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I have kissed John Watson precisely three times: once in a darkened alleyway, once in the dimmed light of a cold room at an inn in the countryside, and once in the warmth of our own sitting room, with a fire roaring beside us. The first time was something of a blur; it had been near the end of a case in a country town, and we had been waiting for our murder suspect in the night, hoping to grab him. The night had ended in a wild chase through the streets, at the end of which we unfortunately lost track of him.
“Damn!” Watson had cursed. “We’ll find him yet, Holmes. It isn’t a particularly large town – he hasn’t many places to hide.”
He had pushed back his hair from his forehead, damp with sweat. He had given me a grin just then, the type only I ever had the privilege of seeing. He had been breathing hard, with a brilliant glint in his eye. The streetlamps gave his face a golden glow. I was wild with adrenaline. And he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I only realized what I had done when his face was already in my hands, his lips already against mine.
I had staggered back, barely suppressing a cry of horror. I’d covered my mouth with my hand, pulse racing, stomach plummeting, hardly allowing myself to breathe. Watson was staring at me, frozen in place, his face the very picture of uncomprehending shock. For what was likely the longest moment of my life, the two of us simply stared at one another, entirely unable to move.
I decided that I had to say something – to do whatever I could to control the damage of my reckless action. “Watson,” I choked out, my voice a strained whisper… but then his face changed, and he looked past me.
“Our man,” he whispered. “He’s just across the street. Come on, we’ve no time to lose.”
He set off before I’d even registered the suspect’s presence. Shaken, I followed closely at his heels. We apprehended the suspect and interrogated him, and by noon the next day the case was solved. The husband of the missing woman thanked us profusely for bringing his wife’s murderer to justice and returning her family heirlooms, and we accepted his thanks and his payment for our services – which was far over what he owed us. We bought tickets for a train back to London the following day, and returned to our room at the inn where we had been staying.
It had only just grown dark, but Watson and I were utterly exhausted from the day’s activities, and so we agreed to retire to bed early. I could not help stealing glances at him as we readied ourselves for bed. Not a single word had been said about what had transpired – Watson had not shown any indication that anything was out of the ordinary.
Perhaps he had chosen to simply pretend that it had never happened, I thought with considerable relief. Perhaps he had written it off as meaningless, which would have been quite the feat of mental gymnastics. I was quite sure that I had never kissed anyone so passionately. But of course, I had never loved anyone so deeply, so completely, so quietly, for so long.
Perhaps, I thought, I could convince him that I had been momentarily out of my mind.
I settled under the blankets of my bed and blew out the candle on my bedside table. I stole another glance over at Watson, and found that he was sitting quite still on his bed, staring at the floor, his brow creased.
My heart plummeted. Perhaps he wasn’t going to ignore it after all.
“Holmes,” he said, “I have something to ask of you.”
My stomach tied itself in knots; I struggled to keep my voice calm. “Yes?”
He stood, walked over to my bed, and sat down next to me. I shuffled myself into an upright position. Watson’s eyes met mine, and for once, I could not decipher at all what thoughts lay behind them.
“Would you kiss me, please?” he said.
It was then my turn to be shocked to my core. I could hardly breathe. “What?”
“I asked,” he said – leaning ever so slightly towards me, dear God, dear God – “if you would kiss me, Holmes.”
“I…” I stammered. “What… I… right now?”
He nodded, looking slightly amused. “If you don’t mind.”
If I didn’t mind.
The situation was so absurd, so impossible, that I realized I must have been dreaming. “I… I don’t mind,” I managed.
He nodded, seeming satisfied, and sat patiently.
The evidence pointed towards one conclusion: I must have been dreaming.
As if in a trance, I leaned forward and placed my lips on his. I meant it only as a chaste touch, but Watson tangled his fingers in my nightshirt, pulled me closer, and kissed me back. I allowed myself to be carried away on the surreal wave of bliss and absurdity of this impossible moment. The kiss lasted no more than ten seconds – then he released me.
He looked at me again with that creased brow, and again I hadn’t the faintest idea of what was running through his mind. I watched him in a daze, hardly breathing.
“Hm,” he said. Then he stood and returned to his own bed.
Once under the covers, he reached to snuff out the last remaining candle. “Good night, Holmes,” he said, and then the room was in darkness.
I stared at the ceiling, quite unable to form a single coherent thought.
In the morning when I awoke, Watson was already out of bed and dressed. “Ah! Finally awake,” he said. “The train leaves in less than an hour. I’ve already packed your things.”
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. A dream – of course it had been a dream. I stood and dressed myself, satisfied with my conclusion, putting the hazy memory out of my mind as best I could.
Two days later, we were back in Baker Street, comfortably resituated in our everyday routine. Enough time had passed without a single mention of the incident for me to finally relax. He had decided to ignore the kiss after all, it seemed. I was unspeakably relieved.
That evening, we were sitting by the fire enjoying a bit of brandy and a good smoke when Watson stood and began pacing along the rug. After a moment or two of this, he turned to me.
“Holmes,” he said, “I believe I have at last reached a conclusion.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A conclusion on what, precisely?”
“Our kiss,” he answered matter-of-factly.
Once again, my heart seized and I found that I could not move. He hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t chosen to ignore it. He had been thinking about it all this time. And he had chosen to confront me. There was no way out.
Although…
Our kiss. He had called it our kiss. Why would he have chosen that word?
“You’ve taught me well, you know,” he said. “I’ve learned to apply your methods quite effectively by now. One must gather data, form a hypothesis, and eliminate possibilities until one finds the answer. And I’ve applied this method to a peculiar problem that posed itself to me in a darkened street a few nights ago.” He paused. “The problem of your kissing me, quite suddenly, and quite fiercely.”
The blood drained from my face. “I – Watson, I am so sorry, I didn’t know what I was–”
“ And ,” he interrupted, “the question of why it had such a profound effect on me.”
I sat back in my chair, silenced and baffled.
“I had, of course, to replicate the experiment,” he continued. “Something else you taught me, old boy. Hence why I asked you to repeat your actions later that night, in a more controlled environment.”
My eyes grew wide. It hadn’t been a dream. It hadn’t been it hadn’t been it hadn’t–
“And after giving the matter quite a bit of thought,” he said, “I have come to the conclusion that… I am an idiot.”
I felt as though the gears in my mind had ground to a halt. “ What? ”
Watson’s gaze softened. “An idiot who does not realize that he is madly in love until it stares him straight in the face.”
I stood so quickly my glass nearly fell off the side table upon which it was perched. In the warm glow of the fire, I could finally understand what was showing in his face: affection. Tenderness. A hint of amusement.
“Watson…” I opened and closed my mouth like a beached fish. “You mean you… You mean to say that…?”
Watson chuckled at my look of utter astonishment. “I mean to say, my dear Sherlock,” – he stepped forward and placed his hands ever so gently upon my hips – “that I am in love with you, and that I have reason to believe that my feelings are not unrequited.”
I shook my head, feeling my throat constrict painfully. “They aren’t,” said I. The beginnings of tears pricked at my eyes. “Oh, John, they are very much requited.”
His smile was as warm and beautiful as the fire roaring besides us. I ached at the sight of such love in his face, in the creases around his eyes… To feel the full force of the adoration of a man with such a heart as John Watson’s was almost more than I could bear.
“Good,” he said. He pulled me closer. “Then I suppose you won’t object if I repeat the experiment once more?”
I laughed, tears finally falling down my cheeks. “Somewhat unorthodox, seeing as you’ve already concluded your study, but I suppose I shall allow it.”
The third time I kissed John Watson was beautiful beyond comprehension. He took me into his arms and kissed me deeply, and I kissed him back with the passion of seven years’ worth of love. To finally embrace the man I had wanted so desperately and yet resigned myself to never having was akin to tasting golden ambrosia stolen straight from the orchards of the gods. I must have cried – I know I did – but Watson only smiled against my lips and held me tighter. If facing the full force of his tender gaze upon me had been overwhelming, feeling the strength of his passion against my skin was enough to undo me entirely.
The third time I kissed John Watson was also the fourth, and the fifth, and sixth, and seventh and so on, although they blurred together so much I will still count them as only one. I found myself hopelessly aroused, and a very solid presence against my hip informed me that Watson was in much the same state.
I pulled away to catch my breath for a moment and to take in the glorious sight of him. His hair was tousled, his eyes wild and shining, his cheeks flushed pink. I could have stared at him for hours – but I had more important things to attend to.
“I do believe that this subject requires further study,” I said, running my hands up and down his back. “Perhaps we ought to renew our research and delve a bit, ah, deeper?”
Watson said nothing for a moment. Then he broke into laughter. “Only you would try to seduce a man with scientific innuendo.”
My face flushed. “Is it working, though?”
He grabbed me by my lapels and tugged me closer to him, pressing his erection into my thigh. “You tell me.”
I laughed and kissed him again, and again, and again. My own prick hardened against his and I moaned into his mouth.
Watson trailed kisses along my jaw and down my neck. “I think,” he said, “that we ought to continue this experiment in a more suitable climate.”
“Mm,” I said. He pulled away, and the sudden loss of warmth felt like a winter’s chill.
“My bedroom, perhaps?” he said.
A shiver ran through me at the thought. I nodded, vaguely aware of the ridiculous grin plastered on my face, and John took my hand to lead me up the stairs.
At the moment, I have kissed John Watson three times – give or take. And now, as he turns to lock the door to his bedroom behind us, I am certain that quite shortly I will quickly lose count.