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“Oh, not now!”
Holmes cursed quietly as the air filled with wailing from the sirens and people looked up and around. A couple of youngsters craned their necks for the chance to see a German bomber, perhaps escorted by a Messerschmitt fighter plane or two.
Watson already had his armband on and was looking around at the nearest buildings.
“What do we do, Captain Watson?” Holmes asked with forced jollity to his voice. “Where’s the nearest shelter?”
“That shop’ll have a cellar.” He raised his voice. “This way! Step smartly now and don’t run.” He spoke sternly at one of the lads who’d searched the sky with big eyes a few seconds earlier. “I said no running! I don’t want to be patching up any broken legs.”
Watson held the shop door open. The proprietor already had the cellar hatch up and was helping customers onto the steep staircase down into the darkness. Once Watson checked there were no stragglers in the street, he bolted the shop door against looters then followed the shopkeeper down.
The cellar was dark, damp, and seemed to muffle all sounds. Watson shoved his hands in his pockets and hunkered down against the cold.
“No candles,” Holmes called.
“Sold the last of my stock this morning,” replied the shopkeeper gloomily.
“We’ll make do,” Watson said, trying to force a bit of cheer into his voice, “Always have.”
In the dark it was impossible to tell how many others were among them. No very young children that he could remember seeing, thank God, a few young couples, a group of old men– one of whom held a shivering spaniel in his arms. Snatches of conversation reached his ears but did not register as words. He drifted towards the sound of panting only for the old man with the dog to shrink away as he held out his hand.
“What do you want?” came a gruff voice, laden with suspicion.
“Don’t want anything at all. Only meant to give that dog some comfort. A friendly dog is a fine companion in any circumstance.”
“Leave Gus well alone, he don’t take kindly to strangers and neither do I.”
“Surely we don’t need to be strangers,” Holmes said, having crept up without Watson noticing.
“Quite right. We should make introductions if we’re stuck here for the night.”
His only reply was a round of discontented grumbling and a shrill nervous giggle from a young woman.
“My name is John Watson and this is Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective.”
“I’ve heard of you,” a nervous voice erupted from the dark. “Always in the newspapers.”
A few murmurs of agreement followed but no one else came forward to make introductions. He could not really blame them, they were terrified, but why compound that unease with fear of one’s fellow man?
“A winning try,” Holmes murmured beside him, “but perhaps we should keep quiet too.”
“Hmph, standing about in the dark as still as statues, no candles, no cigarettes, and no conversation. No way for civil people to behave.” But he kept his voice low as he said it, not wanting to give the reluctantly thrown together group any reason to dislike him further.
Holmes reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll keep you company, dear boy.”
Watson relaxed a little and squeezed back, suddenly aware that he and Holmes had some measure of privacy, despite the others hovering in the shadows. He allowed himself to enjoy their shared secret in that moment; safe in the anonymous dark. Though he could scarcely bear to admit it to himself, the one silver lining among the thunderclouds of wartime was the love affair that had sprung up between them. Would they have shared their first kiss without the heightened knowledge that it might be their last? Would Holmes have taken so eagerly to his bed late one morning if not for the nightly bombings that frayed their nerves and threatened to break their spirits? All he knew was that he’d never felt more afraid, alive, and yes, in love.
Holmes was close enough that Watson could feel warmth radiating from him. He was on the point of letting out a long sigh of relief that the worst of their ordeal was boredom when a thunderous roar broke through the silence and the contents of the storeroom crates rattled. Someone screamed and was quickly hushed to a quiet sob. Someone else cursed and the owner of Gus the dog barked that they should all keep civil tongues in their heads.
Watson moved even closer to Holmes—so close that they were almost pressed together into their cramped corner. He took a slightly shaky breath in.
“We’re all perfectly safe down here,” he said in his best reassuring voice. “Perfectly safe. No need for alarm.”
The only reply was a choked off sob, quiet breathing, a whine from Gus and a scoff from Gus’s owner.
”It’s true,” Homes said softly in his ear. “These cellars are robust. Safer here than an Anderson shelter.”
Watson closed his eyes against the oppressive darkness and concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. After a minute, he felt the weight of Holmes’s arm around his shoulder.
Holmes’s next words were barely audible. ”Come here, my dear fellow.”
Holmes’s other arm guided Watson to stand face to face with him and soon he was enveloped in a firm yet gentle embrace.
Watson was astonished to find his eyes burning with unshed tears. He blinked rapidly before giving up and letting them roll down his cheeks. If he didn't sniffle Holmes need never know. It would not do to fall apart, no sir, a soldier bore up in any circumstance.
Holmes kissed his forehead quite tenderly and Watson closed his eyes.
“I shouldn't be surprised if that there was the worst of it,” he managed before a gravelly cough erupted from his throat.
“Beg pardon, just a bit of dust,” he assured Holmes.
A sneeze nearby lent credence to his words but then he wondered if they weren't true after all. Dust, grit, dirt… a cellar carved into the earth and reinforced with wood and stone never meant to withstand a steel nosed tile breaker… a shelter that might easily be rechristened a tomb…
“You're trembling, old fellow, you should have my coat.” Holmes spoke directly against his temple.
Watson shook his head fiercely. “Don't be silly. I'm right as rain and it's warmer down here than up on the street.“
Holmes said nothing, only slipped a hand free to rest against Watson's cheek. Disarmed by the gesture he stammered something nonsensical. Holmes was, to be sure, more demonstrative in his affection than Watson had dared hope but to be adoringly caressed in a somewhat public place was a new experience.
Another rumble—smaller this time but just as close—prompted shrieks and curses from their invisible companions. Gus barked, an unnaturally loud staccato in the enclosed space, and was soothed by his owner. Watson clung to Holmes, head buried in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of pipe tobacco and cologne that seemed woven into the very fabric of him. Holmes’s hold around his shoulders tightened for a moment, then Watson felt one hand drawing slow circles on his back. He forced himself to calm, and raised his head.
”Sorry, old bean. My nerves are shot.”
Holmes continued the slow circles. Watson rested his head on Holmes’s shoulder again. Gus whined. Someone murmured reassurances to a sniffling, sobbing neighbour. And the likely origin of a soft groan that reminded Watson of lying half-awake in an army tent made him stifle a giggle.
That young woman and her beau are making the most of this pitch darkness! Well, good for them.
He turned his head and kissed Holmes just below his ear.
It was of course no more than he had done in a locked bedroom or in an occasional bold moment in their sitting room, but Holmes’s quick inhale and barely audible sigh shot straight to his groin. One of Holmes’s hands slipped down over the swell of his buttocks and gave it a possessive squeeze. He only just managed not to make a noise of approval. Their lips brushed and collided and he let his own hands wander south to map out the well-loved contours of his dear detective’s lithe form over his coat.
Another sneeze from the direction of the stairway rattled his nerves and he hopped back a little.
“Bless you,” a clear female voice responded.
“Awfully wet down here,” an old man offered.
Holmes leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “he’s not wrong about that,” and Watson had to press a fist against his mouth to keep a guffaw at bay. He felt for the buttons of Holmes’s overcoat and eased them open, then slipped his arms around Holmes’s waist inside the warm woollen fabric. They indulged in another soft, silent kiss then stood quietly, listening.
Time passed, but whether it was minutes or hours Watson couldn’t say. Eventually, the faint and muffled wail of the sirens reached their refuge.
”The all-clear!” Watson cried out in relief.
A collective release of breath filled the cellar and the proprietor felt his way to the steep staircase. “Stay put. I’ll go up first.”
With a few thumps and creaks, a square of dim light opened above them. Watson’s dark-accustomed eyes could just make out the precarious wooden stairs. He stood at the bottom and gestured with his hands.
“Women and children first.”
Gus and his owner barged past and up and out. Watson scoffed. “Rude. No wonder that dog has no manners.”
A young woman laughed and Watson smiled to hear it. “All right, miss, up you go.”
One by one, carefully gripping the rope handrail, the occupants of the cellar climbed back up into the shop. Holmes followed Watson up, a firm palm on his backside after a cheerfully cheeky call of, “Let me give you a hand, old friend.”
Outside, the cause of the thunderous rumbling was obvious. The building across the street—which the shopkeeper assured Watson had been vacant—lay as a pile of rubble with bricks spilled across the road. Watson shivered.
”That could’ve been us, Holmes.”
Holmes took Watson’s arm and leaned close. “But it wasn’t, my dear. There’s nothing for you to do here, Captain. Take your armband off and let’s go home.”
Watson allowed himself to be led home in a daze. As though sensing the turn of his thoughts, Holmes steered him wordlessly through the streets until Watson found himself standing in front of the fireplace, his coat and hat methodically removed while he trembled.
“Tea, I think, and plenty of sugar,” Holmes instructed Mrs Hudson.
“Will he be alright?” She tried to keep her voice low but Watson heard and filed it away in some distant corner of his mind.
“My darling,” Holmes murmured as soon as they were alone. “Your hands are freezing, give them here.”
Watson might have laughed– Holmes's hands rarely held their own warmth, much less enough for two– but he allowed them to be rubbed to increase circulation as he slowly came back to himself.
“I’ve no right to ask, after all I’ve been trained for this, but I beg you to forgive an old soldier his weaknesses. I fear going to bed without you tonight. Would you retire with me when I'm ready to find sleep?”
He tried to keep his voice from cracking, humiliated by the raw edge of need in it.
“My dear boy, I have no intention of leaving you alone tonight.” Holmes steered Watson to the settee and perched beside him. “It has been a trying day. Our tea will be here momentarily, then perhaps you might be kind enough to read to me over our nightcap.”
”Read to you?” Watson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “By all means, my dear.”
Mrs Hudson arrived with tea and two generous slices of buttered fruit cake, and left with two solemn promises that it would not go to waste.
“It’s funny how tea and cake makes the world a sunnier place,” Watson said after accepting half of Holmes’s helping. “What would you like me to read to you?”
Holmes smiled and fetched a paperback from Watson’s side table. Watson glanced at its familiar cover and smiled. “Are you sure? I’ve read The Riddle of the Sands to you twice before.”
“And three times is not too many. I believe you’d reached the part where Carruthers is about to investigate the Memmert site with Davies.”
Watson laughed and patted his lap. Holmes pivoted on the settee and lay with his head on Watson’s thigh.
“Now,” Watson began, idly running his fingers through Holmes’s hair, “close your eyes and let us return to the Wadden Sea…”