Chapter Text
For a man to join the army meant two things. First, that he is poor, and has no other path to pursue for a living. Secondly, this man would certainly undergo the most unconventional and sinful experiences that were never again spoken of one he returned to normal society. These caged up memories included comrades being shot, their limbs lost to infection, and the tune of warfare. They also included moments of pleasure. Of peace.
Homosexuality was not a foreign concept to such a man.
But for Watson to witness such shamelessness within his own house! It is too wrong, too absurd, yet He doesn’t quite understand why he was shocked to such a great extent. After all, there wasn’t quite much that was truly normal about Sherlock Holmes.
In the back of his head, Watson knows that the explanation behind that costume is a rational and professional one, but in that moment, there is no chance that he might consider such reasons over the emotions which heated his cheeks. He locks himself up in his room, overcome by embarrassment which he can’t quite identify the source of. Thankfully, Holmes has the sense to leave him be, or rather he is more likely indifferent to what Watson might be thinking (Watson speculates.)
He continues to sulk for the greater part of the morning, last night’s poor sleep not quite helping brighten his mood, however it does not go unnoticed by him when his thoughts turn less sour.
When his thoughts turn more imaginative.
There is something undeniably pleasant about the mental image of his friend’s lithe, bony frame wrapped up in the faded fabric of that basic skirt which he possessed. The puffy sleeves of that shirt might even serve to provide that lanky man with the illusion of muscle, Watson muses.
When his imagination took him from skirts to petticoats to chemise, he determined that it was time to eat lunch which he had forgone to be caught up in all this drama.
It was a relatively simple task at face value; go to the kitchen, retrieve some bread and marmalade and hurry the pathetically underwhelming meal back to his room, yet nothing that day had been simple or easy, and Watson couldn’t shake the feeling that that his trip to the kitchen would not go as he wanted it to. Still, with the resolve of a man ready to shoot down enemy troops, he throws open his door and ventures towards his destination.
He senses his plan going to shit the second he steps foot into the living room, or rather he smells it in the form of a tantalising aroma. Holmes was cooking.
The detective had proven his skills as a homemaker multiple times before and he was certainly more skilled in the area than Watson.
“Perfect timing, Doctor! The stew is just about cooked.”
Watson is startled out of his thoughts as his presence is noticed despite him being in another room entirely. “How-,”
“I heard you open your door and predicted you would be near the kitchen by now,” Holmes chuckles, and, Watson presumes, turns to look around. “But I see I was wrong. You aren’t here yet. Living room?”
“Indeed.” Watson mutters loudly enough for Holmes to hear, but just quite enough for the detective to note that he had irritated the doctor with his remark.
“No more of that cross mood now, my friend!” Holmes insists, strutting out of the kitchen with an apron around his waist that makes the scene feel too homely and domestic: something an unmarried man is not meant to feel. He grabs Watson eagerly by the sleeve and guides him towards the kitchen, certainly not possessing enough strength to actually drag the veteran along. Watson rather willingly follows along, as hunger had seized his dignity and was holding it hostage, and he was sure that his companion’s cooking would serve as a fine ransom to restore his mind. At the table, two bowls of food are laid already, and Watson is extremely grateful for the alternative to bread and marmalade.
“It was evident that you would not have eaten lunch yet, and I took it upon myself as your house-mate to care for you when you are in need of my services,” Holmes says, looking extremely pleased at the pace at which Watson hurriedly eats his food, although, of course, while maintaining proper table manners. A soldier never forgets order and properness, after all.
Watson swallows before responding. “You are a mysterious, multi-faceted man.”
“Is that so,” Holmes frowns. “I would never think to describe myself as either. I am odd, certainly, but not complex. I do believe I’m rather simple to understand.”
“Every time I delude myself into thinking that I might finally know of your character, you subvert it all completely. You are by far the most bizarre and confounding individual I have had the pleasure of knowing. And it has been that: a pleasure,” Watson admits with a sighs. Apologizing was never his strong suit, but he unfortunately owed it to his friend. “You must forgive my temper earlier today-,”
Holmes simply smiles as he interrupts the Doctor's uncomfortable apology. “I was never upset.”