Work Text:
January 6, 1890
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, despite the cold outside, were on the outskirts of the city, together with the detectives from Scotland Yard, to follow a serial killer.
Sherlock examined the footprints left on the soft earth, trying to calculate the height of the criminal, who killed a man in a grotesque way.
Doctor Watson was behind his friend, looking over his partner's shoulder, under the pretext of analyzing the marks left.
At one point, after some deductions made by Holmes, Watson touches Sherlock very lightly on the shoulder, and makes a discreet sign with his eyes, to talk privately. Holmes understands John's intentions, so he says to Lestrade:
"I have to talk with Watson before I have a concrete verdict" then, they both retreated behind a building.
The night was already settled, and the moon shone in the sky, surrounded by millions of stars. Even though the two were in the shadow of the building, the moonlight crept onto their silhouettes.
John stared in fascination at Sherlock's two eyes: the gray was mesmerizingly attractive, filled with a sense of adoration and love for the person in front of him. While John examined his eyes, Sherlock looked with interest at every recess and ungle that was highlighted by the moonlight.
After only a few seconds, John whispered softly and closely:
"I have to go, Holmes. Mrs. Morstan is waiting for me at home. I'm sorry I can't stay with you until later"
Sherlock felt the building collapse on him: he felt overwhelmed by the situation. In that night he wanted to be with his lover, the person he loved the most on Earth, but he couldn't.
"Mrs. Morstan?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I thought it was Mrs. Watson." He knew it sounded bitter and sour, but he could not hide his disappointment and regret.
Also, John seemed sad and troubled by Holmes's comment which seemed quite brutal.
"Maybe I'm married to her, but she's not the person I want to share my name with. And you know very well who is the person I want to share my name" and with that, he quickly pulled Sherlock into a short kiss, so short that Holmes thought for a second that he had only imagined, if not somehow, after that, Watson wouldn't have pressed his finger on the detective's lips.
"See you tomorrow, okay? Now I have to go, it's already getting suspicious that you're staying so long." Then, quickly, he moved away from Holmes, who remained behind, while he sadly followed the retreating figure.
After taking a deep breath, and putting on his cold and arrogant mask again, he turned to the detectives who were impatiently waiting for the answer.
Of course, he had to make up a lie for the doctor's disappearance.
"As I predicted, Miss Charlotte is responsible for this gentleman's death, due to the blond hair on the victim's jacket, and the blood stain on it. Unfortunately, Dr. Watson received a telegram from a helpless doctor, so we'll have to make the arrest without him."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," replied Lestrade surprisingly, "but from now on we will no longer need your help. In the end, we also have to assert ourselves in this case" and with a quick turn on his heel, he consulted with the other detectives present.
Sherlock then stopped a carriage, giving him the address of Baker Street.
During the journey, Holmes was overcome by a million overwhelming feelings. Today is his birthday. His birthday. And Watson, dear Watson, his sun in the sky, his purpose in life, had not achieved this. Maybe he forgot, but he couldn't blame him.
"You're not right for him," said a voice in his head, but Sherlock dismissed the thought with a disapproving shake of his hand.
He loved him. He loved that doctor immensely. He was madly in love with that creature. John was the light of his eyes, the shining star that guides the explorers, the calm and clear sea, the oxygen he needed. Sherlock wanted to stay with him non-stop, he wanted to spend all afternoons together, reading or flipping through magazines, next to each other. He wanted to spend the evening together, both standing by the fire in the fireplace to warm themselves. He wanted to sleep together, to feel the man next to him, to feel his warm arms around him, while whispering sweet things in his ear. He wanted to wake up together, because John's smile in the morning was like cold and clean water, like the sun's rays sneaking through the shutters.
Oh, God, what he wouldn't have given for those moments. He would have sacrificed an arm and a leg, even his brilliant mind to have John by his side.
But, of course, these were just dreams. John Watson was married, and he had a responsibility to his wife. Sometimes, to his shame, Holmes had bad thoughts towards the woman with whom Watson was forced to spend his time, being able to kill her in the most grotesque way possible.
But, he couldn't, for the sake of the law and for the sake of John, who seemed to sympathize with that creature.
"If he wants her?" Again, the voice made its way through Sherlock's thoughts, but again it was chased away.
"No, the question is does he want her MORE?" Said another louder voice, and Holmes was a little shaken by the thought.
Not. John told her countless times that he married for their own good, to cover up this intimate relationship between them. He said he loved him.
"But why did he forget your birthday?"
He sighed deeply when the carriage pulled up on Baker Street, offering the sum of money.
The truth was this. He would always be alone. One day, dear Watson will retire to a cottage, with his wife and maybe his children, who knows. If his plans were these, which are natural in the end, namely to found a family, then Sherlock was determined not to prevent him from fulfilling his dream.
In the end, these are just silly things that Watson hasn't realized yet. But he will soon find out that, in fact, he put him in more danger.
But he will let him go, despite the fact that he would sell his soul to the devil to be with him, because his happiness is more important than his own.
Single. Again.
With a heavy heart, he unlocked the door of the flat, and entered easily. Then, after leaving his coat on the hanger, he slowly climbed the 17 steps, sad and gloomy, until he reached the living room, where he was stunned.
In the room, in the middle of it, was John, surrounded by a lot of lighted candles, which flickered playfully. John sat and looked with a warm smile at Holmes' frozen face, then approached him slowly, as if interacting with a frightened deer. When he reached him, he delicately grabbed him by the waist and brought him closer to kiss him tenderly on the lips.
"Happy birthday, my love" John said softly, after ending the kiss. "God, I love you so much" then he kissed him once more, but this time more passionately, having a hand on the back and waist of the surprised man, who instantly responded to the kiss.
After they finished, John pulled Sherlock to the floor, worried about the state of his lover.
"Are you feeling alright? It's like you've seen a ghost"
"No, I'm fine, it's just……."
"Tell me, please" John said calmly and with love in his voice, as he took the detective's hands in his, caressing them gently. "If there is something irregular, we solve it, okay? If you want I can..."
"No, there's nothing wrong," Holmes said quickly, gently squeezing the doctor's warm hands. "I just thought you forgot about my birthday."
John was in turn surprised to hear Sherlock's words, opening his mouth slightly. Holmes, ashamed, looked down at the floor, worried that he had said something that shouldn't have been said.
Watson was gripped by an inner fear. "Did I treat him with indifference? Didn't I take care of him? Did I not show enough affection for him? Did he think I didn't love him anymore, and that's why he thought I didn't know when his birthday was?" He was determined to convince the detective that it was a mistake.
He took Sherlock's chin and lifted it.
"Look at me, Sherlock, please." Holmes, with fear, looked into the eyes of a light blue like the sky, like the calm sea.
"Look, I'm sorry if I behaved to prove that I don't love you. It's actually the opposite. I fall more and more in love with you every day, my love for you knows no bounds. You are the most precious treasure, the best, most beautiful and intelligent creature I have ever met and will ever meet. And I can't forget this day, being a blessing from God, because on this day he created the person I love the most, with whom I want to spend the rest of my life and with whom I want to be buried."
Sherlock was so moved by the words spoken with such sincerity and warmth that tears began to roll down his cheeks, and when John finished speaking, he grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him into a passionate and sweet kiss, through which he told him what words could not say, what the mouth could not pronounce, something that only the heart could feel.
When they separated to get some air, their eyes met and their hearts melted.
"This is the best present I've ever had," Sherlock said slowly, looking at John so gently that he thought he was going to pass out. "The most beautiful gift I had: you"
Then, the two lovers spent the rest of the night in each other's arms, kissing and hugging, sharing words that only their souls possessed.