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Sherlock Holmes, for all his cleverness, was ever frustrated by the unpredictability of emotions. The vagaries of the entire spectrum of feelings made criminals more dangerous, and him more vulnerable. He always endeavoured to conceal his emotions, to place a guard around his heart, but he could not help this cracking on occasion,
Emotions, Holmes noted, could also lead one’s friends to act both bravely and unwisely. John Watson was the bravest man Holmes knew, unafraid to wear his heart on his sleeve and throw himself into potentially dangerous situations. Holmes appreciated Watson’s loyalty and assistance. Indeed, he would almost have said Watson’s love. But that was foolish. Holmes knew, logically, that love was foolish, and yet he still felt it and longed for it. Emotions were complicated and messy, and led in this instance to Watson having a gun trained on him. A gun which had originally been pointed at Holmes.
“Now, let’s not do anything rash,” Watson said soothingly.
The owner of the gun sneered, and Holmes prayed that the police they had brought with them would heed Watson’s words. The last thing they needed was for Lestrade’s men to surge forward. That would lead to things which Holmes could not bring himself to contemplate, not when he needed a clear head to bring this to a successful conclusion.
“Rash, would you call it?” Skinner, the gun owner, asked. “You and your mate behind you have ensured that I will end up in gaol. Why should I not have a little revenge before I go?”
“And extend your sentence?” Holmes put in. “Currently, you could be out in 10 years. Shoot either one of us, and it will be life. Think of your children, Skinner. What would it do to them?”
Holmes watched the effect of his words. Oh yes, he knew how to use emotion to his advantage. Love for one’s children was as close to a certainty as it was possible to find in this messy field. The gun was lowered, and the police could move in. Holmes sagged with relief, and watched Watson do the same. He approached his friend, laid a hand gently on Watson’s arm.
“Watson?” he asked, his voice soft.
He had poured a lot of meanings into such a short enquiry, and Watson seemed to read them all. He placed his other hand on top of Holmes’.
“I am all right, Holmes,” he said. “I am not hurt. What about you?”
“No damage,” Holmes replied. “We are both very lucky.”
Watson nodded. There was no denying it. They waited for Skinner to be taken away, then found a place to hail a cab.
Holmes was quieter than normal during the journey home, his thoughts dwelling on what could have been. It scared him, more than he would like to admit. If anything had gone more wrong, Watson could easily have been injured, or worse. It turned him cold to think about it.
When they arrived back at Baker Street, Holmes changed into his dressing gown, then curled up in his armchair. He had just lit up his black clay pipe when Watson came back down from his bedroom. Watson too sat in his armchair and lit up a cigar. For some time, they sat in silence. Their emotions hung in the air around them, present but still unspoken.
“You could have died today, Watson,” Holmes said quietly, endeavouring to keep his voice calm. “Why did you out yourself in such danger?”
“If I had not, he would have killed you,” Watson replied. “I did not think, I only acted. I could have lost you.”
“And I could have lost you,” Holmes shot back. Tears stung his eyes, and he saw them glistening in Watson’s eyes too. His voice dropped almost to a whisper when he continued. “I could have lost you, without ever -”
He broke off, dropping his head. Watson left his chair and stood before Holmes’. He took both of Holmes’ hands, easing the other man to his feet. Holmes raised his head to see such tenderness in Watson’s expression it took his breath away.
“I could be anything you want me to be,” Watson said gently, caressing the backs of Holmes’ hands with his thumbs.
With his heart in his mouth, Holmes leaned in to meet Watson’s lips. He kissed tentatively, asking “Could we have this?” Watson kissed back an emphatic “Yes, yes, yes.”
As they continued to trade soft kisses, Holmes relaxed into it. He let out a soft murmur of pleasure and felt Watson smile in response. When they pulled back from each other’s lips, they rested their foreheads together.
“I love you,” Watson murmured.
“I love you,” Holmes murmured back, his voice full of wonder. Then he laughed with sheer joy. “I love you.” Another kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.
Watson pulled Holmes into his arms, and they held each other tight. Holmes buried his face in Watson’s neck, breathing in the warm, comforting scent. He let out a contented sigh, letting the fingers of one hand play over Watson’s spine. For several minutes they continued to hold each other, savouring every second.
“As lovely as this is,” Watson said eventually, “do you think that I could ring for supper?”
Holmes laughed. “Yes, my love. I would like that.” He paused for a moment. “You are wonderful, John.”
After another quick kiss, they separated, and Watson rang for Mrs Hudson to bring their supper. In many ways, it was like any other evening, but in other ways, everything had changed.