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Watson held her close, keeping her tears muffled into his shoulders. On the ground, not six feet away lay Donald Mason, blood pooling from the open wound through his head. The gun was still tight in the man's grip.
Lady Natalia burrowed into his chest and Watson caught the eye of his friend who stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. But after so many years it wasn't too hard to pick out the mix of disappointment and fascination. Holmes was happy for the conclusion, but felt cheated with the result.
A maid was summoned and soon Lady Natalia was removed from the room, still crying. Watson watched her go, knowing he would check her over before leaving the estate the following morning. Holmes came closer to the body, eyes a light with curiosity.
“What a perfect waste of life.” Watson said, standing a few feet away.
Holmes shrugged, “That is a matter of no consequence. I find the reason for him doing so far more intriguing.”
“Oh Holmes,” Watson said, suppressing a weary sigh at the indifference to the man's death, “he did so out of love.”
“Ah!” Holmes sprang up, eyes suddenly sparkling, “Yes, but it was driven by a forbidden love, a fervent wish, my dear fellow to have what he could not get.”
“And this interests you?”
“Certainly!” he seemed affronted that Watson could even suggest he this could not be the case, “Motivation is as important as the crime itself.” he gestured to the body, “Mr. Mason was driven by his desire to be with someone who did not love him, and whom he could never have, and yet he was willing to go through all of this to ensure she knew how he felt. How much he desired her. A foolish endeavor, with a tragic result.”
“A motivation which is more common that you anticipated, I suppose.”
It was the tone more than the words which made Holmes stop dead in his examination, his expression of surprise and shock both a balm and a sharp poke to Watson’s wounded pride. Of course he would have forgotten. It’s only been two weeks, but Holmes would forget anything which had no effect on him, no matter how painful it had been for Watson.
Despite this whole wretched circumstance, Watson found the strength to not only smile, but faintly chuckle, “It is like my mother used to say,” he said, smile suddenly tight, “Fish should never fall in love with birds.”
Again a hefty silence followed.
“Wats-
“We should get going,” he said, keeping his gaze down, “I'll go see if they have sent for the police yet.”
And he left before Holmes could press him any further.
They decided to take the evening train. They were both eager to get home and for once Watson was happy to forego a comfortable bed in favour of getting back to Bakerstreet as soon as possible. In their compartment it was particularly quiet, unsurprising seeing as both of them were quite tired from the long ordeal.
But despite the beds, Watson couldn't sleep. His mind kept mulling over the awful situation Mr. Mason had found himself in. The pain and hurt he had endured at the insensitivity of a girl who could not fathom what it must have been like to pine for so long.
It brought with it such painful memories.
Watson, much like Mr. Mason had found himself hopelessly in love with someone he should never have fallen for. That person of course being, Sherlock Holmes. But Watson as a man of honour and sense, had managed to keep these growing and frightful emotions under wraps. He could never risk a friendship he valued so highly on a silly crush.
But years of companionship and friendship matured the emotion into something far richer, and Watson had to finally admit to himself that he was in love. It did not come as an epiphany, shock or grand surprise. The simple admission had come to him at the peak of dawn when sleep had been far and war had been close.
That same night he promised to keep his feelings to himself. Holmes was his friend, his rock and closest companion, he simply couldn't risk it.
But of course, the heart doesn't always listen so well to the head. And so it happened that summer's afternoon two weeks ago, when Holmes, bathed in warm afternoon sun had turned one of his rare smiles upon him. Watson, bedazzled by such a beautiful sight had felt such a fierce emotion he was drawn to act without thinking.
His hand had reached to wrap around the lithe fingers of Holmes, and in a quiet voice had said; “You are quite dear to me, Holmes.”
He didn't rightfully know what he had expected, acceptance, anger or surprise perhaps – but the sudden fading of his smile and the replacement with a cold expression had been enough to make him release his hand instantly. “Forgive me, Holmes.” please forgive me, he'd thought, head spinning and heart racing from fear.
Holmes had touched his shoulder, expression now only blank, and said, “It's perfectly fine, we can forget this ever occurred.”
Watson sat up from his bed, the train's movement and his own racing thoughts making sleep impossible. He tossed open the blanket, and with a quick glance at Holmes, he pulled on his shoes and coat and left the compartment. He followed the long corridor to the back of the train, the darkness thick and warm.
The final door led to a small platform outside. He needed air. Outside it was quite cool, and after closing the door, Watson walked to the railing, leaned his elbows upon it and watched the inky darkness rush by in shapes and shadows.
“We can forget this ever occurred.”
At the time he'd been so relieved he hadn't thought about the actual rejection. Holmes hadn't thrown him out, punched him or dragged him to the police. He was understanding, accepting, but not receptive. It didn't matter, Watson had erred and it had not cost him his dearest friend.
He lit a cigarette.
Of course that didn't mean it hadn't hurt, and when he retired that evening his sleep had been kept away by the crushing disappointment. And yet he should not have been surprised by the outcome.
Because, he'd thought, how in the world could a bird such as you, magnificent, brave, bright and beautiful ever love a mere fish like myself? The slow, dull, limited creature you've chosen to sing your song to?
Watson wiped his eyes, surprised to find moisture there, and took a long drag to hide his shuddering sigh. It didn't matter. He, at the very least, was still a friend to Sherlock Holmes, being grateful for that great mercy should be his main concern.
The door opened, and Watson turned already snuffing out his cigarette, half expecting the conductor to ask him to please return to his quarters. He stopped, “Holmes?”
Holmes closed the door behind him, in the darkness it was difficult to see his expression, and Watson waited. Without a word, Holmes walked closer and wrapped an arm around Watson's elbow, where it still rested on the railing. Watson leaned back down, curious by his friend's actions, but certainly not adverse to it.
Under the small pool of light from the small lamp he could now see his friend was pensive, thinking, considering.
“Did I wake you?” Watson asked, but quickly smiled, “Perhaps the question should rather be; how did you know I was here?”
Holmes had watched him as he spoke, expression still pensive and tight. Watson was becoming worried, but kept up his smile, hoping to ease his friend's own worry.
“I hate it when you smile like that.” Holmes said suddenly, making Watson flinch, but he pressed on. “When you don’t want me to know that you’re hurting.”
Watson turned away, and looked down, watching the tracks slide out from beneath the train. Holmes pressed a little closer. “You usually have it when one of your patients are ill or dying, or when you receive news one of your friends have passed away.” he gripped his arm a little tighter, “But this time I know it’s of my doing.”
“I’m sorry, Holmes.” Watson finally said, “It’s just this case. I will be fine by tomorrow, and then we can put this all behind us.”
They stood still, watching the scenery rush past.
“I didn’t...” he stopped, and Watson turned back to him, noting the same calm expression from two weeks ago. He swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I didn't reject you because I do not find you handsome or appealing,” he clutched a little closer, “Quite the opposite, my dear Watson.”
Watson sighed, but smiled nonetheless, he could be such a sweet man, “I thank you Holmes, but you you do not have to do this.”
“If you will believe nothing else, then believe this.” He stood, and pulled Watson around, so they were facing each other, “I said no Watson, because I... I was afraid.” the word seemed to be painful to say, sticking tight in his throat. “I’ve never been in love, you see, nor have I ever even been intimate in any way shape or form,” a fractured smile cracked over his lips. “You, on the other hand have been with so many, spanning three continents. You capture hearts as easily as you win trust, I am just one in a sea of many admirers.”
His gaze was fixed on his hands, where his thumb traced a vague pattern on his palm. “So you see, in this case I would be the fish, and you the bird.”
An instant pulse of anger shot through him, “I will hear none of that.” and here Watson dared to take Holmes’ freezing hands into his own, “I’ve spent my life dedicated to recording your magnificence to paper, you will always be a bird, Holmes.”
Holmes smiled, a little more honestly, “Then we are two birds,” he met his eyes, a touch of worry etched into them, “And birds may fall in love?”
Watson didn’t reply, what even could he say? He wasn’t entirely sure where Holmes was going with this. And if he was correct in his assumption, he certainly did not wish to ruin it.
With a quick glance to the corridor, he pulled Watson into a small alcove of darkness, where they could barely see each other. “In some way I saw myself in Mr. Mason. In that being denied is not only painful but destructive.” His hands tightened where they still held Watson’s. “I can not even recall the conviction I used to rebuff your advances. But now I find it painful to deny myself, and to deny you.”
Watson’s heart pounded in his chest, his throat having gone dry, he felt warm and ice cold at the same time. Flushed and hopeful.
“Do you still wish to pursue this?” he whispered it, keeping it a secret.
Watson nodded, “I do, more than anything.”
“Then if we do this,” Holmes leaned in to press his forehead lightly to Watson’s, “Promise me that I will never lose your friendship.”
“Oh Holmes,” he pressed a little closer, allowing their noses to brush, “I would never risk that. I cherish this friendship as well.”
After another moment of shared breaths, Holmes nodded and pulled away with hefty hesitation. “Very well. Then I suppose we are courting.” he made to pull away, but Watson held his hands fast.
At Holmes’ surprised expression, Watson smiled, “You can not say something so wonderful, and escape without a kiss.”
Even in the darkness he could see the light surprise on his face, he noted the bobbing of his adam’s apple as he swallowed, and the trembling of his hands. Watson frowned, once again worried, “Do you want me to kiss you?”
With laboured breaths Holmes nodded slowly, “I’ve thought about it often at night.”
Do you touch yourself? The words were quickly swallowed down, Holmes wasn’t used to this, spooking him would be ill advised. So instead he leaned closer and said; “Then I hope I live up to the fantasy.”
And he kissed him.
It was only a sweet press of lips, and yet he could feel Holmes vibrating beneath his hands, trembling and breath hitching out in small gasps. Watson touched his shoulder, kneading the tight muscle and moved his lips just so.
Holmes sighed, and pressed back, forcing a startled moan from Watson at the sudden assault.
When they pulled apart, Holmes chased after him, eager for more. Watson smiled and pecked him on the mouth, before leaning close to his ear. “We should head back.”
The haze took a moment to clear from his eyes, and then realisation dawned. Holmes swallowed again, and with eyes wide and hopeful, nodded. Watson took him by the hand and led him down the corridor back to their rooms, where the two birds explored each other into the wee hours of the morning.