Tangled in each other's arms, wrapped in richly brocaded coverings that smelled of sunlight and grass and vaguely of horses, Holmes and Simza slept, and Holmes dreamed within his dream. At some point during the night, the violin music outside ceased, the moon set behind the forest, and a rumble of men's voices approached the entrance of Simza's tent, laughing and joking.

Shaking off the dream fragments, Holmes awoke and blinked in the darkness, and Simza stirred beside him and opened her eyes. The tent flap opened, and two burly men, inebriated and shushing each other comically, dragged in the limp form of another man and deposited him on the carpets. Sim sat up, holding the covers to protect her modesty, as the two men glanced toward her, took in the fact that Holmes was beside her, and exchanged a few quiet pleasantries with her in their language before bowing their farewells and leaving.

A knotty tongue, Holmes decided - sitting up as well, as he also understood that his presence there had not been a problem for their visitors – with echoes of Greek, and probably not one he would ever pursue learning. He eyed the figure that sprawled unconscious on the carpet and suppressed a chuckle. Watson, who was snoring loudly, looked much the worse for wear, and probably would pay dearly for his alcoholic excesses in the morning, with a pounding head the least of his worries.

He glanced at Sim, who shrugged, and then rose to see to Watson. Simza lay back, and he felt her appreciative gaze on his naked body; he grinned and reached down for a red-embroidered silk blanket and looped it loosely around his waist before walking across to where his partner lay.

"Watson." He poked at Watson's shoulder gently. Watson frowned and muttered.

"Watson." A little louder.

Watson levered open his bleary eyes and focused slowly.

"Oh…hello, Holmes," he slurred. Then, suddenly, taking in Holmes' state of déshabillé, his eyes widened. "My God, Holmes, you look positively…" he searched for the word, "…debauched." He tried to sit up and tittered. "More n' usual, I mean…"

"Yes, well, fortuitously, I feel positively debauched at the moment, old boy. Can I make you more comfortable? I fear you may have had a few bumpers too many tonight."

"Never in life. M'fine," Watson said. He rubbed his nose and felt for the stability of the carpet with the other hand, his gaze never leaving Holmes. "Why is this room going 'round? In a circle?"

"What did I tell you about gypsy wine? Let's get you arranged so that your morning won't be quite so painful as all that."

Holmes rose and collected an armful of soft silk pillows from a pile of them near the lamp, and arrayed Watson among them so that he was lying partially on his side, with his head slightly elevated. Watson closed his eyes and quietly let Holmes unbutton his cuffs and shirtfront and pull a thick brocaded silk over him.

"Mother hen," Watson murmured. He reached out and patted Holmes' forearm, then tried to sit up slightly, moving his hand to Holmes' chest.

"On the rare occasion." Holmes let the hand linger, his smile melancholy and nearly invisible in the dim light. He was aware that Simza was watching them, back in the shadows.

"God. So…beautiful. You…" Watson's voice sounded slightly strangled as he let the hand trail down Holmes' chest, down across the hard muscles of his stomach, until it reached the boundary of the red silk wrap.

Holmes closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath, knowing what needed to be done, hating himself for it. "Ah, were we but shepherd lads on Cythera," he said, a shade too brightly.

"Holmes…I…" Watson looked up at his face and withdrew the hand suddenly, embarrassment clouding his features.

"No need to say anything, old boy." Holmes hoped his voice sounded normal. "You won't remember any of this in the morning, anyway."

"M' sorry…"

"None of that, now."

Silence. Then, slightly querulous: "Holmes…"

"Yes."

"Why…is the world…whirling round?"

Holmes sighed and smiled fondly at him. "'Let the great world spin forever, down the ringing grooves of change.'"

Watson's voice was soft in the darkness as he finished the quote, though out of order. "'Not in vain the distance beacons – forward, forward let us range.'"

"Watson, you never fail to astonish me, even in the midst of your inebriation."

"I am not sure…where that even came from." Watson was quiet for a moment, and Holmes wondered which part of the last few minutes he was referring to. "You think I will not remember in the morning?"

"I'm quite certain of it. You're far too drunk, my friend."

"I see."

Silence again, and Holmes thought Watson might have fallen asleep. He glanced over at Simza, who was sitting up, her face half-lit by lamplight, and he quirked a small, sad grin at her. She cocked her head and looked at him, at the two of them, and he thought she might be looking at his soul, at their souls.

"Holmes."

"You're still awake. You must try to rest."

"Will you remember?"

"Oh, you know me, old boy. My brain - very considerately, and no doubt mindful of my profession - forgets nothing. What if I remember for both of us?"

There was no answer. Watson was breathing slowly and regularly, and Holmes sat beside him and watched the flickering lamps and felt the minutes of the night pass slowly, until Simza came and covered him with a blanket and made him lie down, and curled with him on the carpet, and the gypsy camp was still.

The sun was well up in the sky when Watson finally emerged from Simza's tent, eyes shuttered against the blue, blue morning. Holmes was sitting on the step of Tamas's caravan, face turned up to the sun, puffing luxuriously on a pipeful of his favorite black shag. Watson blinked, groaned, semi-adjusted to the brightness, and shambled across the well-trodden grass to drop down on the step beside him.

"Watson, always nice to see you. How are you on this fine day?"

Watson glared at him balefully. "You're a tad too chipper this morning, Holmes."

"That was quite a jolly do last night. I'm happy to see that you immersed yourself in the local culture."

Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose and let his head sink into his two cupped hands. "You might try it sometime. You might make a few friends, Holmes."

"Ah, well, that's me. Always the observer, on the outside of it all. Personal involvements are but a nuisance and a distraction, as you yourself never tire of saying about me in your scribblings."

Holmes blew a rather supercilious smoke ring, and Watson frowned and allowed himself another small moan. "Holmes, you are really the most…" Watson bit back his words and contented himself with another glare. "Where are Simza and Tamas?"

"Arranging our transportation to Paris. Where our honeymoon trip shall continue."

Watson ignored the jibe. "Oh, Lord, I don't think I can face another carriage ride across country. And certainly not a train…"

"You are looking a little green – perhaps a brisk walk would do you good. There can be no question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast."

"Please, please…don't mention food…"

"No? Well, then…"

"Holmes…"

Holmes raised an eyebrow and continued puffing.

"I don't recall much about last night…after a certain point…"

"Yes, well. I seem to recall warning you about them making you drink their wine…and dance…"

"Yes, Holmes, I do remember that. I shall endeavor to follow your very good counsel from now on."

"I would never presume to tell you what to do, Watson."

"Yes, you would," Watson muttered under his breath.

Holmes either didn't hear or pretended not to. "Ah, here come Sim and Tamas, over the ridge."

Sure enough, two figures on horseback were approaching at speed, raising a small cloud of dust on the dirt trail.

Holmes turned and suddenly favored Watson with a smile of such heart-stopping brilliance that it made Watson's head pound even more than it already was - stirring a shadow of a memory that just as quickly dissipated. "Let us away, Watson, while the morning is yet young. The game is well afoot, Paris awaits in all her glory, and we must soon bring our quarry to heel."

He rose and offered Watson a hand up, and they waited together as the two gypsies thundered into the camp with news of the next leg of their journey.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you so much for your reviews and the support and encouragement! So - this has been brought up to me privately and also in reviews here - to slash or not to slash? I do seem to be hinting at some amorous tension between Watson and Holmes, don't I - but then again, so do the films! I want to be responsive to the readership, but where do YOU see this going so far? Where would you like it to go? The movies played with our expectations of male friendship/romance, and I have tried to do that as well. I'm interested to learn the feelings of the readership. I have my own idea of where this is all going, and you never know - I could surprise you. I'm writing this in short scenes, however (partly because of my real-life writing job, which doesn't leave me a lot of time for "my own" writing, and partly because I think this novella CAN play out in short scenes...) - and we're not really that far into the story...yet. There's still a long way to go, and because I can explore Holmes' and Watson's inner passions in a way the movies cannot, I think you are in for a lot of passion on all sides of the fence, shall we say.

Am I hinting or outright saying that Watson is definitely repressing his real feelings, and so...might!...Holmes be? Hmmmm. And my Holmes is really the Bohemian of Bohemians, so you never know, shall we say, where this saga, or his heart, will take him. There's still some way to go in this story until Reichenbach, and then my "Adventure of the Empty Heart" (you can already read the first chapter on FF) will pick up AFTER Reichenbach - and there will be some surprises then, too! (Let's just say that no character is safe if this story keeps on its current track...oh dear.)

This may be Holmes/Simza now, but...hang with me. There are some very interesting things about to unfold. Am I teasing you enough?