Chapter Text
A man sat in front of the fire at 221b Baker Street, flipping through the latest medical journal. Another was sitting across from him, smoking a pipe with his arms crossed over his chest. Anyone who didn’t know the two men would marvel at how long they had been silent in those positions. Surely even two close friends would speak more often than once in three hours. They must be arguing, a casual observer would conclude.
However, as a somewhat cranky Inspector and a lofty politician would attest, Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes were not ordinary men. Their silence stemmed not from ire but from exhaustion, and both were soothed by the other’s not requiring conversation. It had been a long day, culminating in a chase across central London that finished at Paddington Station. The forger had been caught, his minor wounds tended by the doctor before being taken to jail, and their grateful clients had insisted on taking them to dinner at the Savoy. Now back in the sanctuary of Baker Street, the two friends were resting their weary legs; they weren’t young twenty-and-odds anymore. Soft snow was falling outside.
Dr. Watson broke the silence. “I say, Holmes, is it really twelve o’clock?”
“If that is what the clock says, my dear fellow, then I believe that is the time.”
Watson just shook his head and put down the journal. “Then I believe I will retire to bed. I’ve got to get up early if I want to- to go before work.” He winced unconsciously as he pictured the snow covered grave he would visit upon the morrow. Though his Mary had been dead nearly three years now, he still visited her last resting place as often as he could. It had been nearly two months since he had the chance to do so, he thought guiltily, and he was determined to make it before the flood of midwinter patients occupied him for the remainder of the day.
Holmes didn’t reply, merely stared into the fire.
“Goodnight Holmes,” Watson said gently. He was used to the detective’s long silences.
“Our clients were certainly gracious tonight.”
Watson turned in surprise. Holmes rarely commented on their clients once a case had been completed. “They were both quite charming,” was all he said. “I have seen very few couples so united.”
Holmes took his pipe out of his mouth and examined it. “Why do you say that?”
Watson was confused. “I know you are not fond of the softer passions, my friend, but surely even you saw how much they love each other? They hardly spoke to us, even though we were there at their invitation; indeed, they hardly spoke at all. They only needed to share a glance to carry on entire conversations. The few words they spoke were in perfect agreement on a variety of subjects and always contained praise of the other, and their sincerity was blatantly obvious.”
“I must say, that’s rather vague,” Holmes replied. “Why, it might even be a description of us!”
Watson blushed. “Well, of course, that could be said of any two who are intimate: lovers, friends or even relations.” He put his hand on the back of his chair, trying to decide how to explain love to his friend. “Think of their case, for instance. The woman was sent letters that laid out her husband’s infidelity in plain, bald terms; at his denial, however, she believed him implicitly, and came straight to us to prove his innocence. That trust, even after she was the victim of infidelity in a previous engagement, is remarkable. And do you remember the horror in his face when you asked him if the allegation was true? He loves her so completely that the very idea of betraying her is unthinkable. That shared trust makes it possible for them to build a life together, and share the passionate love that many feel but few can truly express.”
Holmes leaned back. “Well, that makes it more plain. Your definition of true love- for I assume that you see the Rochesters as examples of that?” At Watson’s slightly embarrassed nod, he continued. “Well, then, true love is shared between two people who share a deep and passionate connection built upon trust, mutual interests and romantic inclination.”
“Yes,” Watson agreed.
Holmes stayed silent for a moment, and Watson was startled to see a look of great tension pass across his friend’s face, as though he were facing Moriarty once more. Then it was gone, replaced by a resolution that could not be altered.
“Then I stand by what I said before,” Holmes said. “That could be a description of us. Or, at least, what I feel for you.”
The fire had never sounded so loud.
“Holmes,” Watson managed- his voice came out in a croak. “You cannot mean that.” He came around the chair and sat down heavily.
Holmes smiled bitterly. “Oh, I know precisely what I am saying. I understand your objections; do not fear, I would never do anything to harm your reputation. They are my feelings, not yours. I will keep this shameful secret, but…I could not bear to let it go on any longer. Forgive me, Watson.”
“For what?” Watson asked, still stunned.
“I know I told you after Reichenbach that there would be no more secrets between us. I meant to tell you this, I swear, but I was ashamed and I was not sure that what I felt was strong enough to merit telling you. Your words about our clients’ love assured me that such was not the case.”
“How do you mean, ashamed?” Watson asked.
Holmes looked genuinely uncomfortable for the first time. “Well, you know that this type of love is frowned upon, to say the least. It is a criminal act-”
“But you don’t care about that,” Watson interrupted. He was beginning to recover from the shock, and noticed the tell-tale twitch about his friend’s lips that betrayed a lie. “You have never so much as attempted to conceal your more illicit activities from me, and have in fact dragged me into a couple such acts, as I recall.”
“Not this!” Holmes burst out. “Never this- there is too much shame for you!”
And Watson understood. “Shame for me? I would be in no danger, not even if you confessed your love for me in front of the entirety of Scotland Yard; it would be you in gaol. No, the shame you imagine comes from- from what I would think of you for loving me? You believe yourself unworthy?”
Holmes stared determinedly into the fire.
“And you said it anyway,” Watson marvelled. “And people believe that I am the brave one.”
Now that the shock had fully faded, a gentle happiness had begun to let itself be known. A happiness that he had never hoped to feel, because knowing that happiness would mean confessing his own feelings, would have meant risking Holmes’ rejection and fury, for how dare he love the Great Detective, a lowly soldier with a penchant for dangerous situations and a dislike of rows?
“Holmes,” he said, as tenderly as he could, as tenderly as he had once spoken to Mary, “look at me.”
Holmes did, and his eyes went wide as he read Watson’s face. For once, Watson did not look away or try to conceal any aspect of what he was feeling. He knew his Holmes, and if he couldn’t read it in Watson he would not believe his feelings were reciprocated, not even if Watson told him so all night in a thousand different ways.
Stunned, Holmes reached out tentatively, gently placing his hand on Watson’s face. Watson let him, even leaning his face into that poison-scarred hand that could still create such beautiful music.
“You feel the same,” Holmes whispered, his voice full of gentle wonder. “But why?”
“Because I do,” Watson said simply. “I do not know when my affection grew to include love as well as friendship, but from the moment we met I have been yours, Holmes. I did not speak because I thought that I was not worthy, but I felt it all the same.”
Holmes gently ran his thumb over Watson’s cheekbone. “Anyone could tell you that it is I who is unequal to the honour,” he murmured. “But if this is how you feel, then perhaps I could earn it.”
Watson shook his head and reached up to cover Holmes’ hand with his own. “Were you not listening before?” he asked gently. “True love has nothing to do with checks and balances, but with hands and hearts joined as equals in love.”
“Sentimental idiot,” Holmes scoffed. “That sounds like the most indulgent of love poetry.” He did look pleased, however.
“Only the best for my Holmes.”
“That would explain why it is you that I have fallen in love with,” Holmes mused. “Logically, it’s perfect-”
Watson leaned forward and kissed the detective. Holmes didn’t respond at first, but when Watson didn’t pull away he leaned into the kiss. It was a chaste, simple kiss, but it was the strongest connection Watson had ever felt with another human being.
Eventually, they had to pull apart. Holmes was blinking rapidly. “What about Mary?” he asked. “I know you cared for her…”
“I loved her,” Watson said truthfully. Noticing his companion’s flinch, he went on hastily, “but it was not the same that I feel for you. I have met and liked many women, Holmes, but Mary was the first that I felt I could be happy with in the long term. She was a good woman; she loved me deeply, and I cared for her as well. But-” he leaned forward and looked Holmes straight in the eye. “Had you been a woman, I would never have looked twice at her.”
Holmes looked affronted. “If you had been a woman, you mean,” he said testily. “Why must I be female?”
Watson laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes- if I were a woman, I would never have gone to the war that gave me the wound to meet you.”
Holmes winced, and placed his free hand carefully on Watson’s bad shoulder. “I wish that hadn’t happened,” he whispered.
Watson squeezed his hand. “I don’t,” he said sincerely.
Holmes smiled. The two men sat there for a moment, revelling in their happiness. Then the light in Holmes’ face dimmed. “We cannot go on this way, you know.”
Watson sighed. “I know.” He realized now that part of the reason Holmes had spoken tonight was because Mrs. Hudson was gone visiting relatives and they had just finished a case, so there was no need for anyone from the Yard to call on them. Mrs. Hudson returned on the morrow, however, and the new day would likely bring a new case— at any rate, certainly many calls. Watson shook his head. He could not risk Holmes’ safety like that.
“We must behave as if nothing has changed,” he said sadly. “We cannot even risk it in private, truly- one false move and our secret would be out.”
Holmes nodded abruptly. “I believe that….some could be persuaded to keep their own counsel, were they to know.” Watson nodded, counting them off in his head. Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade and possibly Stanley Hopkins. “But I do not want to impose on them, and I do not want to put your safety in their hands. Not truly.”
“So we are friends, then,” Watson said.
“Good friends,” Holmes clarified.
“Of course,” Watson said, smiling sadly. “That is still a part of how I feel for you, no matter what else there is. You are my dearest friend as well as my dearest love.”
“There you are again with the poetry,” Holmes snapped, although he was flushing with pleasure.
Watson chuckled. “Only because it irritates you, my dear.” He left off the usual ‘fellow’ purposely. Holmes noticed.
“You had better get to bed, John,” he said gently. “You are tired, and tomorrow will be another long day.”
Watson nodded, a bit surprised by the use of his Christian name. He hesitated, and then leaned forward and kissed Holmes on the brow. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he murmured.
Mounting the steps to his bedroom had never felt so difficult. It wasn’t fair, he thought savagely. If Holmes were a woman— and his wife by now, if he could have managed it—they wouldn’t have to hide their affection, wouldn’t have to stay distant. Wouldn’t have to sleep alone…
As he prepared for bed, he tried to stay focused on the positive. Holmes—Sherlock—loved him, truly loved him. He had the love of the one man he’d ever loved, surely that counted for something. As he got into bed, he thought bitterly that yes, of course it counted for something, but it made no difference to the outside world. To them, the love they would share was considered a deep and shocking sin, the worst of all possible deeds. Watson wanted to rave with rage. As if Sherlock was truly capable of committing an unpardonable sin!
Watson closed his eyes, trying to will the tears back. They would love in secret; that would be enough. Maybe one day, they could retire to the country, live together in an isolated place where no one cared what his neighbour did. Maybe then, they could love each other as they wanted to. But he would never be able to tell anyone, feel the quiet pride of walking with the one he loved where everyone could see, as he used to with Mary…
It wasn’t fair. But perhaps time would change that.
With that, he managed to sleep, little guessing that a similar anger was being felt in the room below.
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John and Sherlock were both sitting in front of the fire, John patiently two-finger typing up the case they’d just wrapped up, Sherlock examining a monkey’s paw he’d been sent in the mail. John really didn’t want to know.
John sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Do you want a cuppa?”
Sherlock didn’t reply, so John went to the kitchen and put enough water in the kettle for two large mugs of tea. He was delighted to find that the kettle showed no signs of being used for experimentation. It was brand new, thanks to the last experiment. That had not been a good day.
They’d just got in from a rather wild night out with their latest clients, Jane and Eddy, who wanted to thank them for saving their identities from a rather determined hacker. John’s jaw was aching slightly from when the git had swung his laptop case, so they’d made their excuses fairly early.
Once the kettle had boiled John put a teabag in each mug and filled them with boiling hot water. He carried them to the sitting room and handed one to Sherlock. “Stop playing with that and drink your tea,” he said mildly.
Sherlock reached out with his free hand, but John held the mug just out of reach. “Put that down,” he said sternly.
Sherlock scowled but leaned over and tossed the monkey’s paw onto the table, right next to John’s laptop. He reached out for the tea again, which John gave to him with a sigh. His long fingers enveloped the cup as he sipped and John couldn’t help thinking what it would feel like to hold his hand… He shook himself and grabbed his laptop again, frowning as he tried to decide on a title for the case.
“Why not the Jane Error?” Sherlock asked, still glancing at the monkey’s paw.
John glanced up. He knew Sherlock despised the puns he used for case names, but why not play along? “I don’t know if that’s right,” he said thoughtfully. “She didn’t make the mistake, after all. She knew her husband was innocent.”
“Obviously,” Sherlock sniffed. “I was referring to the hacker; he clearly underestimated her infatuation with her husband.”
“Infatuation?” John wasn’t willing to let that go. “Come off it; she’s clearly in love with him.”
Sherlock waved his hand. “They’re synonyms.”
“Not really.”
“Oh no?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Well then, illuminate me, Dr. Watson, who can’t remember his girlfriends’ names until they reach the one month mark, which hasn’t happened in quite a while.”
John didn’t take the bait. “Infatuation is more like…a crush, I guess. Everyone has it, once in a while, and you don’t even have to know the person. It can become something more but you can stamp it down if it’s obvious it’s never going to happen.”
“You can,” Sherlock said. “Most people don’t.”
“No, they don’t,” John admitted. “But love…it’s different. It doesn’t always feel the same, or look the same, but once you’re really in it there’s no good way to get out of it, no matter how ridiculous or impossible your dream could be.”
He was all too familiar with that feeling. Staring across the room, across a crime scene, across a taxi at his flatmate-colleague-friend-god-only-knows, desperately trying to wish his feelings away.
“So what do you do, if you’re in love and can’t have them?” Sherlock asked softly. “And you really know it; there’s no point in trying or hoping?”
John shook himself out of his stupor and looked at him carefully. The Woman hadn’t been mentioned in weeks, since John had lied about Irene being alive (although he hadn’t, in the end, because he found one ticket stub to Karachi and two back in Sherlock’s wastebasket. Sherlock might be the only Consulting Detective in the world, but he wasn’t clever all the time.)
“Well, there’s lots of things you can do,” he said lightly, “too much beer, too much telly, too much crying—”
Sherlock groaned. “John, spare me the drivel…”
“Too much stalking,” John continued, “too much sex and too much hatred. But as far as a good solution, that won’t hurt them or yourself…” he sighed. “I think the only thing you can do is try to make their life a little better because they’ve touched yours. Being in love can be bloody awful, especially the kind when they don’t love you back, but in the end you felt something for them, and that’s better than nothing at all.”
“I think I prefer numbness,” Sherlock grumbled. He pulled his dressing gown more tightly around himself. John was pleased to see that the motion was difficult- Sherlock had finally relented about not eating and had gained a few pounds in the last month. The extra weight stopped him from looking skeletal but didn’t take away from the sharply defined outlines of his collarbone, the wiry strength in his arms or his elegant cheekbones…
No. Stop it. Stop it now.
“Don’t worry,” he said instead. “I’m sure your case isn’t as hopeless as you think.” How could it be? “Just ask them—the worse they’ll do is say no.”
Sherlock looked him directly in the eye and John flinched. He’d never seen the man look so hopeless. “I can assure you,” he said firmly, “that there is no way this will happen. I know.”
John’s mouth dropped open. With great effort, he regained control of his jaw, enough to say, “sorry, Sherlock. I know—” he hesitated. “I know how that feels.” This had become far too awkward. “Look, if you want to indulge in too much beer, there’s loads in the fridge, next to the fingers.”
Sherlock smiled wryly. “Thank you, John, but I think I’ll leave that option untested.”
John shrugged. He got to his feet, wincing a bit.
“It’s not real,” Sherlock said quietly. “You didn’t get shot there.”
And like bloody magic, the pain went away. “How do you do that?” John grumbled, making for the stairs.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said quietly. He might have said something else after that, but John had reached the creaky steps and didn’t hear him.
He fell into bed with a groan, not even bothering to take his clothes off. There wasn’t much point, he was unlikely to fall asleep. He laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
John wasn’t certain when he’d fallen in love with Sherlock (probably when he first deduced him, but he’d never believed in love at first sight so that wasn’t a serious consideration). He did know, however, down to the second when he’d realized it.
He’d helped Sherlock into bed after he woke up shouting about Irene Adler, and after making sure the great idiot was actually going to stay in bed, he’d told him “now, I’ll be next door if you need me.[1]” It was something he’d said a thousand times, to a thousand patients (with variations on the ‘next door’ bit, in Afghanistan it had been ‘next bedroll’ or ‘next tent’.) But Sherlock, unlike those patients, hadn’t just said thank you. He’d said “why would I need you?” Not in a snarky way, as he usually refused offers of help. It was bewilderment more than anything.
John had mumbled something in response and left as quickly as he could. He’d sank into his chair and put his face in his hands.
I want you to need me.
They were stupid, cliché, trite words but they were his in that moment, that horrible, desperate moment when he realized he was in love with Sherlock, really in love with him, and wasn’t that wonderful? Except it wasn’t, because Sherlock had made it very clear the first night they’d eaten together at Angelo’s that he was married to his bloody work and that he wasn’t interested in John. John hadn’t seen any divorce papers since then, and even though after the pool it was obvious they’d jumped colleagues and gone straight to friends, that was as much as Sherlock needed from John.
Shame, really, that John needed more from Sherlock.
But who was he to say that, anyways? Sherlock was apparently in love with the beautiful, accomplished, intelligent, sexy, female Irene Adler. And it didn’t matter that she said she was gay (and that might be wrong—after all, John had said that he wasn’t gay, but that didn’t stop him from being bi) because Sherlock loved her. In fact, that was probably why Sherlock said he had no hope.
John shifted onto his side. There wasn’t much he could do to help Sherlock—he was hardly the British Government, he didn’t have the resources to contact Irene, try to give them a chance together. But maybe he could come clean to Mycroft, tell him Sherlock needed Irene and offer to help with the legwork. Sure, it would hurt to see them together, but damn it, if she was what Sherlock wanted, then John would get her for him. Maybe he could babysit someday…he’d have to let them know he’d been joking about Hamish. It was a stupid name and no kid should be cursed with it.
John closed his eyes. It was a good plan. It was awful and horrible, but it was a good plan.
He didn’t know—couldn’t know—that Sherlock was sitting downstairs, trying to deduce who John was in love with and trying to ignore the cramping feeling in his chest as he ignored the possibility that he was the one the doctor was in love with. John had always been so quick to deny their ‘blatant love’, as the Yarders called it, quick to affirm that he was straight. That narrowed it down, he supposed, to female acquaintances. Perhaps he could bribe Big Brother to come up with more names from the CCTVs. It would be easier to think if his damn chest stopped hurting. He hadn’t been wounded there in ages—there was no logical reason for the pain.
[1] Quote from A Scandal In Belgravia