Chapter Text
Their sitting room has acquired a new layer of dust. That's the first thing Holmes notices as he and Watson stumble into the room, leaning against each other for support both from laughter and pain. Apparently Mrs Hudson took him seriously this time when he'd warned her against moving any of his things around. Good. He takes off his coat and lets it fall where it may, striding over to his pipe as Watson sits down in his chair and shakes his head with a fond chuckle.
"You are asking for it sometimes, Holmes," he says.
"As I recall you were right behind me," Holmes replies. He turns around, nudging the end of his pipe into his mouth, and their eyes meet. Watson is looking at him with an expression that seems oddly fond, a genuine smile curving his lips. It's the sort of smile that Holmes hasn't seen since before Watson met Mary and left Baker Street and then returned, and abruptly the words that are on the tip of his tongue evaporate.
"Yes, well, I'm not really sure that says anything about the state of either of our minds." Watson sighs into the silence and sets his cane down. "Let me see your chest, old boy. That man caught you quite hard on your ribs with his baton."
"It doesn't hurt," says Holmes. "Nothing is broken. Do stop being such a mother hen."
Watson just rolls his eyes. "I'd be more inclined to let you be if I didn't know you've ignored broken bones before. I'll not be awoken at four in the morning because you've discovered that it hurts after all. Let me see."
He pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly, and approaches with his hands raised to begin his examination. Holmes's eyes fall on those outstretched limbs and abruptly he flinches away, nearly dropping his pipe. Watson stops, amazed and then concerned, as Holmes slides around to the other side of the couch, leaving a good distance between them.
"Holmes?" he asks carefully.
"Fine. I'm fine. I've just - yes." He leaves behind that utter lack of decent explanation and escapes into his room, closing the door behind him. His heart is pounding and it has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the case. For a moment, a split second, his mind betrayed him and he'd seen someone different reaching for him.
And now he's not sure what bothers him more: the fact that even after all of these years and repeated purging he still remembers Victor Trevor, or that for this brief moment in time he'd seen Victor's cruel intent in Watson's kind face and hands.
--
It’s a full two days before Holmes ventures out of his bedroom, and then only when the flat has been silent for a substantial amount of time. As expected there is no sign of Watson, and a quick perusal of the room is enough to tell him that Watson has been called out, likely summoned by one of the few patients he still looks after, which means he’ll likely be gone for some time. Relived, he sinks down onto the lounge after packing his pipe. His mind has been going around in useless circles for hours, an exercise he finds abhorrent, but with no outside stimulant to make it stop there is no helping the matter.
Victor Trevor. How many times he has tried to erase that name, those memories, from his mind?
Equal to the amount of times he has failed.
Holmes shudders, a quick jerk to the shoulders that would have gone unnoticed had anyone been in the room with him, and surges up, eagerly searching the mantel for anything that might prove enough of a challenge to quiet his mind. But there is nothing beyond the trivial sort of cases that he can solve without ever leaving the room, affairs and petty thievery and even a missing cat that he can tell has merely run away. There is nothing and so he will have to find his own distraction, some way of quieting the tempest.
He finds it in an experiment, one that has fallen by the wayside in lieu of a case. The cultures have grown mould and he needs to start over and he is all too eager, tending to each step with a care and precision that seems unnatural but which feels right. He works until finally his head falls to his chest and he sinks into an exhausted stupor, pipe striking the table with a resounding clang that doesn’t even rouse him, and there he stays until Watson returns hours later.
“Oh Holmes,” he sighs, spotting his friend immediately. He takes off his hat and coat and sets his cane aside before approaching, mindful of what happened the last time. He doesn’t want to chase Holmes back into his bedroom, not when the man looks as though a stiff breeze will be sufficient to push him over. He stops a foot or so away and says, “Holmes, wake up. You’ll give yourself a pain if you sleep like that for much longer.”
“Mmm… Watson?” Holmes mutters, the word slurred, peering around in confusion. The act of lifting his head seems to take too much. His eyes start to flutter shut again and Watson acts quickly, taking his arm and pulling him to his feet. He’s prepared for when Holmes slumps against him, head falling against Watson’s chest. He winds an arm around Holmes’s waist, noticing the distinct lack of padding around his ribs, and shakes his head, steering Holmes over to the lounge.
Holmes topples over like a marionette without any strings, legs hanging off of the end and arms askew. Rolling his eyes, Watson prods him into a more comfortable position. He fetches a blanket and spreads it over his friend as Holmes curls up tighter. His task is done and he can retire, but he lingers for a moment, watching Holmes, who seems strangely young without those familiar lines on his face. Yet there is something cautious in the way Holmes holds himself even in sleep, with his arms and legs pulled close to his body as though something might attack.
What, he wonders with increasing dread, has happened to Holmes to make him so fearful?
---
The feel of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, wakes Holmes. He comes back to consciousness with a startled shout he can't quite contain, heart pounding and adrenaline surging, halfway off the far side of the lounge before his mind recognizes that it's Watson standing over him: just Watson. His old friend is wearing his night clothing and his hair is mussed, indicating he is - was - sleeping. There's a candle in his hand which he sets aside, resting it gently on the edge of the desk before he reaches out and takes hold of Holmes's arm, pushing the sleeve up swiftly to examine the inside of his elbow.
"I've taken nothing,” says Holmes defensively, the familiar ritual soothing in spite of that. Watson’s thumb rubs over the crease of his flesh and gradually his thudding heart begins to slow. He realizes that his hands are shaking a little, a remnant of too little sleep and a sudden awakening.
“You were calling out in your sleep,” Watson says, looking down into his face. His eyes search Holmes intently, looking for some sign that he has ingested a concoction by some other method. The last time Holmes had suffered from fevered dreams, it resulted in a row that lasted for days after Watson found out what exactly he’d taken.
“I didn’t - it was just a dream,” he mumbles, lowering his gaze to where Watson’s hand still cups his arm. His thumb is rubbing gentle circles. The touch, unused to it as Holmes is, makes him feel odd. He doesn’t know whether he ought to be leaning further into it and seeking more, or drawing back for the sake of propriety even though they are alone in the sitting room and he normally doesn’t care for such contrivances. He lets out a breath in a slow sigh. Though he doesn’t remember the dream, he knows what - or rather, who it was about.
“Holmes, I’m worried about you. You locked yourself up in your bedroom without any food and I know you weren’t sleeping, either. It’s been at least four days since you ate.”
“I haven’t been hungry.” It’s the simple truth but it doesn’t make the degree of concern on Watson’s face lighten. The thought of consuming anything makes his stomach feel ill. He attempts a smile. “Come now, old cock, you’re mother henning me again.”
“If that’s what it takes so be it,” comes the quiet reply. “I won’t wake Mrs Hudson at this time of the night, but come morning I expect you to sit down with me and eat, Holmes.”
Holmes grimaces at the idea, but nods. He knows from experience that he can only push the good doctor so far. And it won’t do to be too weak to answer the next summons from Lestrade. “Very well. In the morning,” he agrees, noting from a glance out the window that morning is still a few hours off at least. It’s still dark outside, the blackness only just broken by faint tinges of golden light.
“Good.” Finally Watson releases his arm, though not without one last lingering caress that makes Holmes feel lightheaded. His friend takes a step back, leaving a hint of distance between them. He hesitates and then asks, “Holmes, who is Victor?”
Hearing the name spoken out loud is akin to being in the boxing ring and receiving an unexpected blow to the stomach. It doesn’t happen often, but it is always unpleasant. Holmes draws in a sharp breath, almost a gasp. “Where did you hear that name?”
“I told you, you called out when you were sleeping.”
If he brushes Watson off, Holmes knows from experience that Watson will pursue the matter until he has a satisfying answer. Telling the truth is out of question, so - “A friend, Watson, from when I was young. We parted on poor terms several years ago.”
Watson doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “I see.”
And Holmes is rather afraid that he is beginning to.
---
Nothing has ever happened between them. It’s all there, of course, fraught with a unique sort of tension that not even Holmes, inexperienced though he may be when it comes to this sort of thing, can ignore, but the physical aspect is a step neither man has ever dared to broach. After that, though, after that night and the next morning when Holmes actually does sit down and eat breakfast, it changes. He can see it in Watson’s face and eyes when the man looks at him, the naked affection that is enough, on occasion, to actually silence Holmes in the middle of one of his deductions.
It’s there when Watson tends to him after cases and boxing matches, when they share a wicked grin after a brawl, even when Mrs Hudson is scolding him for letting his newest experiment grow mould on the kitchen table and Watson, who would normally be on her side, can’t quite hide his smile even with the help of a ducked head and his moustache.
Still, in spite of that Holmes isn’t expecting anything to change. Even with the unspoken knowledge lingering between them he’s never thought that either of them would ever act. Watson for obvious reasons and Holmes for reasons he would much rather forget. So on one warm morning about a fortnight after their talk in the middle of the night, no one is more stunned than him when Watson kisses him for the very first time.
He’s been working on an experiment but the temperature keeps throwing it off. Unseasonable heat has descended like steam across London and their rooms are hot and sticky, congealing the results before he even get the chance to examine them. Frustrated, he’s taken to violently playing his violin and grimacing every so often when a particularly rough draw of the bow across the strings causes the scar on his back shoulder to ache. It doesn’t hurt often, but when it does the burn can be very painful indeed. Holmes is prepared to ignore that if the discordant sounds of the instrument will soothe his racing thoughts but someone else isn’t.
“Holmes.” Watson’s hand lands lightly on his elbow, not pressing, just there, a soft presence that can’t be ignored. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” The implied ‘again’ hangs at the end of that sentence and Holmes huffs. Normally he’d make a comment about mother henning, but he has been playing for so long that his shoulder really does ache quite a bit. He slides the bow across the strings one last time just because he can before letting his arms fall to his sides.
“I’m bored,” he says simply.
“I believe all of Baker Street knows you’re bored.”
Holmes smirks and turns, leaning down to place his violin and bow away in the case. The back of his neck prickles and he realizes that it’s the weight of Watson’s gaze on him, and suddenly the room feels much warmer indeed. Flushed, he straightens but doesn’t turn. “I thought you were out with your friend.”
“That was hours ago, Holmes,” Watson replies, sounding exasperated. “Do you ever pay attention to anything but yourself?”
“On occasion, when it serves me.” He does turn, then, and they are close, much closer than he’s anticipating, and that’s when it happens. Light, so light he wonders if he’s hallucinated, just the touch of lips and a brush of hair against his cheek and then Watson has pulled away, retreated, with a significant look.
“When it serves you to let me know that you’re thinking of someone else, I’ll be waiting,” is all that he says as he disappears into his bedroom, leaving a shocked Holmes behind.