Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is with slight trepidation that I recount my recollection—imperfect, no doubt—of the one and only time I witnessed my dear friend at the mercy of alcohol.

I had been Holmes’s companion at dinners many times—at restaurants, as guests and at home—yet had never seen him inebriated until one evening we had reason to celebrate the resolution of an extremely trying case. In the hour before dinner we shared a bottle of Champagne provided by a relieved client, and Mrs Hudson provided with dinner a bottle of the delightful Beaune that we both appreciated so much.

“I really ought not to,” Holmes said with a delightful flush on his pallid cheeks and a slight hint of daring humour in his voice. “I have never been, and never will be, a drunk.”

”Oh, my dear old boy,” I remember saying as I lifted the decanter. “You’re at home with me. What’s the harm, other than a headache tomorrow?”

He looked at me strangely but accepted the wine. Halfway drunk myself, I raised my glass in salutation.

”To you and I. Firm friends until the end of time.”

Holmes raised his own glass and opened his mouth in what was no doubt meant to be a response in kind but all that erupted from him was a high pitched hiccough. He covered his face with his free hand as I barely suppressed my laughter.

“You must forgive me,” he said, he could speak again. “This is why I never partake beyond my limit. That was in no way a response to your stirring proclamation of friendship.”

I did laugh then, and he giggled into his glass.

“Oh no, you’re not getting out of a toast that easily. Let’s hear it.”

He closed his eyes as a blissful smile spread across his face.

“To my Boswell, my dearest companion, who has been and will continue to be invaluable to me.

I blushed and it was not merely due to the wine.

“That’s very kind.”

“Kind?” Holmes snorted. “Not in the least. Do not take it as a compliment, take it as a statement of absolute and irrefutable fact. I simply can’t get on without you.”

He took a long sip and I could do nothing but join him.

As we drank, our eyes met. We smiled warmly as we set our glasses down and devoured Mrs Hudson’s delicious roast beef. I was pleased to see that Holmes ate his with enthusiasm, as he had been characteristically reluctant to eat properly whilst the case was unresolved. I noted with deep affection that the pink in his cheeks lent him a look of robust health compared with his usual pallor.

He caught me in the middle of my examination. Normally I would have looked away, embarrassed, but emboldened by the Champagne I had imbibed before dinner and the glass of Beaune I had mostly drained, I simply smiled and offered him a compliment.

”My dear, the way you solved this difficult case with sensitivity and concern for the innocent party impressed me greatly. Since you sometimes comment on the shortcomings of my accounts of your skill, I will be sure to give your exemplary use of logic and reason more prominence when I write about this one.”

He smiled a little wider, making the wrinkles around his eyes deepen, and his cheeks gained even more colour. It pleased me that he was still just as vulnerable to compliments about his intelligence as any other man would be about youthful good looks.

“I suppose, from time to time, I am a little harsh in my criticism of your writing,” he replied, looking down at his plate. “I suppose further that there is room for a little romance in your fictionalised accounts.” He looked up again and met my steady gaze. “After all, a life devoid of sentiment may not be the ideal I once thought it to be.”

My heart leapt and I must have blushed like a bride on her wedding night. I looked away.

”I hope you are proud of your achievement,” he said as he poured more wine for us both. “I claimed that I have never loved, but a friendship such as ours is as good as.”

As good as what? I wanted to shout, to demand. But I held my heart—and my words—in check in case I misinterpreted his words, found meaning simply because I desired meaning to be there.

He picked up my glass and handed it to me then lifted his own. “Another toast,” he said quietly. “To the only man in whose company I feel truly at ease.”

I drank, then rather than another toast I asked a question that risked a response of laughter.

“Then would you care to sit at ease with me on the settee?”

The surprise that flitted across his face was replaced by an expression of open delight.

“An excellent suggestion, Watson, shall we?”

We took our glasses and retired to the comfort of the seat that Holmes generally occupied. Though it was big enough for two we rarely had cause to occupy it together. Holmes took another sip and then placed his glass on the small end table. He settled back against the cushion and tucked his long legs up in a childlike pose with his arms wrapped around them. Any disappointment at the sudden protection of his personal space disappeared at the charming picture he painted.

He's drunk, no matter how much he protests. Maybe he means nothing at all by his words.

Maybe he means everything by them and only the wine is permitting an unguarded confession.

“Your face is the most endearing shade of pink,” Holmes said. “How fortunate we are alone for the fellows at your club must tease you endlessly about your reaction to wine.”

“It’s not the wine. I'm not the only one susceptible to flattery, you know.”

I reached across to place my glass on the table beside Holmes’s. He leaned back to make way for me, but his hand caught my arm as I relaxed into my seat.

“You know I am not prone to empty words. If I compliment you it is because you deserve it.”

“Then I am pleased you find me to be easy company and worth complimenting from time to time.” I paused to consider what to say next. “I should hate to make you feel uncomfortable for any reason.”

To my surprise, he took my hand and uncoiled his long legs from where he had tucked them against his body.

“I am at a loss to explain it,” he said with a characteristic flourish of his free hand. He turned towards me a little, stretched his legs out and laid them across my lap. “When I am out on an investigation alone, my mind often turns to you. I like to see you smile when I tell you something clever upon my return.”

I risked laying my free hand on his knee, expecting a shake of his leg and a laugh. But Holmes had another surprise for me: with one fluid movement he was in my lap, his knees either side of my hips and his hands in my hair.

Had he kissed me, I would have been lost. But he merely looked into my eyes and smiled.

“You have read Macbeth, yes?”

I nodded.

“You recall the opening of Act 2 Scene 3?” I shook my head. “Never mind. I know it. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock, and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.”

I laughed as I remembered the scene between the porter and Macduff. ”What three things does drink especially provoke?”

“Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes. It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery. It makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him and disheartens him; makes him stand to and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep and, giving him the lie, leaves him.”

He touched my nose with one elegant forefinger. I laughed. “Am I to take it that my nose is painted pink, or that you need to excuse yourself?”

“I was referring to the provocation of desire. But how could wine alone be responsible for the thrumming of my heart when you gaze upon me as though I am your own unsolvable mystery? Despite my assurances to the contrary you must see that I am a man with all the weakness that entails.”

I shivered and rested my hands upon his shoulders. “Am I your weakness, Holmes?”

He leaned in and I closed my eyes, as desperate for his lips as I was afraid of them– afraid of crossing some nebulous boundary that liquor had weakened. But his lips pressed against the line of my jaw instead, making me squirm and gasp. He kissed me as though I were some fragile object of worship to be handled with care and not a hot-blooded man in the thrall of my own arousal.

“Have I gone too far?” he murmured against my cheek. He slid back to examine my expression. “Or am I simply too cold to spark a fire in a heart that requires an inferno?”

“Not far enough,” I murmured before I could collect my wits. “Holmes… Sherlock, my dearest, we ought to be cautious.” I stroked his hair and cradled his face in my hands. “This may be the wine talking.”

He gave me a lopsided smile and closed his eyes. “The wine counsels caution, John? Shakespeare had nothing to say about that.”

I brought his face closer to mine and kissed his forehead, both cheeks, the tip of his nose. I thought about pressing my lips to his in one brief kiss, but I knew it would not suffice. I would want more, and I would take it.

“Despite what you might think, my dear, you are quite inebriated. As am I. What if we gave in to desire and woke tomorrow with regrets?”

He sighed and dropped his forehead onto my shoulder. I put my arms around his back to prevent him from slipping to the carpet. When he spoke, his breath ghosted across my neck and made my skin tingle.

”What if we did? I have wanted… This. For so long.”

His words were halting and barely audible. ”Let’s sleep on it,” I said, forcing the words out. “I’ll see you into bed and we can discuss infernos tomorrow.”

He sighed and yawned. I felt him smile against my neck. “Nose-painting, sleep, and urine,” he said with a giggle.

I laughed. “I’ll fetch you a glass of water. You won’t want it, but you must drink it all.”

Holmes allowed me to help him to bed and to bring him a glass of water, which he sipped with his eyes lidded, as though sleep were already close upon his heels.

By the time I refilled the glass and set it upon his nightstand for when he woke with thirst, he was sprawled out upon the bed. My hands trembled as I adjusted the blankets around him and coaxed his head onto a pillow.

“My dear Holmes, you must sleep.”

“Am I?” he asked, his voice faint. “Am I your dear?”

He didn’t wait for a response but nestled into his bed with a groan. I placed a soothing hand upon his shoulder and squeezed it before retiring to my own room.

I lay awake, my head throbbing. What would Holmes remember in the morning? That I had done the honourable thing and put him to bed or that I had rejected him? Or was this a fleeting fancy of his brought on by too much wine and my own open desire. Although I believed his words I could not shake the fear that he would regret anything done in such a state of inebriation. I longed to be able to read people as surely as Holmes could.

I must have dozed, for I woke with the curtains open and my water glass empty. My throat was parched but my head was pounding less than I deserved. The thought of a cup of tea gripped me and dragged me from my bed. I washed and dressed, brushed my hair, did all I could to make my outer appearance the very opposite of my inner affliction, then ventured down to the sitting room.

Holmes was not yet up. I rang for tea and when it arrived I poured a cup for him too. This, I bore as steadily as I could into his room and set it on his nightstand. I opened his window a little then crouched by his bedside.

”There’s tea. You don’t have to get up if you are unwell, but you ought to drink it.”

His eyes opened enough that he could watch me through his eyelashes.

“Doctor, I fear that my days are numbered. I am surely dying.”

I suppressed a chuckle. “My dear, would you like me to help you to sit up so that you can drink your tea?”

He pulled himself up slowly to lean against the headboard. I handed him his cup. He sipped once then drained his cup in three gulps. I took his cup from his hand and put it on its saucer, then found him looking at me.

“I may have compromised the functioning of my brain. I blame the Champagne, and myself for drinking so much of it.”

I smiled ruefully. “I am in a similar state, my dearest. More tea?”

”Yes, but first I want you to remind me what we were talking about last night. I have quite forgotten.”

My heart sank. “Shakespeare came up,” I said, flatly. “I had hoped you might recall more of our conversation. It was…” I sighed. “Sherlock… Holmes. If you would rather we both pretend to forget last night then I will respect that. If this charade is intended to save me from the sting of your rejection, then put that from your mind. I’m going to have breakfast.”

I blinked away the burning behind my eyelids and left the room.

It was my intent to ring for breakfast and get on with my day. Regret, anguish, a surfeit of emotion– these were thoughts for the evening and the lonely night ahead of me. But when I turned back I saw Holmes sitting on the edge of the bed staring out at me with a stricken expression, which was not fair because I wasn't the one who had dashed the previous day's hopes.

“John, wait…”

I hesitated at the use of my Christian name. He beckoned for me and I felt a sting of irritation that I complied so readily. How could I not? I was his to command, regardless of how he felt about it in the cold light of day.

“I recall some of what transpired. I recall that you were gentle with me and that I behaved foolishly. I remember we spoke of affection and…” He looked away from me. “Desire,” he added, his voice hardly above a murmur.

“So you have no memory of climbing into my lap and kissing me quite tenderly? What a pity, for I will never forget it so long as I live.”

He covered his face with his hands. “I remember that I wished you had fewer scruples. You were right, of course. Right to reject my gauche advances.”

I walked slowly across Holmes’s bedroom and perched beside him. “It was not a rejection. More of a postponement.” I rested my elbows on my knees, clasped my hands and stared at my knuckles. “What do we do, then? My desire for you is no longer a secret.”

“And I declared my own thoughts on the matter last night with a rather clumsy demonstration.”

Holmes’s hands surrounded mine.

He spoke softly. “Can you forgive me?”

I sighed and clasped my hands tighter, fearful of his next words. “What is it that you would ask me to forgive?”

“Only my foolishness. I make no apology for my desire.”

I dared a sideways glance at him. His dear face held an expression of concern, but when he caught my eyes he smiled.

I could not help but smile back. “Of course I forgive you. But I would like you to kiss me again.”

He leaned in and bestowed a delicate kiss upon my brow. I sighed and slipped a hand around the back of his neck.

“If that is all you are comfortable with, I will not press you for more.”

“Oh, no no no… you misunderstand.” He looked away. “I simply require your guidance if we are to kiss on the mouth. I fear I don't know how.”

“What is there to know,” I whispered, my lips inches from his. I let him close the distance between us and tentatively pressed my mouth to his, allowing him time to get used to the sensation. His eyes remained open and I flushed and closed my own. My lips moved slowly against his; light caresses meant to reassure him, but he was a faster learner than I gave him credit for. When we broke apart he reached for my face to pull me close again.

“John,” he murmured against my lips, and then pressed his forehead against mine. “John, this is filthy.”

I didn't know whether to be amused or offended.

“You find it unpleasant.”

“I should but I don't… I can taste tea on your breath. The heat of your mouth is intoxicating, I want to feel it everywhere on my body… I’ve never been so aroused. Please give me another.”

“You may claim them, Holmes, all my kisses are for you. You never need beg for what I long to bestow.”

I completely forgot about breakfast. I kissed him again and he wrapped his arms around me, encouraging me with gentle (and not so gentle) pulls to lie on top of him. I kissed along his jaw, down his throat, burying my face in the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. It was more intoxicating than any wine, and gave me more pleasure.

He laughed and held my face, kissed me with parted lips and lay back with a deep sigh.

Worry nibbled at me. ”What’s wrong?”

He smiled and stroked my hair. ”It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.”

I rolled off him with a laugh. “Before any attempt at performance I would like a bath and something to line my stomach. I’ll ask Mrs Hudson if she can provide us with bacon and eggs. And more tea.”

An hour later we sat adjacent to one another at our small dining table, enjoying breakfast and a conversation about Inspector Lestrade's latest squabble with Inspector Gregson.

I reached for another slice of toast but before I could take a bite Holmes leaned in and surprised me with a gentle open-mouthed kiss.

“What brought that on?” I asked as he returned his attention to his eggs.

“You gave me leave to claim a kiss whenever I want one. So I did.”

“Yes, I recall,” I said, raising a brow. “But you must know that this agreement runs in both directions.”

He put his fork down in surprise and I took the opportunity to take his slender hand in mine and kiss it soundly while he hid his face in his other hand and giggled, stirring up such affection in me that in a moment breakfast was quite forgotten.