![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: 6 January 1894
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes - Ritchie Films
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson/Mary Watson; Eventual SH/JW/MW
Word Count: 5,580
Disclaimer: I do not pretend to be ACD, Guy Ritchie, or anyone with any claim on anything to do with their creations; just a ficcer making fics.
Spoilers: Sort of sideways spoilery for the second film.
Warnings: Nah; unless you're bothered by Manly smooches, Wenchly-Manly smooches, or Manly-Wenchly-Manly smooches, or implications of more than smooches between those men and that wench.
Summary: Holmes has been 'hiding out' with the Watsons during his 'death' and everyone's begun to suspect things are getting far more complicated than they ever expected; hijinx necessarily ensue.
Author's Notes: I wanted to do this for Sherlock Holmes birthday. Ahem. Yes. So, twenty days later... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. HOLMES! *grumble grump*
2 January 1894
The Watsons
Mary Watson-nee-Morstan sighed long-sufferingly against John Watson’s shoulder as the mournful, muffled echo of a violin playing drifted up to their bedroom from somewhere downstairs.
“I know,” whispered John. “At least he’s not burnt anything up or poisoned Gladstone.”
“Lately,” corrected Mary as the tune shifted from merely mournful to positively dirge-like. “Oh, John, how much longer must this go on?”
John was silent for a long moment, turning and lifting his head from the pillow to look at Mary’s vague outline in the dimness. “I thought—”
Slender fingers touched his lips, interrupting him, but moving away once he’d ceased speaking. “I don’t mind him staying here, I mind that he’s clearly miserable.” The bed shifted and John more guessed than actually saw that she was up on one elbow. “He’s—well, both of you have, for that matter—come and gone for nearly three years now on these little ‘hunting’ trips; and, almost without fail, two weeks or so afterwards he’s fallen into a funk.”
“He can’t let the world know he’s alive, nor go back to his usual work—let alone to Baker Street—until he’s caught the last of Moriarty’s lieutenants. You know that, Mary. In the meantime, he’s either bored out of his mind, champing at the bit, or hot on the hunt. There’s no middle ground with him, there rarely ever has been.”
“But there’s more to it. More to these bouts of melancholy than simple boredom or frustrated anticipation.” Mary’s hand was light upon John’s chest. “John, may I remind you that you didn’t marry a stupid woman?”
John put his hand atop his wife’s. “Of course I didn’t,” he replied almost chidingly. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“There’s a pattern.” She paused when the music did, her silence an alert one; when she turned her head, the pale shape of her face was slightly more visible in the indirect glow from the bright moonlight beyond the bedroom window. Another tune began after a handful of heartbeats and Mary continued. “Also, his manner and the way he looks at you.”
Sighing not quite silently, John’s fingers curled around his wife’s. “And you.”
“Then you have noticed,” she said.
“Yes…” Turning slightly onto his side, John spoke in a breath of a whisper, barely audible even though Mary was inches from him. “I asked him about it on our last trip. It was nearly impossible to get him to hold still long enough to say a word, and it wasn’t until we were on the train that I… well… rather verbally pummelled him into a near-confession.”
“A near confession of?” Mary almost demanded, equally quietly, perhaps with more breathiness to her whisper.
“The actual words were something along the lines of his ‘having the peculiar realisation that he holds my wife in the highest esteem as a rare departure from his usual encounters with her sex’… something like that, something very elaborately round-about and obfuscatory.” He drew her hand to his lips, moustache tickling her fingertips slightly. “Which means that he is fond of you and thinks you’re clever.”
“And we already know he adores you,” Mary murmured warmly, the smile obvious in her soft voice.
“Yes, well, he’s a mad and maddening bastard, but one of the finest men I’ve ever known.” John’s voice warmed, as well, and Mary leaned closer to kiss what turned out to be his cheekbone, her nose touching his eyelashes.
“You two… it’s ridiculous,” she said, still clearly fond and amused. “I suppose I’m grateful that it isn’t another woman, but what an odd circumstance. I’ve never had the slightest hint of prurient feeling from him, as if sexual matters don’t enter his mind.”
“Mary!” John gasped, though it came out as a sort of strangled whisper.
“John, don’t pretend to be shocked,” Mary chastised.
“I’m not pretending,” he shot right back, voice rising slightly before he caught himself. “He doesn’t… well, he clearly does, considering Miss Adler, but… other than she? I’ve never seen him show a moment’s interest.”
“So you think it’s merely fondness and approval that you didn’t choose a mindless ninny for a wife?” Her tone had a tart edge that made John struggle up onto one elbow, as well.
“Mary, honestly, I cannot tell if you’re joking.”
“Perhaps a little, on that last bit, but not as a whole, no.” She turned her head, quiet for a moment or two as the violin ceased, and when it stayed silent, she leaned close to breathe, “He may not think of me that way, my dear husband, but I’ve seen how he looks at you. I saw the way he looked at you the day we were married. It was far more than a friend losing a friend, John. It was him putting your happiness above his own.” This time John put his fingers to Mary’s lips.
“Don’t. It’s not…” Letting out a long, gusty sigh, he slowly slumped down and forward until his face was hidden in the warmth of her shoulder, the lacy lapels of her nightgown catching in his hair. “I love you, Mary. I have almost since we met, as you must know, and we’ve always been honest with one another, but…” The silence stretched on, just their breathing sounding in the stillness, and Mary’s hand came up to smooth his hair gently. This seemed to help him continue, though barely audibly. “Yes… God help me, yes… I love him. As my dearest friend, as a brother, but… but yes. I have had those sort of thoughts, too.”
“Then, clearly, something must be done.”
John’s body went tensely still, but he didn’t lift his head, mumbling, “Mary, I love you, but you’re out of your mind.”
“Granted, we may be completely wrong, but what if we’re not?”
John shook his head, but he couldn’t argue the point, and after a long few minutes spent considering, he finally pulled her closer against him and whispered, “We’ll have to have a plan.”
Mary agreed.
~~~
3-4 January 1894
Sherlock Holmes
For several days, Holmes had caught the tail-end of hushed conversations, odd glances, and studious attempts to look casual. Once or twice might be taken as one thing, but repeated incidences meant something far more significant. He took to making himself a bit more scarce, saying less than usual, and his doldrums grew deeper and darker. Though Watson expressed concern, as did Mrs. Watson, Holmes brushed off their queries; it wasn’t as if he could explain, after all.
After a few cat-footed, but ultimately unsatisfactory, attempts to overhear enough of a conversation between his hosts to glean the precise issue, he was considering whether or not he might have to actually corner Watson and demand answers, after all. It was the more uncomfortable option, but the Watsons were being rather more clever and aware than was convenient. Either he had somehow given himself away, or… well, the possibilities were varied, but he thought it most likely that Mrs. Watson was with child. That would explain much. Plus, he had heard at least a few words here and there: ‘broach a delicate subject’ ‘don’t want to offend’ ‘harm the friendship’ and ‘just the right time’ was the last tantalising snippet.
Holmes only had to find one more of Moriarty’s lieutenants, the wiliest, and then he could have his life back. After he had done that, he would once again give up his hold upon Watson, leaving him to live in safety and contentment with his dear wife. Yes, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, Holmes felt strangely guilty for having developed a certain… fondness… for Watson’s wife, seeing how he already felt for the good doctor, himself; because, even though he might never admit it to a soul, it had gradually become clear to Holmes that he had been somewhat less than precisely correct in his first impressions of Mary Morstan. She was a cleverer, braver, better woman than he’d thought and, though it had been a wrench, Holmes had faithfully delivered Watson on time to be married to her, as well as taking elaborate measures to get her to safety before running off with her new husband to deal with Moriarty.
If John had to come over all domestic, very possibly to the point of becoming a father, Holmes supposed he had, at the least, chosen the proper woman for the task. Though it was a struggle to push aside his unexpectedly strong emotions on the topic, once he achieved a more rational frame of mind, Holmes genuinely thought Watson would probably be a good father; if nothing else, as he had done before, Holmes would do it for Watson’s happiness. Yes, and Mary’s—Mrs. Watson’s.
Just to make for the least amount of awkwardness, Holmes made arrangements with Mycroft for a safe-house to use, should he require it; it was particularly telling when his brother’s reply was, ‘Ah, finally spoke up, did you, Sherly? I would have wagered their response to be a positive one; you must have put it poorly.’ It was further damning that Mycroft’s generally stoic and nearly-invisible assistant, Carruthers, looked mildly surprised, as well. Spine rigid, chin held high, Holmes refused to ask Mycroft to elaborate; it troubled him to be so transparent, even to someone as vastly perspicacious as his brother.
~~~
5 January 1894
Holmes returned late in the evening of the fifth, slipping in through the kitchen entrance at the back of the house. The kitchen was barely illuminated by a low gas flame in a sconce mounted on the wall by the door to the back stairs. By the almost bluish glow, Holmes made out a familiar shape sitting in one of the wooden chairs next to the sturdy kitchen table.
Watson, arms crossed, chin on his chest, and an emptied mug of tea nearby on the table, was clearly waiting up for Holmes’ return; or, at least, attempting to do so.
Though he might have gone up to his room—the guest room—without waking his snoozing friend, Holmes stood next to Watson for a few minutes debating; finally, he put a hand upon Watson’s shoulder, squeezing gently and speaking in a quiet voice. “Watson. It’s me, mother hen.”
With a soft grunt and a brief all-over twitch, Watson inhaled deeply and blinked up at Holmes a bit owlishly. “Thought you’d never come home, old cock,” he grumbled without any genuine rancor. “Everything all right?”
“Of course, of course,” dismissed Holmes easily, voice still soft. The cook’s quarters were close enough that normal voices might have awakened her. “Since you’ve taken such pains to try intercepting me, it would have been unsporting of me to leave you dozing while I went up to bed. Obviously it’s nothing urgent, but certainly of some importance.” Holmes patted Watson’s shoulder bracingly and strolled in an arc around the far side of the table, pausing with his fingers lightly touching the back of the chair opposite Watson, braced for uncomfortable, awkward hints or reluctant bluntness. Watson could go either way, depending on the topic.
Nodding, his lips pulled into a small smile of wry appreciation for Holmes’ accurate reading of him—something Holmes never tired of seeing in his friend—Watson straightened his posture and said softly, “I only wanted to be sure to catch you long enough to speak with you, Holmes.” Lowering his eyes to focus upon his empty mug, Watson went on. “You’ve been gone more than you’re home of late and I want to ask you a favour.”
Brows twitching higher, Holmes supposed this meant Watson was going to aim for something closer to blunt, but sugar-coated a bit in an attempt to be kind. Further braced, Holmes made a brief gesture with one hand. “I can hardly grant or deny you this favour if you don’t verbalise it.”
“Very well.” Watson looked up and his expression was something like determination and yet he had an air of anticipation to his manner, as well. “I know you’ve been busy pursuing your campaign to nick the last of Moriarty’s men, but would you stay in tomorrow evening? Well, I suppose we could say ‘tonight’ as it’s technically Sunday already.”
“Join you and Mrs. Watson for the Sunday joint and a domestic evening at home?” He didn’t really intend to sound quite so sarcastic, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to just tell Watson to come out with it and be done. Holmes wasn’t a masochist, per se, but he sometimes felt he must have made a special exception for one John H. Watson; one of a rare few for whom Holmes had let himself care enough to actually be hurt. Were he wise about this, Holmes would have simply made his farewells as soon as he suspected his welcome had worn thin, whatever the reason.
“Something like that,” Watson said with a hint of sardonic bite, he’d caught the sarcastic tone straight away, but wasn’t inclined to take offense, it was just him making certain Holmes knew it had been noticed. Sometimes his own familiarity with Watson caused an almost physical ache in Holmes’ middle, knowing he would soon have to be without this man he knew so very well; only, this time, for much longer. “I know you find such things as regular meals and sleep tedious, Holmes, but will you? It’s important to us.”
“Us?” Holmes put on a pleasant face, humour instead of sarcasm now, and made a bow with his hand on his heart. “Well, I can hardly disappoint both Watsons, now, can I?” He added a charming smile to the act and it became a little more real when Watson answered it with one of his own. “Yes, old boy, I’ll be here.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” Watson said, echoing his tone.
“Of course.” With a casual little wave of the hand that had been on his heart, Holmes turned toward the back stairs. “Goodnight, then, my dear Watson.”
“Goodnight, my dear Holmes,” Watson replied with a definite tone of warmth. Well, that was promising, but Holmes had already deduced which way the wind was blowing; best not to allow himself false hopes. It was another ten minutes after he’d gone to his room that he heard the distinctive minor creak in the tenth stair tread, telling him Watson had lingered—probably cleaning up after himself, knowing Watson’s neat-streak—before going up to his own bedroom.
Sleep, always a highly elusive thing for Holmes, proved difficult, but not impossible to catch; he was asleep before dawn and dreamt of the early halcyon days at Baker Street.
~~~
6 January 1894
The Watsons
After staying up rather late talking extensively and more plainly than either of them had ever spoken to anyone, John and Mary Watson felt they knew their own minds and hoped—between the two of them—they had enough insight into their dear friend Holmes to have deduced his feelings on the matter correctly. It was a gamble, as Watson put it, but one which could pay off for all of them in the best way.
Holmes was as good as his word and did not disappear on Sunday, instead he was clean-shaven and dressed decently, as well as having something of his best manners about him, though Watson could see the merest hint of strain in his friend. Mary caught Watson’s eyes a few times early on—she was anxious, too—doing her best not to show her nerves as they conversed on various subject during the meal, the subjects generally introduced by Holmes.
By the end of dinner, Mary excused herself to ‘check on dessert’ in the kitchen. To a degree, it was true, but she was also checking that the servants—their cook, the maid, and the houseboy—were on schedule to complete their necessary tasks and then take the rest of the evening off.
While Mary was gone from the dining room, Holmes’ charming manner slipped just a bit as he leaned toward Watson and asked quietly, “Surely you must know you may be blunt with me, Watson. If you and your wife have something you need to discuss, I’m not some weak-hearted old uncle, or someone you must impress… just speak your mind. Minds.”
“I know, Holmes,” Watson said, feeling torn between chagrin that they thought to put on an act Holmes couldn’t see through and amusement at Holmes’ turn of phrase. Some of that amusement was also anticipatory—he’d put a hundred pounds on a bet that Holmes’ best deduction on what they were going to tell him was wrong; at least this time.
Mary returned before Holmes could say more, and she knew at once something had shifted. Lifting her brows at her husband in question, she was answered by Holmes.
“Yes, my dear Mrs. Watson, I know there is something about which the two of you are trying to work up your courage to speak.” He tugged his linen serviette free of where he’d tucked it into his collar, tossing it upon the table by his plate. “Or, perhaps you thought to soften the blow by sharing this lovely little ‘family dinner’ with me first.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes—” began Mary, but Holmes lifted a hand, cutting her off.
“No, don’t fret, I’m not offended, my dear. It’s actually… I’m sure it was meant entirely kindly.” He gestured rather grandly for her to resume her seat. “As I told your husband, you might as well speak plainly, as it’s a bit pointless to beat around the bush with me.”
Watson looked contritely down at his partially-emptied plate, knowing Holmes was perhaps not offended, but possibly a bit hurt, if only by his choice of words and intonation. “We really did want to have a nice meal together, as well, Holmes.”
“Of course.” Holmes looked from one to the other with what anyone would take as a light-hearted enquiring expression, but his gaze was far more intent than such an expression ought to accompany.
Just then Emma the maid and Mrs. Knapp the cook entered the room pushing a serving trolley with a festively decorated chocolate cake. Ribbons and rosettes of white and pale blue fondant accented the sides, and a ring of lit candles had been stuck into the icing around the cake’s perimeter. “Happy birthday, Mr. Holmes!” both servants said gaily, smiling cheerily.
Holmes’ brows rose above slightly widened eyes, and he looked from one Watson to the other in what certainly appeared to be genuine surprise, but there was also a slight hint of unease—Watson wondered if it could be embarrassment at his previous deductions, though he couldn’t necessarily count on what they had to tell Holmes dispelling it.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Holmes!” Mary chimed in, surrendering to the necessary shift of mood.
“Happy birthday, old boy,” Watson murmured, clapping Holmes on the shoulder.
“I must admit,” Holmes said, standing to have a better look at the cake, “I did not anticipate this, at all. Well done. Thank you.”
“You must make a wish and blow out all the candles,” Mary told him in a tone of voice more suited to her previous role as a governess, but she gave a teasing smile to show it was deliberate.
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Holmes murmured dryly. “Very well, then, if I must.” He leaned over the cake, the golden glow illuminating his face, accentuating both the lines of recent strain and his sometimes surprisingly handsome features. Holmes’ eyes flitted over John Watson, then Mary Watson, and back to the cake before he closed them and pressed his lips together a moment, as if to avoid mouthing what he was supposedly wishing. With a short, deep breath, he then blew out all the candles in one go—also as was customary—and then stood upright with a satisfied nod. “There, the birthday ritual has been satisfied for another year.”
“Be nice,” Watson cautioned in a quiet voice, more playfully than warningly, and Holmes’ lips twisted in an odd little smile. It was something of a ritual between them, as well; Watson warning Holmes when he was heading towards a potentially regrettable slip of the tongue.
Mary was smiling warmly at both men as Mrs. Knapp deftly cut three slices and served them up on small plates. The cook gave a brows-up expression then, and Mary nodded. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Knapp. I’ll see to the rest, go on along and have a nice evening.”
“Thank you, Missus,” Mrs. Knapp said with a little nod and a smile. Emma bobbed a brief curtsey and echoed the words of the cook; then both servants gave similar acknowledgements to the master of the house and Holmes before filing back into the kitchen.
Holmes had a bite of cake already on his fork and nearly to his mouth by the time the kitchen door swung shut and he gave a blatantly curious look at Mary.
“Yes, we’ve given the servants the evening off.” She took a bite of her own cake, trying to remain composed, but a bit of a blush still rose to her cheeks.
“I understand, of course,” Holmes murmured knowingly, pausing to make a soft noise of pleasure upon tasting the cake, but once he’d swallowed, he added, “I hope you didn’t expect me to make a scene?”
“Holmes,” Watson said, a little less playfully than before. He was still more alert to Holmes’ moods and knew thunderclouds were gathering, if not exactly why; though he had a good guess.
“Of course not,” Mary answered Holmes’ words after only a glance at her husband. “It’s just that we hoped to have a truly private conversation, and that’s not really possible with servants in the house, is it?”
“No, indeed.” Though clearly apprehensive at whatever it was his hosts were going to say to him, Holmes still ate about half of his slice of cake, eagerly, before putting down his fork and blatantly but meticulously wiping his mouth. Settling himself with a show of patience and calm, he waited.
The Watsons shared a glance or two during this process and put down their own silverware shortly after Holmes had done. Watson rose with a robust inhalation and an expansive sigh that was more determination to push on than satisfaction at a good meal. “Let’s go to the study, shall we?”
Holmes made a small, impatient sound and Mary hooked his arm in hers once he rose, impelling him to ‘escort’ her to the study behind Watson. “Can’t have anyone hurling knives and forks, can we?” Mary teased drolly.
“Heaven forbid,” agreed Holmes in a similar tone, patting her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. “Especially considering Watson’s aim.”
“I heard that,” Watson called back over his shoulder as he opened his study door, waving them in. Holmes smirked at his long-time friend before ushering Mary inside. Watson followed them in and shut the door firmly behind himself.
“Of course, your aim is impeccable, dear chap,” Holmes was saying placatingly as he led Mary to one of the two upholstered chairs across from Watson’s desk.
“So glad you agree,” Watson rejoined tartly, but it was just banter, not affront. Holmes gave a teasing version of an innocent look as he paused by the second chair and Watson opened his mouth to say something, something that made his mouth twist into a bit of a smirk, but then he stopped with the sort of expression one gets when an idea has suddenly struck. Catching Mary’s eye and holding her gaze for a moment, he then walked toward Holmes, his manner changing to one of determination with an edge of something almost like humor. Almost. “And you do, agree, don’t you? I almost always hit what I’m aiming at, unless there are extenuating circumstances.”
Holmes did not miss Watson’s shift of expression or manner, nor did he miss the look the man exchanged with his wife, and so he was watching Watson approach him with full attention. His voice was cautious and a little musing as he answered. “Yes, I wouldn’t have said so if it were otherwise.”
“Good,” Watson said with a short nod that was more about bracing himself than confirmation. He stopped directly before Holmes, who had tilted his head and shifted his weight, clearly uncertain what to expect.
“Is it?” Holmes murmured curiously, looking his old friend up, down, and up again, eyes darting rapidly as his focus flitted from one minute detail to another, quick as thought.
Watson’s hands came to rest on Holmes’ upper arms, not binding, not firm, but lightly, carefully, and as Holmes lifted his chin to look up those very few inches between them, Watson whispered, “I hope so,” before almost swooping down and kissing Holmes full on the mouth.
Both Holmes and Mary gasped softly.
Mary’s hand went to her mouth in a gesture of pure surprise, and lingered in fascination as she stood there watching.
Holmes went perfectly still, then tensed as if for action—he might play at boxing when he went to the Punch Bowl, but the man was actually quick as a snake and just as deadly when he wasn’t faffing about—however, whatever he’d started to do, he... just didn’t. For a long moment he stood there with Watson’s mouth on his, Watson’s hands on his arms, and then he leaned into Watson’s presence with a soft sigh that was barely audible even by the man whose mouth was upon his own. When Watson tilted his head slightly, moved his lips gently, Holmes shifted his own head to a complementary angle and let Watson urge his mouth open slowly. Hands coming up between them, fingertips sliding up Watson’s waistcoat until he could press both hands flat upon Watson’s chest, Holmes made a sound that most closely resembled a whine, but could have been a near cousin of a moan. Watson, at this sound from Holmes, moaned—quite clearly a moan, of pleasure—and his hands tightened just a little on Holmes’ arms, resisting the urge to pull him closer as their tongue-tips touched, slid, caressed…
Holmes made a rough sound then, a growling grunt of effort, and straightened his arms suddenly. Watson was moved back a step, though he didn’t struggle, and he had never seen such a look of confused astonishment on Holmes’ face. Watson knew he must look a bit thrown, but mostly watchfully concerned; this might have been a mistake they could get past, but it also might have been a mistake that would ruin their friendship for good. Both of the men were breathing as if they’d been running, faces flushed, lips still parted.
Blinking rapidly, Holmes’ head whipped to the side, his gaze falling upon Mary as if only just remembering she was there. For her part, Mary still had her fingers to her lips, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed; her expression surprisingly similar to her husband’s—save that her mouth was hidden and his mouth looked exactly as if it had just been kissed.
In a voice that was too rough and a bit loud to be called a whisper, but certainly not normal speech, Holmes held Mary’s gaze and asked, “And what of your part in this, Madame?”
Mary’s gaze flickered to Watson and then back to Holmes, and she took a slow, deep breath before stepping closer. Gently sliding her husband’s right hand away from Holmes’ left arm, she twined their fingers together; then she put her other hand on Holmes’ left shoulder, feeling the tension in him, as if one wrong move would spook him into dashing away like a feral cat. Leaning slowly, so slowly closer, her hand sliding along Holmes’ shoulder until her fingers lightly curved around the nape of his neck, Mary replied in a soft, slightly breathless voice, “I doubt I could hold the same place in your affections as John, but I hope I may hold the next place after his.” Her thumb caressed the tender, smooth skin below and behind his ear, her eyes warming and her teeth catching her lip for a moment in hesitation, but then she added, “Just as you hold the next place after his in mine.” Upon the last word, she kissed him, less firmly than Watson had done, but clearly with intent, all the same.
Holmes’ left hand, freed from Watson’s grip, came to light at Mary’s waist as his eyes closed; instead of a sigh or a moan, he made a quiet sound of understanding, as one might when the last piece of a puzzle lines up with its proper place at last.
Watson watched them, one hand still on Holmes’ arm, swallowing a little heavily when the sight was anything but distressing or displeasing. He’d expected jealousy, at least, but he felt a longing like arousal and homesickness mixed together.
It was Mary who pulled away, but only far enough to open her eyes and give Holmes a searching look before asking in a tiny version of her quietest voice, “Oh, please say we haven’t got it wrong.”
Holmes’ fingers curved more snugly into Mary’s waist, pulling her slightly closer, and his right hand, still against Watson’s chest, turned so he could hook his fingers into the arm-hole of Watson’s waistcoat and pull him closer, as well. Watson’s blue eyes were a bit wide with worry, but his pupils still dilated with arousal, and he looked from Holmes to Mary and back again quickly.
Finally, the smallest hint of a smile curved Holmes’ lips. “You haven’t. In fact, I’m quite astonished at how very right you got it.” Watson’s hand left Holmes’ upper arm to slide around his back, fingers spread between his shoulder blades, the three of them almost toe to toe to toe. Holmes’ gaze left Watson’s face to focus on Mary’s, and his voice was a little quieter as he asked, “Are you sure this is what you want, my dear?”
“I’m sure,” she replied, voice just as quiet.
“And you, Watson?” Holmes caught his old friend’s eyes, held them, and a huskier, warmer tone crept into his voice. “John?”
“Yes.” Watson nodded, licking his lips, keeping nothing from his friend’s gaze. “Possibly for longer than I realised.” Rubbing his hand in a rough circle on Holmes’ back, Watson asked, “But, Holmes… Sherlock… do you think you can do this?”
Holmes didn’t ask for clarification, they knew one another well enough by now that he understood what Watson meant—if anyone was aware Holmes had trouble with emotions, it was Watson—but they weren’t quite the people they had once been. Fingers idly caressing the fabric of Mary’s shirtwaist, his other hand releasing Watson’s waistcoat and sliding around Watson’s waist instead, Holmes traded searching looks with both of the Watsons, his smile slowly returning. Then that smile turned a bit wicked and his voice shifted to a smoother, slyer tone. “I admit the mathematical possibilities are interesting, though not infinite, but I’m sure we can manage to work it out between the three of us.”
Mary gave a shaky little laugh and kissed Holmes’ cheek before resting her head on his shoulder a moment in relief. Watson chuckled and touched his forehead to Holmes’ for a long moment. “I don’t know why I’m even momentarily surprised,” he murmured teasingly, relieved, as well.
“Because you know me,” Holmes returned confidently. They stood there for a few moments, getting a grip on this huge change, until Holmes lifted his head away from Watson’s and caught them both in one of his ‘I have a scheme formulating’ grins. “What say we plan a second… well, I suppose this would technically be the third… honeymoon as soon as I’ve trapped the very last of Moriarty’s rats?”
“Third?” Mary echoed, not looking displeased, just confused.
Watson sighed and shook his head, his smile crooked enough to tilt his moustache at a rakish angle. “You did follow us on our proper honeymoon, didn’t you?”
Holmes’ grin only widened. “I wish you had gone to France, as I suggested, but it seemed to go well enough, in any case. Lovely hotel, though. I trust you enjoyed the flowers and champagne?”
Mary’s mouth dropped open for a moment, and then she just shook her head and laughed. “I thought they were from your brother.”
“Well, technically…” Holmes trailed off with a snort.
“This should actually work out just fine, then,” Watson said with mock sarcasm. “You’re already quite practiced at being a voyeur.” When Holmes pasted on a fake shocked expression, Watson leaned down and kissed him, firmly.
It was quite effective, surprisingly enough. When he released Holmes’ mouth to see what he would say, it was to find him with a dazedly aroused expression that quickly sprouted a very sultry smile.
“John, you’re playing right into his hands, the wicked man,” Mary said with a smile before giving Holmes the same treatment, stealing his smile away with a sweet, warm kiss.
“But, Mary, that means you’re—” Watson began, but Holmes broke away from Mary’s mouth to shush him, rising up slightly on his toes to steal another kiss while Mary giggled.
They didn’t actually leave the study for a while, but when they did, it was only to go upstairs to the master bedroom where they continued their… discussion... long into the night.
~~~
.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes - Ritchie Films
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson/Mary Watson; Eventual SH/JW/MW
Word Count: 5,580
Disclaimer: I do not pretend to be ACD, Guy Ritchie, or anyone with any claim on anything to do with their creations; just a ficcer making fics.
Spoilers: Sort of sideways spoilery for the second film.
Warnings: Nah; unless you're bothered by Manly smooches, Wenchly-Manly smooches, or Manly-Wenchly-Manly smooches, or implications of more than smooches between those men and that wench.
Summary: Holmes has been 'hiding out' with the Watsons during his 'death' and everyone's begun to suspect things are getting far more complicated than they ever expected; hijinx necessarily ensue.
Author's Notes: I wanted to do this for Sherlock Holmes birthday. Ahem. Yes. So, twenty days later... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. HOLMES! *grumble grump*
2 January 1894
The Watsons
Mary Watson-nee-Morstan sighed long-sufferingly against John Watson’s shoulder as the mournful, muffled echo of a violin playing drifted up to their bedroom from somewhere downstairs.
“I know,” whispered John. “At least he’s not burnt anything up or poisoned Gladstone.”
“Lately,” corrected Mary as the tune shifted from merely mournful to positively dirge-like. “Oh, John, how much longer must this go on?”
John was silent for a long moment, turning and lifting his head from the pillow to look at Mary’s vague outline in the dimness. “I thought—”
Slender fingers touched his lips, interrupting him, but moving away once he’d ceased speaking. “I don’t mind him staying here, I mind that he’s clearly miserable.” The bed shifted and John more guessed than actually saw that she was up on one elbow. “He’s—well, both of you have, for that matter—come and gone for nearly three years now on these little ‘hunting’ trips; and, almost without fail, two weeks or so afterwards he’s fallen into a funk.”
“He can’t let the world know he’s alive, nor go back to his usual work—let alone to Baker Street—until he’s caught the last of Moriarty’s lieutenants. You know that, Mary. In the meantime, he’s either bored out of his mind, champing at the bit, or hot on the hunt. There’s no middle ground with him, there rarely ever has been.”
“But there’s more to it. More to these bouts of melancholy than simple boredom or frustrated anticipation.” Mary’s hand was light upon John’s chest. “John, may I remind you that you didn’t marry a stupid woman?”
John put his hand atop his wife’s. “Of course I didn’t,” he replied almost chidingly. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“There’s a pattern.” She paused when the music did, her silence an alert one; when she turned her head, the pale shape of her face was slightly more visible in the indirect glow from the bright moonlight beyond the bedroom window. Another tune began after a handful of heartbeats and Mary continued. “Also, his manner and the way he looks at you.”
Sighing not quite silently, John’s fingers curled around his wife’s. “And you.”
“Then you have noticed,” she said.
“Yes…” Turning slightly onto his side, John spoke in a breath of a whisper, barely audible even though Mary was inches from him. “I asked him about it on our last trip. It was nearly impossible to get him to hold still long enough to say a word, and it wasn’t until we were on the train that I… well… rather verbally pummelled him into a near-confession.”
“A near confession of?” Mary almost demanded, equally quietly, perhaps with more breathiness to her whisper.
“The actual words were something along the lines of his ‘having the peculiar realisation that he holds my wife in the highest esteem as a rare departure from his usual encounters with her sex’… something like that, something very elaborately round-about and obfuscatory.” He drew her hand to his lips, moustache tickling her fingertips slightly. “Which means that he is fond of you and thinks you’re clever.”
“And we already know he adores you,” Mary murmured warmly, the smile obvious in her soft voice.
“Yes, well, he’s a mad and maddening bastard, but one of the finest men I’ve ever known.” John’s voice warmed, as well, and Mary leaned closer to kiss what turned out to be his cheekbone, her nose touching his eyelashes.
“You two… it’s ridiculous,” she said, still clearly fond and amused. “I suppose I’m grateful that it isn’t another woman, but what an odd circumstance. I’ve never had the slightest hint of prurient feeling from him, as if sexual matters don’t enter his mind.”
“Mary!” John gasped, though it came out as a sort of strangled whisper.
“John, don’t pretend to be shocked,” Mary chastised.
“I’m not pretending,” he shot right back, voice rising slightly before he caught himself. “He doesn’t… well, he clearly does, considering Miss Adler, but… other than she? I’ve never seen him show a moment’s interest.”
“So you think it’s merely fondness and approval that you didn’t choose a mindless ninny for a wife?” Her tone had a tart edge that made John struggle up onto one elbow, as well.
“Mary, honestly, I cannot tell if you’re joking.”
“Perhaps a little, on that last bit, but not as a whole, no.” She turned her head, quiet for a moment or two as the violin ceased, and when it stayed silent, she leaned close to breathe, “He may not think of me that way, my dear husband, but I’ve seen how he looks at you. I saw the way he looked at you the day we were married. It was far more than a friend losing a friend, John. It was him putting your happiness above his own.” This time John put his fingers to Mary’s lips.
“Don’t. It’s not…” Letting out a long, gusty sigh, he slowly slumped down and forward until his face was hidden in the warmth of her shoulder, the lacy lapels of her nightgown catching in his hair. “I love you, Mary. I have almost since we met, as you must know, and we’ve always been honest with one another, but…” The silence stretched on, just their breathing sounding in the stillness, and Mary’s hand came up to smooth his hair gently. This seemed to help him continue, though barely audibly. “Yes… God help me, yes… I love him. As my dearest friend, as a brother, but… but yes. I have had those sort of thoughts, too.”
“Then, clearly, something must be done.”
John’s body went tensely still, but he didn’t lift his head, mumbling, “Mary, I love you, but you’re out of your mind.”
“Granted, we may be completely wrong, but what if we’re not?”
John shook his head, but he couldn’t argue the point, and after a long few minutes spent considering, he finally pulled her closer against him and whispered, “We’ll have to have a plan.”
Mary agreed.
~~~
3-4 January 1894
Sherlock Holmes
For several days, Holmes had caught the tail-end of hushed conversations, odd glances, and studious attempts to look casual. Once or twice might be taken as one thing, but repeated incidences meant something far more significant. He took to making himself a bit more scarce, saying less than usual, and his doldrums grew deeper and darker. Though Watson expressed concern, as did Mrs. Watson, Holmes brushed off their queries; it wasn’t as if he could explain, after all.
After a few cat-footed, but ultimately unsatisfactory, attempts to overhear enough of a conversation between his hosts to glean the precise issue, he was considering whether or not he might have to actually corner Watson and demand answers, after all. It was the more uncomfortable option, but the Watsons were being rather more clever and aware than was convenient. Either he had somehow given himself away, or… well, the possibilities were varied, but he thought it most likely that Mrs. Watson was with child. That would explain much. Plus, he had heard at least a few words here and there: ‘broach a delicate subject’ ‘don’t want to offend’ ‘harm the friendship’ and ‘just the right time’ was the last tantalising snippet.
Holmes only had to find one more of Moriarty’s lieutenants, the wiliest, and then he could have his life back. After he had done that, he would once again give up his hold upon Watson, leaving him to live in safety and contentment with his dear wife. Yes, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, Holmes felt strangely guilty for having developed a certain… fondness… for Watson’s wife, seeing how he already felt for the good doctor, himself; because, even though he might never admit it to a soul, it had gradually become clear to Holmes that he had been somewhat less than precisely correct in his first impressions of Mary Morstan. She was a cleverer, braver, better woman than he’d thought and, though it had been a wrench, Holmes had faithfully delivered Watson on time to be married to her, as well as taking elaborate measures to get her to safety before running off with her new husband to deal with Moriarty.
If John had to come over all domestic, very possibly to the point of becoming a father, Holmes supposed he had, at the least, chosen the proper woman for the task. Though it was a struggle to push aside his unexpectedly strong emotions on the topic, once he achieved a more rational frame of mind, Holmes genuinely thought Watson would probably be a good father; if nothing else, as he had done before, Holmes would do it for Watson’s happiness. Yes, and Mary’s—Mrs. Watson’s.
Just to make for the least amount of awkwardness, Holmes made arrangements with Mycroft for a safe-house to use, should he require it; it was particularly telling when his brother’s reply was, ‘Ah, finally spoke up, did you, Sherly? I would have wagered their response to be a positive one; you must have put it poorly.’ It was further damning that Mycroft’s generally stoic and nearly-invisible assistant, Carruthers, looked mildly surprised, as well. Spine rigid, chin held high, Holmes refused to ask Mycroft to elaborate; it troubled him to be so transparent, even to someone as vastly perspicacious as his brother.
~~~
5 January 1894
Holmes returned late in the evening of the fifth, slipping in through the kitchen entrance at the back of the house. The kitchen was barely illuminated by a low gas flame in a sconce mounted on the wall by the door to the back stairs. By the almost bluish glow, Holmes made out a familiar shape sitting in one of the wooden chairs next to the sturdy kitchen table.
Watson, arms crossed, chin on his chest, and an emptied mug of tea nearby on the table, was clearly waiting up for Holmes’ return; or, at least, attempting to do so.
Though he might have gone up to his room—the guest room—without waking his snoozing friend, Holmes stood next to Watson for a few minutes debating; finally, he put a hand upon Watson’s shoulder, squeezing gently and speaking in a quiet voice. “Watson. It’s me, mother hen.”
With a soft grunt and a brief all-over twitch, Watson inhaled deeply and blinked up at Holmes a bit owlishly. “Thought you’d never come home, old cock,” he grumbled without any genuine rancor. “Everything all right?”
“Of course, of course,” dismissed Holmes easily, voice still soft. The cook’s quarters were close enough that normal voices might have awakened her. “Since you’ve taken such pains to try intercepting me, it would have been unsporting of me to leave you dozing while I went up to bed. Obviously it’s nothing urgent, but certainly of some importance.” Holmes patted Watson’s shoulder bracingly and strolled in an arc around the far side of the table, pausing with his fingers lightly touching the back of the chair opposite Watson, braced for uncomfortable, awkward hints or reluctant bluntness. Watson could go either way, depending on the topic.
Nodding, his lips pulled into a small smile of wry appreciation for Holmes’ accurate reading of him—something Holmes never tired of seeing in his friend—Watson straightened his posture and said softly, “I only wanted to be sure to catch you long enough to speak with you, Holmes.” Lowering his eyes to focus upon his empty mug, Watson went on. “You’ve been gone more than you’re home of late and I want to ask you a favour.”
Brows twitching higher, Holmes supposed this meant Watson was going to aim for something closer to blunt, but sugar-coated a bit in an attempt to be kind. Further braced, Holmes made a brief gesture with one hand. “I can hardly grant or deny you this favour if you don’t verbalise it.”
“Very well.” Watson looked up and his expression was something like determination and yet he had an air of anticipation to his manner, as well. “I know you’ve been busy pursuing your campaign to nick the last of Moriarty’s men, but would you stay in tomorrow evening? Well, I suppose we could say ‘tonight’ as it’s technically Sunday already.”
“Join you and Mrs. Watson for the Sunday joint and a domestic evening at home?” He didn’t really intend to sound quite so sarcastic, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to just tell Watson to come out with it and be done. Holmes wasn’t a masochist, per se, but he sometimes felt he must have made a special exception for one John H. Watson; one of a rare few for whom Holmes had let himself care enough to actually be hurt. Were he wise about this, Holmes would have simply made his farewells as soon as he suspected his welcome had worn thin, whatever the reason.
“Something like that,” Watson said with a hint of sardonic bite, he’d caught the sarcastic tone straight away, but wasn’t inclined to take offense, it was just him making certain Holmes knew it had been noticed. Sometimes his own familiarity with Watson caused an almost physical ache in Holmes’ middle, knowing he would soon have to be without this man he knew so very well; only, this time, for much longer. “I know you find such things as regular meals and sleep tedious, Holmes, but will you? It’s important to us.”
“Us?” Holmes put on a pleasant face, humour instead of sarcasm now, and made a bow with his hand on his heart. “Well, I can hardly disappoint both Watsons, now, can I?” He added a charming smile to the act and it became a little more real when Watson answered it with one of his own. “Yes, old boy, I’ll be here.”
“Thank you, Holmes,” Watson said, echoing his tone.
“Of course.” With a casual little wave of the hand that had been on his heart, Holmes turned toward the back stairs. “Goodnight, then, my dear Watson.”
“Goodnight, my dear Holmes,” Watson replied with a definite tone of warmth. Well, that was promising, but Holmes had already deduced which way the wind was blowing; best not to allow himself false hopes. It was another ten minutes after he’d gone to his room that he heard the distinctive minor creak in the tenth stair tread, telling him Watson had lingered—probably cleaning up after himself, knowing Watson’s neat-streak—before going up to his own bedroom.
Sleep, always a highly elusive thing for Holmes, proved difficult, but not impossible to catch; he was asleep before dawn and dreamt of the early halcyon days at Baker Street.
~~~
6 January 1894
The Watsons
After staying up rather late talking extensively and more plainly than either of them had ever spoken to anyone, John and Mary Watson felt they knew their own minds and hoped—between the two of them—they had enough insight into their dear friend Holmes to have deduced his feelings on the matter correctly. It was a gamble, as Watson put it, but one which could pay off for all of them in the best way.
Holmes was as good as his word and did not disappear on Sunday, instead he was clean-shaven and dressed decently, as well as having something of his best manners about him, though Watson could see the merest hint of strain in his friend. Mary caught Watson’s eyes a few times early on—she was anxious, too—doing her best not to show her nerves as they conversed on various subject during the meal, the subjects generally introduced by Holmes.
By the end of dinner, Mary excused herself to ‘check on dessert’ in the kitchen. To a degree, it was true, but she was also checking that the servants—their cook, the maid, and the houseboy—were on schedule to complete their necessary tasks and then take the rest of the evening off.
While Mary was gone from the dining room, Holmes’ charming manner slipped just a bit as he leaned toward Watson and asked quietly, “Surely you must know you may be blunt with me, Watson. If you and your wife have something you need to discuss, I’m not some weak-hearted old uncle, or someone you must impress… just speak your mind. Minds.”
“I know, Holmes,” Watson said, feeling torn between chagrin that they thought to put on an act Holmes couldn’t see through and amusement at Holmes’ turn of phrase. Some of that amusement was also anticipatory—he’d put a hundred pounds on a bet that Holmes’ best deduction on what they were going to tell him was wrong; at least this time.
Mary returned before Holmes could say more, and she knew at once something had shifted. Lifting her brows at her husband in question, she was answered by Holmes.
“Yes, my dear Mrs. Watson, I know there is something about which the two of you are trying to work up your courage to speak.” He tugged his linen serviette free of where he’d tucked it into his collar, tossing it upon the table by his plate. “Or, perhaps you thought to soften the blow by sharing this lovely little ‘family dinner’ with me first.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes—” began Mary, but Holmes lifted a hand, cutting her off.
“No, don’t fret, I’m not offended, my dear. It’s actually… I’m sure it was meant entirely kindly.” He gestured rather grandly for her to resume her seat. “As I told your husband, you might as well speak plainly, as it’s a bit pointless to beat around the bush with me.”
Watson looked contritely down at his partially-emptied plate, knowing Holmes was perhaps not offended, but possibly a bit hurt, if only by his choice of words and intonation. “We really did want to have a nice meal together, as well, Holmes.”
“Of course.” Holmes looked from one to the other with what anyone would take as a light-hearted enquiring expression, but his gaze was far more intent than such an expression ought to accompany.
Just then Emma the maid and Mrs. Knapp the cook entered the room pushing a serving trolley with a festively decorated chocolate cake. Ribbons and rosettes of white and pale blue fondant accented the sides, and a ring of lit candles had been stuck into the icing around the cake’s perimeter. “Happy birthday, Mr. Holmes!” both servants said gaily, smiling cheerily.
Holmes’ brows rose above slightly widened eyes, and he looked from one Watson to the other in what certainly appeared to be genuine surprise, but there was also a slight hint of unease—Watson wondered if it could be embarrassment at his previous deductions, though he couldn’t necessarily count on what they had to tell Holmes dispelling it.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Holmes!” Mary chimed in, surrendering to the necessary shift of mood.
“Happy birthday, old boy,” Watson murmured, clapping Holmes on the shoulder.
“I must admit,” Holmes said, standing to have a better look at the cake, “I did not anticipate this, at all. Well done. Thank you.”
“You must make a wish and blow out all the candles,” Mary told him in a tone of voice more suited to her previous role as a governess, but she gave a teasing smile to show it was deliberate.
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Holmes murmured dryly. “Very well, then, if I must.” He leaned over the cake, the golden glow illuminating his face, accentuating both the lines of recent strain and his sometimes surprisingly handsome features. Holmes’ eyes flitted over John Watson, then Mary Watson, and back to the cake before he closed them and pressed his lips together a moment, as if to avoid mouthing what he was supposedly wishing. With a short, deep breath, he then blew out all the candles in one go—also as was customary—and then stood upright with a satisfied nod. “There, the birthday ritual has been satisfied for another year.”
“Be nice,” Watson cautioned in a quiet voice, more playfully than warningly, and Holmes’ lips twisted in an odd little smile. It was something of a ritual between them, as well; Watson warning Holmes when he was heading towards a potentially regrettable slip of the tongue.
Mary was smiling warmly at both men as Mrs. Knapp deftly cut three slices and served them up on small plates. The cook gave a brows-up expression then, and Mary nodded. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Knapp. I’ll see to the rest, go on along and have a nice evening.”
“Thank you, Missus,” Mrs. Knapp said with a little nod and a smile. Emma bobbed a brief curtsey and echoed the words of the cook; then both servants gave similar acknowledgements to the master of the house and Holmes before filing back into the kitchen.
Holmes had a bite of cake already on his fork and nearly to his mouth by the time the kitchen door swung shut and he gave a blatantly curious look at Mary.
“Yes, we’ve given the servants the evening off.” She took a bite of her own cake, trying to remain composed, but a bit of a blush still rose to her cheeks.
“I understand, of course,” Holmes murmured knowingly, pausing to make a soft noise of pleasure upon tasting the cake, but once he’d swallowed, he added, “I hope you didn’t expect me to make a scene?”
“Holmes,” Watson said, a little less playfully than before. He was still more alert to Holmes’ moods and knew thunderclouds were gathering, if not exactly why; though he had a good guess.
“Of course not,” Mary answered Holmes’ words after only a glance at her husband. “It’s just that we hoped to have a truly private conversation, and that’s not really possible with servants in the house, is it?”
“No, indeed.” Though clearly apprehensive at whatever it was his hosts were going to say to him, Holmes still ate about half of his slice of cake, eagerly, before putting down his fork and blatantly but meticulously wiping his mouth. Settling himself with a show of patience and calm, he waited.
The Watsons shared a glance or two during this process and put down their own silverware shortly after Holmes had done. Watson rose with a robust inhalation and an expansive sigh that was more determination to push on than satisfaction at a good meal. “Let’s go to the study, shall we?”
Holmes made a small, impatient sound and Mary hooked his arm in hers once he rose, impelling him to ‘escort’ her to the study behind Watson. “Can’t have anyone hurling knives and forks, can we?” Mary teased drolly.
“Heaven forbid,” agreed Holmes in a similar tone, patting her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. “Especially considering Watson’s aim.”
“I heard that,” Watson called back over his shoulder as he opened his study door, waving them in. Holmes smirked at his long-time friend before ushering Mary inside. Watson followed them in and shut the door firmly behind himself.
“Of course, your aim is impeccable, dear chap,” Holmes was saying placatingly as he led Mary to one of the two upholstered chairs across from Watson’s desk.
“So glad you agree,” Watson rejoined tartly, but it was just banter, not affront. Holmes gave a teasing version of an innocent look as he paused by the second chair and Watson opened his mouth to say something, something that made his mouth twist into a bit of a smirk, but then he stopped with the sort of expression one gets when an idea has suddenly struck. Catching Mary’s eye and holding her gaze for a moment, he then walked toward Holmes, his manner changing to one of determination with an edge of something almost like humor. Almost. “And you do, agree, don’t you? I almost always hit what I’m aiming at, unless there are extenuating circumstances.”
Holmes did not miss Watson’s shift of expression or manner, nor did he miss the look the man exchanged with his wife, and so he was watching Watson approach him with full attention. His voice was cautious and a little musing as he answered. “Yes, I wouldn’t have said so if it were otherwise.”
“Good,” Watson said with a short nod that was more about bracing himself than confirmation. He stopped directly before Holmes, who had tilted his head and shifted his weight, clearly uncertain what to expect.
“Is it?” Holmes murmured curiously, looking his old friend up, down, and up again, eyes darting rapidly as his focus flitted from one minute detail to another, quick as thought.
Watson’s hands came to rest on Holmes’ upper arms, not binding, not firm, but lightly, carefully, and as Holmes lifted his chin to look up those very few inches between them, Watson whispered, “I hope so,” before almost swooping down and kissing Holmes full on the mouth.
Both Holmes and Mary gasped softly.
Mary’s hand went to her mouth in a gesture of pure surprise, and lingered in fascination as she stood there watching.
Holmes went perfectly still, then tensed as if for action—he might play at boxing when he went to the Punch Bowl, but the man was actually quick as a snake and just as deadly when he wasn’t faffing about—however, whatever he’d started to do, he... just didn’t. For a long moment he stood there with Watson’s mouth on his, Watson’s hands on his arms, and then he leaned into Watson’s presence with a soft sigh that was barely audible even by the man whose mouth was upon his own. When Watson tilted his head slightly, moved his lips gently, Holmes shifted his own head to a complementary angle and let Watson urge his mouth open slowly. Hands coming up between them, fingertips sliding up Watson’s waistcoat until he could press both hands flat upon Watson’s chest, Holmes made a sound that most closely resembled a whine, but could have been a near cousin of a moan. Watson, at this sound from Holmes, moaned—quite clearly a moan, of pleasure—and his hands tightened just a little on Holmes’ arms, resisting the urge to pull him closer as their tongue-tips touched, slid, caressed…
Holmes made a rough sound then, a growling grunt of effort, and straightened his arms suddenly. Watson was moved back a step, though he didn’t struggle, and he had never seen such a look of confused astonishment on Holmes’ face. Watson knew he must look a bit thrown, but mostly watchfully concerned; this might have been a mistake they could get past, but it also might have been a mistake that would ruin their friendship for good. Both of the men were breathing as if they’d been running, faces flushed, lips still parted.
Blinking rapidly, Holmes’ head whipped to the side, his gaze falling upon Mary as if only just remembering she was there. For her part, Mary still had her fingers to her lips, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed; her expression surprisingly similar to her husband’s—save that her mouth was hidden and his mouth looked exactly as if it had just been kissed.
In a voice that was too rough and a bit loud to be called a whisper, but certainly not normal speech, Holmes held Mary’s gaze and asked, “And what of your part in this, Madame?”
Mary’s gaze flickered to Watson and then back to Holmes, and she took a slow, deep breath before stepping closer. Gently sliding her husband’s right hand away from Holmes’ left arm, she twined their fingers together; then she put her other hand on Holmes’ left shoulder, feeling the tension in him, as if one wrong move would spook him into dashing away like a feral cat. Leaning slowly, so slowly closer, her hand sliding along Holmes’ shoulder until her fingers lightly curved around the nape of his neck, Mary replied in a soft, slightly breathless voice, “I doubt I could hold the same place in your affections as John, but I hope I may hold the next place after his.” Her thumb caressed the tender, smooth skin below and behind his ear, her eyes warming and her teeth catching her lip for a moment in hesitation, but then she added, “Just as you hold the next place after his in mine.” Upon the last word, she kissed him, less firmly than Watson had done, but clearly with intent, all the same.
Holmes’ left hand, freed from Watson’s grip, came to light at Mary’s waist as his eyes closed; instead of a sigh or a moan, he made a quiet sound of understanding, as one might when the last piece of a puzzle lines up with its proper place at last.
Watson watched them, one hand still on Holmes’ arm, swallowing a little heavily when the sight was anything but distressing or displeasing. He’d expected jealousy, at least, but he felt a longing like arousal and homesickness mixed together.
It was Mary who pulled away, but only far enough to open her eyes and give Holmes a searching look before asking in a tiny version of her quietest voice, “Oh, please say we haven’t got it wrong.”
Holmes’ fingers curved more snugly into Mary’s waist, pulling her slightly closer, and his right hand, still against Watson’s chest, turned so he could hook his fingers into the arm-hole of Watson’s waistcoat and pull him closer, as well. Watson’s blue eyes were a bit wide with worry, but his pupils still dilated with arousal, and he looked from Holmes to Mary and back again quickly.
Finally, the smallest hint of a smile curved Holmes’ lips. “You haven’t. In fact, I’m quite astonished at how very right you got it.” Watson’s hand left Holmes’ upper arm to slide around his back, fingers spread between his shoulder blades, the three of them almost toe to toe to toe. Holmes’ gaze left Watson’s face to focus on Mary’s, and his voice was a little quieter as he asked, “Are you sure this is what you want, my dear?”
“I’m sure,” she replied, voice just as quiet.
“And you, Watson?” Holmes caught his old friend’s eyes, held them, and a huskier, warmer tone crept into his voice. “John?”
“Yes.” Watson nodded, licking his lips, keeping nothing from his friend’s gaze. “Possibly for longer than I realised.” Rubbing his hand in a rough circle on Holmes’ back, Watson asked, “But, Holmes… Sherlock… do you think you can do this?”
Holmes didn’t ask for clarification, they knew one another well enough by now that he understood what Watson meant—if anyone was aware Holmes had trouble with emotions, it was Watson—but they weren’t quite the people they had once been. Fingers idly caressing the fabric of Mary’s shirtwaist, his other hand releasing Watson’s waistcoat and sliding around Watson’s waist instead, Holmes traded searching looks with both of the Watsons, his smile slowly returning. Then that smile turned a bit wicked and his voice shifted to a smoother, slyer tone. “I admit the mathematical possibilities are interesting, though not infinite, but I’m sure we can manage to work it out between the three of us.”
Mary gave a shaky little laugh and kissed Holmes’ cheek before resting her head on his shoulder a moment in relief. Watson chuckled and touched his forehead to Holmes’ for a long moment. “I don’t know why I’m even momentarily surprised,” he murmured teasingly, relieved, as well.
“Because you know me,” Holmes returned confidently. They stood there for a few moments, getting a grip on this huge change, until Holmes lifted his head away from Watson’s and caught them both in one of his ‘I have a scheme formulating’ grins. “What say we plan a second… well, I suppose this would technically be the third… honeymoon as soon as I’ve trapped the very last of Moriarty’s rats?”
“Third?” Mary echoed, not looking displeased, just confused.
Watson sighed and shook his head, his smile crooked enough to tilt his moustache at a rakish angle. “You did follow us on our proper honeymoon, didn’t you?”
Holmes’ grin only widened. “I wish you had gone to France, as I suggested, but it seemed to go well enough, in any case. Lovely hotel, though. I trust you enjoyed the flowers and champagne?”
Mary’s mouth dropped open for a moment, and then she just shook her head and laughed. “I thought they were from your brother.”
“Well, technically…” Holmes trailed off with a snort.
“This should actually work out just fine, then,” Watson said with mock sarcasm. “You’re already quite practiced at being a voyeur.” When Holmes pasted on a fake shocked expression, Watson leaned down and kissed him, firmly.
It was quite effective, surprisingly enough. When he released Holmes’ mouth to see what he would say, it was to find him with a dazedly aroused expression that quickly sprouted a very sultry smile.
“John, you’re playing right into his hands, the wicked man,” Mary said with a smile before giving Holmes the same treatment, stealing his smile away with a sweet, warm kiss.
“But, Mary, that means you’re—” Watson began, but Holmes broke away from Mary’s mouth to shush him, rising up slightly on his toes to steal another kiss while Mary giggled.
They didn’t actually leave the study for a while, but when they did, it was only to go upstairs to the master bedroom where they continued their… discussion... long into the night.
~~~
.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-01-26 01:21 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-01-26 03:07 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-01-26 05:51 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-01-26 06:58 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-01-26 09:30 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-01-26 11:26 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-01-27 10:47 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2013-01-31 06:18 pm (UTC)From: