorly and your muscles ache after when you sleep on the settee. Sleeping upstairs will cause more work for poor Mrs. Hudson, to make up the bed and wash the sheets when you leave."
"Tell me why you now object to my marriage and I will sleep in your room."
"I, object to your marriage? What ever gave you that idea?"
"A few days ago, after I went home briefly and it upset you. I reminded you that you gave us your blessing, and you said, 'That was before,' which implies you would not give your blessing now."
"I . . . that is not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean? Have you found something out that would be reason to call off the wedding?"
"Why, are you having second thoughts? If you need a reason to back out gracefully, I would be happy to supply-"
"I'm not having second thoughts! Why are you trying to make this about me when I asked you a question? Holmes, answer me: why are you uncomfortable with me having a home elsewhere?"
Holmes toyed with the empty pipe in his hands, repeatedly putting it in his mouth before taking it out again. "It is nothing, Watson," he said finally. "Your absence has been trying, and I was not fully myself when that conversation took place. You needn't concern yourself with trifles."
Watson stared at him, arms crossed over his chest, unconvinced.
"I have no objection to Mary," Holmes emphasized gently. "She is a fine young woman."
"I am glad to hear it," Watson said stiffly. "I'll be upstairs."
Holmes watched him go with a mix of relief and melancholy. Sharing the same roof with Watson without being able to see him was better than the usual state of affairs, but he would much rather be able to confirm Watson's presence with his own eyes. Holmes knew he was treading on dangerous ground every moment that Watson prolonged his stay -had very nearly revealed his secret during this last conversation- but could not find it in himself to ask Watson to leave.
It was utter bliss and the cruelest torture to have Watson at Baker Street. Holmes had only just managed to come to terms with the self-revelation caused by Watson moving out and shuttered it into a back corner of his mind so it would not interfere with his life or his work, and now Watson was here and so very near -touching him, even- and his composure was utterly wrecked. His only consolation was that he apparently had not given himself away while delirious, or Watson would not have to ask what had changed since his relocation.
Watson truly did not know what he was saying when he claimed that Holmes could tell him anything. There was a great deal that Holmes could trust him with, but Holmes would not allow anyone to hurt Watson, including himself. And the thing dear Watson was attempting to drag from him could only hurt him. So Holmes would keep his peace, no matter what unhappiness it might cause for himself.
And yet...
And yet his mind continually strayed to the conclusions he'd drawn in the Analysis of Watson conducted in those first painful weeks of Watson's absence after realizing just what Watson meant to him. He had carefully reviewed Watson's every word, action, and reaction he could remember from the entirety of their acquaintance and perused Watson's written work in an attempt to determine how Watson might react if Holmes tried to convey the depth of his regard.
The results had been mostly inconclusive. While Watson had expressed his distaste for laws that dictate what occurred between consenting individuals, he had not given any definite indication in either direction what he thought of the idea of such relationships. Though Holmes was fairly certain Watson would still be willing to associate with him even if he did not return his affection, he could only base that conclusion on his familiarity with Watson's character.
Between that uncertainty and Watson's evident happiness with Mary, Holmes did not think it wise to pursue the matter. But his mind continued to examine the available evidence from every angle, arguing that Watson's detailed, flattering descriptions of him in those stories were an indication of an attachment that went deeper than typical friendship. That Watson's willingness to go with him anywhere, do anything for him, was a mark of utter devotion. That Watson's upcoming marriage was merely a way to divert his feelings for Holmes into a socially acceptable relationship.
It was utter nonsense, of course, but many things were quite logical when cocaine facilitated the thought processes. And then there was the fact that Watson was here, tending him, ignoring everyone and everything in favor of devoting his full attention to Holmes. Watson had stroked his brow, held his hand, comforted him, run his fingers through Holmes' hair until Holmes fell asleep . . . was that the touch of a friend? Or the touch of one who wished to be more?
Inconclusive results were not negative results, after all. They might become positive results with more study and additional experimentation. He simply needed to ask the right questions, put forward the proper ideas, and let Watson's reactions reveal the truth.
Or he could go upstairs and do something that would forever remove any doubts Watson might have about his feelings for him. This was the foolhardy path, but also the more efficient one, and Holmes was terribly weary of his mind constantly reconsidering the issue when he lacked useful data. Questions could be avoided or simply not answered, after all.
He was on his feet and slowly shuffling toward the stairs before he could doubt himself yet again, before second thoughts began screaming and wailing in his mind. It took enough focus to keep himself upright and moving that he could keep the doubts at bay; he had not ventured more than three steps from his bed since taking ill, so this journey was a distinct challenge. But he relished challenges, and this one could turn out to be well worth the effort.
.
Watson felt the shift of the mattress, the movement of the bedclothes as someone climbed into his bed. At first he thought it a prelude to an encounter with Mary -such imaginings were occurring often of late, in anticipation of their marriage- but the chest that pressed against his back distinctly lacked a bosom. His dreams of Holmes had become less frequent, but he supposed it made a certain sort of sense that they would return while he was so near to Holmes. So he laid in Holmes' embrace and waited for those strong, steady hands to begin their familiar caresses.
The only movement was Holmes clutching him tightly, as if afraid Watson was going to rise and dart away at any moment. Watson could feel the warmth of Holmes' breath at his nape and he marveled at the detail of this particular dream, though he wondered why nothing was happening. He reached up to touch one of Holmes' hands and realized that those wonderfully expressive, absolutely mesmerizing hands were shaking, trembling against him.
"Holmes?" he murmured.
"Watson," was the almost breathless reply, followed by the brush of lips against his skin.
This was wrong. This was all wrong. Holmes' hands don't shake. Holmes never hesitated like this; he knew what he wanted and set about achieving it. Most of all, Holmes never called him 'Watson' in bed: in his fantasies, Holmes called him 'John.'
This wasn't a dream.
The abrupt realization was like a draught of cold air on warm skin. "Holmes? What-? Why-?" he asked confusedly.
Holmes only held him more tightly.
As he reached full awareness, Watson noted what he could sense of Holmes' physical condition, and asked, "Holmes, how did you get up here? Did you take something?"
"Yes. No. Yes. Only a little bit. It was necessary." He spoke in an abrupt fashion, as if ready to say more but thinking better of it at the last second.
Watson didn't doubt that chemical assistance was the only reason Holmes had made it all the way to Watson's bed. He suspected he'd have quite a time getting Holmes back to his own bed in the morning. "Why are you here?"
Holmes moved restlessly behind him, trying to press even closer to him. He began to stroke Watson's chest in the same way that one pets a cat, and Watson wondered what could possibly induce this behavior in Holmes, and at an ungodly hour of the morning, no less.
When Holmes finally did speak, it was to voice a phrase that Watson would have never thought he could or would possibly utter. "I love you."
Watson vainly searched for words. "B-beg pardon?"
"You asked a question. That is the answer," Holmes replied, sounding crestfallen.
"Say it again," Watson commanded.
This time it was barely a whisper. "I love you."
Watson tried to turn around to face him -though he couldn't see more than vague shapes in the dark- but Holmes was holding him so he could barely breathe, much less move, and when he tried, Holmes tightened his grip. "Holmes, I want to look at you. Let go for a moment."
Holmes hesitated, but released his hold, and Watson carefully rolled over and gingerly put out a hand to find Holmes' face. Though the skin was warm, it wasn't feverish, and the tremors in Holmes' limbs were calming -they were from exertion, not the influence of any drug.
Still, he had to be certain. "Do you mean it?" he asked, his hand resting on Holmes' cheek so he could try to feel his facial expressions.
"I always mean what I say."
Watson would have liked to have been able to say later that he carefully considered his response and the ramifications of the entire exchange, but at the time there was only one possible response he could make to the man who dragged himself from his sickbed to make a confession that had to be supremely difficult for someone so devoted to rational thought.
He leaned forward and, using the hand on Holmes' cheek as a guide, kissed him gently on the lips.
Holmes tensed and pulled away gracelessly. "Watson, please. Don't-" He took a wavering breath. "Don't do this."
"What, this?" Watson kissed him again, briefly.
"You are being unaccountably cruel, Watson. You cannot possibly-"
Watson covered Holmes' mouth with his hand to cease his protestations, waiting until Holmes stopped trying to speak around it to say, "I cannot possibly what? Want to kiss you? Return your feelings? Because I do, on both counts."
"But you- I was not certain-" Holmes' mind was still whirling with shock and disbelief that his statement was well-received. Though his data had indicated a positive response was possible, he had expected any reaction but positive, given the circumstances. Now he couldn't even fathom what might happen next, and it was disconcerting.
Watson moved his hand back over Holmes' mouth and shushed him. "Sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
Overwhelmed and exhausted, Holmes could only agree.
He slept fitfully, periodically awakened by discomfort and then prevented from returning to sleep by the thoughts racing half-formed through his mind. Constantly he returned to the problem of Mary and his conclusion that Watson would not throw her over for Holmes' sake, regardless of the actual depth of his feelings for Holmes. Watson was a man of his word, after all.
Holmes considered waking Watson so they could have the promised talk, but he looked so peaceful in the dim pre-dawn light that Holmes didn't wish to disturb him. When Watson finally woke several hours later -well after the sun had fully risen- Holmes was watching him.
Watson frowned to see Holmes awake. "Did you sleep?"
"A little."
"You should have woken me. I would have given you something."
"I didn't want to disturb you."
"I'm here for you to disturb!" he cried in exasperation. "If you aren't going to ask me for anything, there is no reason for me to stay here any longer."
But Watson made no move to get up, so Holmes was confident he wasn't going to leave yet. He reached out and skimmed his fingertips down Watson's cheek. "I needed to think," he said belatedly.
"You think too much," Watson replied with fondness. He took Holmes' hand and kissed the palm, then held it between them as he moved closer. He leaned in until only a breath separated their lips. "May I?"
Holmes answered by tentatively closing the gap and pressing his lips to Watson's.
The kiss was long and languid. Watson took the lead when Holmes hesitated as if uncertain, and after a while Holmes pulled away. "What about Mary?"
"Let me worry about her. That doesn't concern you."
"It does concern me. I cannot continue in good conscience so long as you are promised to her."
"You are willing to break the law for your own purposes, but you won't keep kissing me because I'm engaged?" Watson huffed a laugh. "Your morals are quite beyond me."
"If you so willingly betray her devotion to you, how am I to know your professed feelings for me are any less transitory?" Holmes retorted.
Watson grew solemn. "Never doubt my feelings for you," he said fiercely. "I proclaim them every time I follow you into danger, with every word I write, every time I cancel other plans to join you. Did you realize I have never told Mary I love her? I couldn't."
"You haven't told me, either," Holmes pointed out quietly.
"I didn't think I would need to. You always seem to know everything else I'm thinking." Watson caressed Holmes' face, then slid his hand into the hair at Holmes' nape and tugged his head closer. "But if you need me to say it, I will: I love you." He pressed a kiss to Holmes' forehead. "I love you," a kiss to his cheek, "I love you," a kiss to the tip of his nose, "I love you," a kiss to his lips.
This kiss was deep and demanding, involving tongue and teeth as well as lips. Despite his misgivings, Holmes could not help but react with fervor; pleasure quickly swept him to a place where deliberate thought did not exist.
Watson gently eased Holmes onto his back, then shifted so he was kneeling over him. He ran his hands over Holmes' torso, then murmured against his lips, "Let me show you exactly what I feel for you."
Holmes shuddered at Watson's husky tone and the promise in his words. When Watson's mouth trailed down his neck, licking and sucking, then nipped along his collarbone, he shivered and clutched fistfuls of the sheet.
Watson was prevented from enjoying the skin of Holmes' chest by the bandages he still wore, but he did shift them aside enough to tease Holmes' nipples with teeth and tongue, which elicited a sharp gasp from his subject. Allowing the bandaging to fall back into place over the sensitized nipples made Holmes groan most pleasingly.
Holmes' navel, fortunately, was not covered by bandage or clothing, so Watson dragged his tongue over it and around it several times before dipping his tongue inside. Holmes cried out in surprise and writhed beneath him, though Watson's hands on his hips and Watson's knees against his legs kept him from moving too far.
When Watson was satisfied with his progress, he moved so he straddled Holmes' knees and sat up a bit. He put his hands on the waistband of Holmes' pyjama bottoms and asked, "May I?"
Holmes tried to speak several times but couldn't seem to make his voice obey him; finally he resorted to nodding. Watson carefully drew the pants off, his eyes sweeping Holmes' body hungrily as hips and cock and thighs were uncovered. When Holmes was naked, Watson started moving up his body from his feet, reverently stroking and kissing as he progressed from feet to ankles to shins to knees.
The muscles of Holmes' thighs quivered as Watson dragged his fingers up the outsides before smoothing over prominent hipbones and meeting to tease the trail of hair leading downward. Watson bent to nibble and kiss each hipbone in turn, carefully avoiding Holmes' erect cock; Holmes groaned and lifted his head from the pillow to watch Watson. Aware of Holmes' eyes upon him, Watson stopped touching Holmes completely for a moment, then set his hands on Holmes' knees again.
Without breaking eye contact, Watson slid his hands up the insides of Holmes' thighs, his fingertips rubbing slight circles over the soft skin, and leaned forward toward Holmes' cock. He hovered over it a moment, then took it into his mouth in one smooth motion. Holmes cried out wordlessly and threw his head back onto the pillow, utterly unable to think and almost unable to breathe in the flood of raw pleasure. One of his hands strayed to Watson's head and clutched his hair tightly while the other continued to twist the bedding.
Holmes didn't last long under Watson's ministrations; all too soon he was wailing and arching his back as he climaxed, twitching as Watson swallowed his release and licked him clean of any traces. He shivered when Watson allowed his cock to fall from his mouth, but felt too boneless and exhausted to move otherwise. Watson stripped off his nightshirt -watching Holmes had brought him to his own release- and curled up against Holmes' side.
"Watson?" Holmes murmured almost unintelligibly.
"Just sleep," Watson said, settling an arm over him and stroking his side. "You should have no trouble now."
Holmes grunted and started snoring.
Lestrade paid them a visit at teatime, by which time Holmes was awake and back in his own bed, though he felt more tired than he was willing to show. Watson had been helping Holmes sort through his missed correspondence when Mrs. Hudson appeared with the Inspector in tow, but he set it all aside in favor of fetching a chair for their visitor.
Holmes listened intently as Lestrade told him of the death of one of the men they had captured, the leader, by all appearances, then cried out impatiently, "Watson, why did you not tell me of this? Valuable time has been lost!"
"You were in no condition to pursue it. You still aren't, in fact. Lestrade and his men are more than capable of handling it. Besides, his death saves us all the trouble of bringing him to trial, so what does it matter how it happened?"
"It matters very much," Holmes insisted, dragging his hand through his hair agitatedly as he swiftly evaluated the facts. "Suicide would be mostly a dead end, yes, but if someone planted the explosive in his bunk . . . there are considerable ramifications if that is the case."
"We have considered that possibility," Lestrade said gravely. "No one admits seeing or knowing anything, of course, but we are implementing measures to prevent any future problems of this sort."
Holmes filed that information away along with all of the other details Lestrade had provided, and ruminated over them long after the Inspector had left. Watson tried to draw his attention back to his correspondence, but to no avail.
Until he came across a letter with no stamp or postmark, bearing only the inscription 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes' in a strong, flowing script; it had obviously been hand-delivered. From its position in the pile, it had arrived sometime between the morning post and the afternoon post on the first day after the arrests of the men that had attacked Holmes.
"Holmes, look at this," he said insistently after reading the brief note. In the same handwriting as on the envelope, it ran simply,
The attack upon your person was not condoned and has been duly punished.
I do not suffer disobedience.
M.
Holmes read it several times silently, then studied the paper, the envelope, the handwriting minutely. His brow furrowed as his mind fussed over this new data, testing to see where it might fit. "The professor," he muttered as he took a second look at the paper and envelope. "Ah, yes, here we are. But who is he and why is he involved?"
"Holmes?" Watson questioned, venturing to lay his hand on Holmes' arm to bring his mind back to the present.
"My attackers mentioned a professor who had some hold over their leader, Ol' Dan. My mysterious letter-writer is quite likely a professor, based upon the handwriting, the diction, and the smudges of chalk on the paper and envelope. It would appear that my molestation at the hands of Dan's men angered this professor, who then illustrated the consequences of disobedience. If I am not mistaken, this professor M. is behind the explosion that killed the hapless Dan."
Holmes stared at the letter thoughtfully. "This confirms my recent suspicion that there is an organizing force behind much of the crime in London."
"You aren't investigating this until I am satisfied with your recuperation," Watson said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest and leveling his most steely gaze on Holmes. "Even if I have to take drastic measures."
Holmes eyed him calculatingly, glancing at the letter and back at Watson several times. "What sort of drastic measures?"
Watson uncrossed his arms and, bending over Holmes, set one hand on either side of Holmes, then leaned in so Holmes was pressed back against his headboard. "That would be telling," he said huskily, and kissed Holmes briefly.
Holmes carefully set the letter and its envelope on his bedside table. "Perhaps it will wait," he admitted with a show of reluctance, "but you are free to show me these measures even so."
Watson grinned. "With pleasure."