Work Text:
Watson beamed as he stepped onto the platform at Fulworth station and saw me waiting. He looked instantly 10 years younger. It had been some time since he had been able to come down to see me, and we were both delighted to finally have the chance to see each other.
“It is marvellous to see you again, my dear Watson,” I said.
“And you, my dear Holmes,” he replied.
We embraced warmly. It felt wonderful to hold him in my arms, the warmth and softness of him the most important things in the world.
After long moments, we parted. I took one of his bags, he the other, and we began the walk back to my cottage. We exchanged news as we walked – he told me about happenings in London and how things had been with his practice; I told him about my studies with my bees and other pastimes I had been indulging in. My fingers itched to twine with his, but I would not impose myself upon him in such a fashion.
Once back at the cottage, I made us some tea. I had baked biscuits the day before, and we settled with those and the tea upon the sofa.
“It has been a long time since I ate biscuits with my morning tea,” he said before taking a mouthful. An appreciative smile spread across his face. “These are lovely.”
“Why have you been so deprived?” I asked.
“Jean has been trying to get me to lose weight,” he replied with a grimace. “A lot of my favourite foods have been off limits.”
I patted his leg consolingly. “Poor old Watson. I shall endeavour to feed you well while you are here.”
“I know you will.”
We lapsed into companionable silence for a time while we sipped and munched. It felt to me as though he was on the precipice of revealing something to me, but I did not want to press him.
“Jean and I are separating,” he said eventually.
“Oh, my dear fellow,” I responded. “I am very sorry.”
“It is a good thing,” he assured me. “We have grown apart. She will move back to Scotland, and we will sell the house. It never truly felt like home to me. My home is with you.”
There seemed to still be more that he wanted to say, but he needed to gather his thoughts. A spark of hope had ignited in my chest. He had always felt like home to me, and it was thrilling to know that he felt the same way.
“You once told me that you loved me,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you still?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed thickly. His hand found mine on the sofa and we gripped each other tightly. I looked into his eyes. Tears were brimming there, and he smiled.
“I love you too,” he said. “I think I always have.”
I reached out to cup his cheek, gently wiping away some of his tears with the pad of my thumb. “John,” I murmured, “my dear, dear John.”
I leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, not wishing to overwhelm him. When I drew away, we smiled giddily at each other.
“Are we the most terrible fools, John?” I asked.
“I think we are, yes,” he replied.
We both laughed, the bright sound filling the room. I could see our future together stretching out before us, golden and precious and filled with happiness.
“Will you join me down here now?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“Yes,” he responded.
“Then welcome home, my love.”
“Home,” he murmured, the most beautiful, contented smile on his face.
I could not resist kissing him again, an action which he willingly reciprocated.