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John Watson was a hedonist in love with an ascetic. Sherlock Holmes didn’t deny himself sex, no, he was too practical to not seek the release that an orgasm wrung from his long thin frame. But love? Affection? Tender touches and the softer emotions? Those were to be avoided and feared. It was no wonder that after attempting to love Sherlock Holmes, Watson found himself turning towards a woman who happily accepted all the love he gave and reflected it back to him with beauty, grace, and kindness.
Love came easily to John Watson and always had. His capacity to love made him fast friends at school and well-liked by the instructors at school. He was expansive, generous, and full with his love. For him, there was little separation between the joy in his heart and the physical expression of that affection. He expressed it on the rugby pitch, with his regiment on the transport ship to India, and even later in quiet moments with his orderly as they made their way north into the mountains of Afghanistan.
Sexual relations were an extension of romantic love and he gave freely of his body to his bed partners. He asked for nothing more than for the love an affection he had to give to be accepted by them. The first time he tumbled into bed with Sherlock Holmes, he realized his mistake in thinking that the man was capable of accepting his affection. But he was a generous soul, and when Holmes indicated again and again that he needed physical release, John Watson was there to oblige. Until one day it became too much and he simply could not say yes any longer.
Their friendship survived, for a time, but when one literally overflows with love, one has to find a place to put it, and so John Watson did. It broke both of them, but Watson had someone to comfort him. Holmes did not, and so he did what he thought was best and left his friend in peace.
It had been nearly six years since Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead. In order to rebuild their friendship, they had cultivated a careful distance between the two of them. At first, Watson's lingering hurt, anger, and betrayal had made that distance necessary. But in the last year, that distance had begun to lesson and Watson had learned how to be gentle and careful expressing his love. There was a hand pressed in thanks, a soft smile, a tap on the wrist to catch one's attention, and even, very occasionally, a clasp of a shoulder to say goodnight.
It was two days after Christmas and the new year and new century was nearly upon them. Christmas had been a quiet affair. Gifts had been given to Mrs. Hudson and the maid, Molly. Holmes had dolled out sixpence to his Irregulars and Boxing Day envelopes to the various tradesmen who regularly made deliveries of goods and intelligence to Baker Street. Mycroft had even called round to deliver a gift to his brother.
Holmes and Watson exchanged their gifts on Christmas day with dinner. Afterwards, Watson lounged before the fire in his new housecoat and slippers. Holmes had spent the day arranging his new chemistry equipment on the table by the window. But the bitter cold seeping in through the window the chemistry table was pressed against, and the dark early night of winter taking his light he had moved to his chair before the fire and was quite and curled up with his pipe smoking his putrid tobacco. With evening falling they were growing sleepy and laconic.
Something had been on Holmes's mind all day. Watson knew his friend well enough to understand two important things: first, that Holmes would be deeply offended if he was asked to reveal his thoughts before he was ready to share them; second, that Holmes wanted Watson to know that something was on his mind. Experience had taught Watson patience, so he had settled in with a book before the fire in the hopes that Holmes would come round to revealing his thoughts before it grew too much later.
Three pipes later, Watson was very nearly ready to throw open a window, freezing air be damned. His patience was nearly as absent as breathable air in their sitting room.
"Watson," Holmes began. He paused and stared into the fire.
The pause went on long enough that Watson raised his head from his book and closed it, finger marking the page.
Holmes finally looked at him with his unreadable grey eyes.
"John," Holmes tried again, softer, more carefully.
Watson's breath caught. He could count on one hand the number of times Holmes and called him John, first names an intimacy they had rarely shared, even in a friendship going back a decade.
"John, I do hope you'll forgive me." Holmes stopped and stared back into the fire. After a long pause, he added, so softly Watson almost missed it, "Some day." Holmes stared down at his hands clutching his spent pipe.
"Whatever for?" Watson asked, confused.
Holmes looked up at him, expression pained, as if the conversation were costing him a great deal.
"For the hurt I caused, so early in our friendship. Had I known the damage it would cause you, cause us, I would have been a bit more…" He paused, as if searching for the word. "Careful in how I treated you."
Watson's brow furrowed. "Treated me?"
Holmes sighed, as if his words were the clues to a puzzle Watson was failing to grasp. "Yes, I did not understand what-- no, who you were and what you were offering me. I truly am very sorry I was so careless in my refusal to accept it. "
"I don't understand," Watson replied.
Holmes made a noise of frustration in the back of his throat and returned his gaze to the fire. They were both quiet for several long minutes.
"I'm really quite terrible at this," Holmes finally said, looking back at Watson, a chagrined half-smile playing at his lips.
Watson returned the smile with one of his own that was soft and full.
Holmes looked down at his lap and then returned his gaze to the fire, unable to maintain Watson's look. Watson's heart seized in his chest. Was he understanding Holmes correctly - did he mean for the apology to be a request for Watson to try to love him again? For Holmes, he was as good as flaying himself alive in front of Watson, begging to be understood and accepted. A decade had given Watson the grace, strength, and understanding to know what to do next. He had never stopped loving him.
He slipped off the sofa and kneeled at Holmes's feet. He placed his hands over Holmes's twisting restless fingers and stilled them.
"Do you know what you are asking?" Watson whispered to Holmes, looking up at him with an open expression.
Holmes bit his lip, then nodded once, jerkily.
"And you want to? You understand what I want?" he asked.
Holmes nodded once more, more surely.
"Then shall I take you to bed?" Watson asked, rising, still holding Holmes's hands in his own.
"Yes, please," Holmes gasped out.
"And you will be there in the morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that?" Watson asked.
Holmes looked a little unsure, "Well, I am sure that some mornings I may not be able to, as I cannot predict what cases--"
"Holmes," Watson interrupted with fond exasperation.
"Oh, yes, then, for as many mornings as you'd like." Holmes said.
Watson grinned at him, smile lighting up the room, bright as a summer's day, and then he tugged at Holmes's hand and pulled them both back towards Holmes's bedroom.
---
Watson woke sometime before dawn, the unfamiliar weight of a body next to him and the unnatural quiet of the night outside the window pulled him back to wakefulness despite the tired satisfaction that permeated him down to his bones. There was eerie glow to the room, and as he shifted to look out the window, he realized the cause. Snow fell gently outside, already gathering against the window and the white powder covering the streets, buildings, and trees outside had caused the streetlights to reflect more brightly through the narrow windows.
Between them in the quiet and under the heavy quilt, the space between them was warm and comforting. It felt familiar, although Watson had never awoken to it before. Holmes's breath breath ghosted across his cheek and he could feel in the space from one breath to the next when Holmes awoke.
"It's snowing," Watson whispered.
Holmes sniffed.
Watson shifted back, resettling on the bed in a slightly more comfortable position.
"Perhaps the criminal classes won't be as active then," Holmes replied.
"Mmm, perhaps not the common ones, but the rich will be bored and trapped in their houses and growing weary of each other."
Holmes huffed out a breath, his amusement clear. Watson smiled despite the fact that Holmes's eyes had never opened and he wouldn't see it.
They lapsed into silence, but not sleep.
A dog barked outside, the sound dampened by the snow. It was otherwise quiet and peaceful, snow muffling sounds of a city that never really slept. Watson shifted again, his toes scraping against Holmes's leg. Holmes twitched but resettled a little more snugly against Watson.
Watson dipped his head and brushed his nose against Holmes's. Holmes followed the movement and answered by brushing his lips against Watson's, dry, soft, and warm.
Watson kissed him, slow and languid. It wasn't their first kiss of the night or even their tenth -- and quite possibly not even their hundredth, if one counted the way they had pressed their mouths to each other's, roughly, messily, not a few hours earlier as their hands had brought each other release.
They lay together now, in the dark quiet of the snowy Christmas season night, shifting and tangling together, sharing, taking, and giving of their bodies and more with each other. Watson was content to simply share in what Holmes was offering. It struck him then, that he was no hedonist and that Holmes was no ascetic. Rather, they were two very different people who had spent far too long not being able to understand each other despite desiring the very same thing: to love and be loved in return.
It would be a new year in a few short days. It was a time of celebration, rebirth, and hope for the future.
They stilled and sleep stole over them, and neither awoke until dawn.