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It is impossible to have secrets when you are living in the same house as Sherlock Holmes. Spending years in his company means it becomes necessary to accept that he will know every moment of the day you've spent in town the minute you walk back through the door, he will detect the slightest changes in your everyday habits, and he will always see when you are hiding something from him.
So it is when Watson descends from his room - slowly, stiffly, leaning heavily on the bannister - at just past two o'clock in the morning on a cold night in September. He tries to be as quiet as he can, but it is still not altogether surprising when he crosses the threshold of the living room and sees Holmes waiting for him.
His friend stands tall and thin as a river reed, leaning on the mantelpiece in his soft brown dressing gown. He has lit the fire and poured two tumblers of brandy, one of which he holds out to Watson as he enters the room.
Watson would laugh loudly, if not for the late hour. He settles for a quiet chuckle instead as he crosses the rug and takes the proffered drink. "Holmes, I find myself once again needing you to convince me you cannot read my thoughts." He sips the brandy. The heat of the liquor and the crackling fire are both most welcome.
Holmes smiles down at him enigmatically. Me hear you, he signs with his free hand.
Watson frowns. "Are you alright? Why aren't you speaking?"
His friend waves a hand around as if fending off a persistent insect. Thoughts, he replies with a sour expression. Noise. Too much. He puts his glass down on the mantelpiece.
"Have you slept at all?" Watson asks, laying a hand gently on his arm.
Don't worry. Holmes is insistent, shaking his head.
"Holmes..." Watson lifts his hand up to his friend's cheek, cradling his face. There is the faintest hint of stubble on his skin. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
Holmes screws his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opens them, his gaze is clear. He changes the subject. You awake, why? What wrong?
There's no point in pressing further. Holmes does not push if he can help it, not where Watson is concerned, even when he is absolutely certain there's something he's not telling him. Watson will reciprocate that consideration in turn. If his friend wants to elaborate, he will do so when he's comfortable.
Watson finds, though, he would quite like to share his own turmoil. It has lessened since he woke with sweat on his forehead and his heart caught in his throat, but it still feels very present, like an unwelcome arm around his shoulders. "I believe I was having a nightmare," he admits, "though I only remember pieces of it."
Holmes tilts his head to one side in concern. He reaches up for Watson's hand on his face and covers it with his own, silently waits for him to continue.
"It was very dark," Watson says thoughtfully. "I was looking for you, I think. I could hear you. But I could not find you."
Holmes laces his fingers with Watson's, folding them in to hold his hand. What happen? he asks.
Watson thinks for a moment, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. The more he considers it, the more he seems to remember. It is not a pleasant experience. "I was calling your name," he says softly. There is a thickness in his throat that wasn't there a minute ago. "That's all. I felt absolutely terrified about something. There was nothing I could do..." He breaks off.
There's a sharp little sound as Holmes gasps, short and quick. He steps a little closer and rests his other hand on the side of Watson's neck. His fingertips unerringly find his pulse.
"I'm alright, now, dear," Watson insists. The response is automatic; he knows, he knows, for goodness' sake, that Holmes will be able to feel that he isn't.
Why, even after all this time, and knowing any defences he puts up will be broken down by nothing but a searching look from his dear friend's silver-grey eyes, does he insist on building those defences anyway?
Sure enough, Holmes taps his fingers meaningfully against the side of his neck and raises a questioning eyebrow. The implication is clear.
"Very well, then. I am not, at this present moment, but I will be alright." Watson smiles ruefully. "Another drink in me, and some time with you, and I will greet the morning with peace in my mind, I'm sure."
Holmes still looks sceptical, but he breaks away easily enough to go to the sideboard and pour them both another generous amount of brandy. When he turns back around, they both realise something at the same time.
With both his hands holding the glasses, Holmes cannot say anything.
He parts his lips, inhales, closes his mouth again. Then a very strange look comes over his face; he narrows his eyes, tilts his head down, and smirks.
Before Watson can do a thing, Holmes begins to steer him by virtue of stepping in front of him and forcing him to move backwards. As he doesn't want to lose his balance, Watson has no choice but to back away around the little table and towards the settee. They are dancing to no music, and it's hardly fair, because Holmes dances like he fights - which is to say, with infinite grace and a surefootedness that Watson can only ever temporarily replicate.
On the way, Holmes dips down to put the brandy glasses on the table, and then suddenly he pulls Watson into a proper hold, one hand in his and the other spanning his ribs just below his left shoulder. Watson is quite breathless with suppressed laughter by this point but he goes along with it anyway, for the cheerful distraction and the feeling of being supported so pleasantly.
His friend leads him thrice more around the table, and the doctor does his best to keep up as far as his stiff leg will allow. He steps where Holmes steps, draws him back towards him, adjusts his grip accordingly as they follow the music that only plays in their heads. It's rather silly, but joyful, and his heart feels lighter with every motion. Finally he has to cry pax, breaking away to catch his breath, but not before Holmes spins him under his arm and they both collapse onto the settee, shaking with stifled mirth.
Holmes reaches over and covers Watson's mouth with his hand, shushing him with the other. He signs tea in between silent giggles, which is their personal shorthand for the name of their landlady, as the sign for doctor means Watson and detective means Holmes. To be honest Watson finds it a trifle derogatory given all that Mrs Hudson does for them, but when pressed he couldn't think of an alternative, and so it stuck.
Mrs Hudson asleep, Holmes says with a grin. Quiet!
Watson fends him off. "Unhand me, you beast," he declares in a bold whisper, pushing Holmes's hand away. "You are a terrible man. A villain." He can't stop smiling.
Holmes shrugs modestly. He has rolled onto his side to face him, resting his head on the back of the settee cushions. You better, he replies. All me want.
"Well, thank you, dear boy." Watson reaches up to smooth Holmes's hair off his forehead, patting it down. He lets his hand linger, tracing behind his friend's ear and down his neck. "I will admit you've taken my mind off things."
Good. Holmes beams with feline satisfaction. He leans over to pick up his drink, gestures to Watson to do the same, and they clink glasses in a quiet celebration.
They sip their drinks companionably, and within a few minutes they've gravitated towards each other; Holmes drapes one long arm along the back of the settee, and Watson lies at his side, his back to him, so he can rest his head against his shoulder. The room is warm, the fire crackling pleasantly in the grate, and Watson lets himself sink into the comforting quiet.
"Watson."
"Hmm?" He opens his eyes.
There's laughter in Holmes's voice as he whispers in his ear. "Watson, you fell asleep."
Watson turns to him. "Hello," he murmurs, smiling peacefully. "I'm glad to hear your voice again. What time is it?"
"A little after half past seven, my dear. And hello to you, too." Holmes kisses his hairline. "I'm sorry to disturb you when you look so comfortable, but I've heard Mrs Hudson moving about in the kitchen, and I thought you may want to get up before she makes an appearance with breakfast."
"Oh?" Watson takes stock of the situation. The fire has burned itself out. He is no longer holding his glass of brandy - that sits half-finished alongside its empty twin on the low table - and they are both under a blanket, a tartan one. At some point, Holmes must have fetched it to cover the pair of them, without disturbing him. Confound the man. He faces him again. "Did you sleep?"
"I rested." Holmes's mouth quirks up at one corner. "I still have much on my mind, but it helps to have you at my side while I think."
"I should hope so." Watson reaches to take his friend's hand. "Holmes, will you tell me what you were thinking about last night, that silenced you? I don’t wish to pry, but if I can help in any way -"
"I know." Holmes considers something for a long time, staring into the middle distance. Finally he leans back against the cushions with a soft sigh and begins his explanation. "I was sorting through some old case notes last night. Do you recall a few months ago, when we visited Berkshire? That large house with the hedge maze in the grounds?"
"And the missing portrait of a lady on her horse? I remember it vividly."
Holmes chuckles in a hollow sort of way. "Good man. Well, I came across the notes on that case while I was looking for something else. I fell to reading them, and soon I found myself revisiting those events in my mind's eye."
Watson frowns but says nothing. He has a feeling he knows where this story is headed; he tightens his grip on Holmes's warm hand.
"I began recalling that day," Holmes continues in a hushed tone. He seems to be speaking aloud only by chance, rather than actively addressing him. "The most glorious, bright sunshine of that day. We ran through the maze with no regard for direction, no idea if the man we pursued was ahead or behind us. You lost your hat at one point. I was holding your hand so we did not lose each other. Yet somehow, we became separated. No matter which way I turned, I could not see you, nor could I see our quarry. Knowing that any moment I could hear a gunshot, that he might reach you before I did, it was..."
"Holmes." Watson holds his friend's face with both hands and turns his head to look at him, catching him before he sinks too deeply into unpleasant memories once more. "Holmes, will you listen to me?"
Holmes closes his eyes, breathes deeply for a few seconds. When he opens them again and gazes down at him, he seems calmer. “Yes, my dear,” he whispers.
Watson presses their foreheads together briefly. “I’m sorry, my boy, I didn’t mean to upset you again. It was a hard day,” he says. “A very hard day. That you remember it so clearly, it must have been harrowing for you.” He lowers himself to tuck his head by Holmes’s neck, resting one hand over his heart, trying to comfort his dear friend with the contact. “But did you notice? We were both plagued with terrible thoughts and visions last night. And we are both happier, comfortable, and somewhat rested this morning. What might one deduce from such circumstances?”
He can feel Holmes smiling above him, the movements of his jaw as he tries and fails to suppress a wide grin. “Is it not too early for deductions, Watson?”
“Never, Holmes. And you haven’t actually been to bed, you know, so this could be considered an extremely late hour to be performing deductions.” Watson is rather pleased with himself.
“You are incorrigible.”
“Only as much as you. Go on.”
Holmes chuckles again, properly this time. He touches his chin thoughtfully with the tip of one long finger. “Alright. One might deduce, from the current situation in which we find ourselves, that a combination of liquor, dancing, and a bit of company is more than enough to keep bad dreams and unpleasant thoughts at bay. However, I personally would continue to infer that the efficacy of such a combination is dependent on the companion themselves.”
“Oh, yes?”
“In fact,” Holmes says, shifting so he can hold Watson against his side more effectively, “I would not hesitate to say that the uplifting power of dancing while tipsy in the wee hours of the morning is entirely determined by whom one takes for a partner.”
“May I remind you,” Watson protests in mock outrage, though he is undoubtedly blushing, “you gave me no choice in the matter of being your dance partner. What if I had refused?”
Holmes turns his head so he can look directly down his nose at him, the bright gleam of mischief in his eyes tempered with a soft, fond smile. “Oh, but I know you too well, Watson. You would not have refused me.”
Damn it all, he does know him too well. There are no secrets from Sherlock Holmes. “You’re right, of course,” the doctor concedes with an amused sigh. “I shan’t begrudge you that.”
“Thank you,” says Holmes primly. He wriggles out from underneath Watson and stands on the rug, stretching his arms over his head. “I posit we have approximately ten minutes before Mrs Hudson comes upstairs with our morning coffee.”
Watson, having been forced to sit up due to a sudden lack of consulting detective-sized cushion, crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”
Holmes, poised in a half-bow, one slippered foot behind the other, reaches out to him with an elegant hand. “My dear doctor, may I have this dance?”