Work Text:
Holmes is good at putting things together; too good, sometimes. He's learned to let his mind take things in, sort them, turn them over and around until they make sense, and then let them be stored in the back of his mind, the catch all that holds the many little details that make things easier later.
The point of which is that he doesn't always pay attention to everything his mind tells him. He can't; he'd go mad. (Although at least a few would argue he is already; he might agree, but there still remains the degree of madness.) So when his mind finally pieces together all the many things Watson has said, and done – the looks, the touches, the occasional self aware stiffness that colors his casual actions – when all that consolidates down into one sharp, brutal punch of a realization, his breath stops. He doesn't believe it; runs through the facts again and again, looking for some way for it to mean something else. Still, it remains, sickeningly so.
"You love me," he blurts out, and he knows the expression on his face is frozen in shock, in disbelief. Watson's head jerks up; he stares at Holmes. Holmes stares back, wide eyed. "Are you in love with me?" he demands, and Watson freezes, colors, shakes his head, but it's too late to deny the tells in his reaction. "My god," Holmes breathes, nausea rolling in his gut. Watson can't – he can't -
"Holmes," Watson says, setting his paper aside hurriedly, rising, and Holmes laughs, sharply, bitterly. Watson stops, watches him with something unidentifiable in his eyes. Holmes closes his eyes.
He still can't believe it, even with the evidence blatant before him. Doesn't want to believe it; it's too much of a betrayal. He's been blind, willfully blind. "I thought you were my friend," he chokes out, and Watson draws a shocked breath.
"I am," he says, shifts like he's going to rise, and right now, Holmes can't bear the thought of Watson being even one step closer than he is now.
"Are you?" Holmes replies. "Or is just desire? Are you only here because, because you," and he spits out the word, "want me?" It makes a dreadful sense; why else would Watson put up with his behavior, with his eccentricities, stick so close to him all waking hours? You were supposed to be my friend! he wants to shout. That's all! Just a friend! That's all I needed, all I wanted, why did you have to ruin it?
He'd never had a friend before Watson, and he still hasn't had one.
Watson is speaking, but Holmes has stopped listening. "It's not important, Holmes," and he hates the sound of his name from those lips. "I'm not going to act on, on what I might feel. I've hidden it well, haven't I? Nothing has to change!"
Holmes shakes his head, stunned by the hopefulness of this. Everything will change, has changed; there's no going back now. Wait. "Hidden it? How long? How long have you, have you felt something other than friendship?" Oh, god, how long?
Watson says nothing, but he swallows hard, and Holmes feels sick all over again. "How long?" he whispers.
Watson looks down at his hands. "A … while. Since, well, since the first case," and Holmes is reeling now; he can't stay here, he can't. He pushes himself from his chair, violently; Watson glances up quickly, moves to stand, and Holmes is at the door as fast as he can move. "Holmes!" Watson says, and Holmes freezes, his shoulders hunched under Watson's gaze.
"Leave me alone," he says to the door. "I … I don't want to see you right now." I can't deal with this, he thinks. I shouldn't have to deal with this! Watson makes a sound behind him, and Holmes flees, feeling exposed until the door of his room is shut firmly behind him, is locked. He can't even make it the few steps to the bed, the reaction hitting too hard, driving him to the floor; he slides down, his back against the door, and shakes as he stares into the darkness of the room.
*
He is exhausted, mentally, emotionally; he wants desperately to sleep, but fears falling into dreams, into nightmares. When he closes his eyes, there, painted on the insides of his lids, is Watson. He opens his eyes, and yet, still, his mind remains fixated. All this time, and he'd never noticed. How could he miss it? How could Watson be so, so devious? So base? From the very beginning, it has been nothing more than a lie; Watson admitted as much, and Holmes cannot stop himself from reviewing the memories, the parade of revelations never ending, as each expression takes on new meaning, reveals layers upon layers of deceit. All the times Holmes thought that Watson was feeling simple friendship, he was feigning it, was hiding his lust.
He hadn't thought he was asking for too much.
All he wanted was something simple, something he could look upon as familiar, as a constant. And it had been novel, having a friend. Having someone you could rely on, thoroughly, completely, and not simply because he could read their every reaction, predict their actions. Rely on because he knew they would make the effort to be there, because that's what friends do.
They don't lie with every breath.
He can't even trust Watson any more.
He shudders suddenly; Watson touched him. Was always touching him, and now there's nothing innocent about it, nothing friendly remaining, nothing comforting. Did Watson plan it? Did he think of ways he could touch Holmes? Did he – god – did he become aroused by it?
He doesn't know how he can possibly face Watson across the table tomorrow morning.
*
In the end, he manages by avoidance.
The next morning, he stays in his room – Mrs. Hudson will think nothing of it, attribute it to another of his 'sulks' – waits until he is certain Watson has left, will gone for hours on rounds. Only then does he emerge.
Somehow, even the casual disarray of their - their - rooms has a different feel to it. Their things intermingle carelessly, like there is nothing Holmes has of his own; that everything is held together, and Holmes finds himself separating his belongings from Watson's, unable to bear even the thought of Watson handling them.
Everything has changed.
He makes a point of watching the clock, even though there is not one to make the point to. When it approaches time for Watson's return, he takes himself out, seeks out one of any number of clubs and pubs and haunts where he will not be out of place, where nothing will have changed. Places he has never taken Watson. Places he might have planned on taking him; he never will now.
He slips in after the night has begun to give way to morning, after even Watson has surely given up, gone to bed. He is almost correct; there is a light burning in the sitting room, and Watson is passed out on the settee. He hesitates at the doorway. For a moment, it is almost normal; he fights the urge to throw a blanket over Watson, to wake him before his leg cramps up completely, making morning torture.
He turns away. A miserable morning is the barest retaliation for Watson's betrayal.
*
They fall into a sort of pattern, Holmes sneaking around Watson, ignoring the knocks on his door, Watson's pleas to "Please Holmes, won't you at least talk to me? You're making too much of this. Please, come out; I haven't seen you in days, please Holmes, you're worrying me.", ignores the vague stirring of dismay when Watson gives up, but of course he would; it was never friendship.
He sees far more of night than day now, the officers of the yard learning to find him other places than Baker Street; Watson cannot tell them where he is when they ask. Sometimes Lestrade looks at Holmes oddly, opens his mouth like he is going to say something, no doubt something Holmes doesn't want to hear, but he always closes it again with a shake of his head, sighs and leaves Holmes to his distractions.
It works, in a sort of broken way, but that is nothing terribly new to Holmes. The brief time that he thought Watson could be his friend had been the most normal, the most stable period of his life. It is familiar to slip into fragmented pieces of life, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that this is one more thing Watson has taken away.
One night (morning), he stops outside Baker Street, stares up at the light still burning in one window, and hates the fact that he's about to sneak in, like a crook, like he's the one who should be ashamed of something, like it's not his home at all. He had put so much into believing that Baker Street was his, a place that would have some sort of permanence in his life, and now he feels like he's been forced out.
It's horribly unfair.
He can't do it tonight. He can't hide in his own home. He can't share the space with someone who should be a comfort, and who is everything but.
He turns away.
*
When he returns to Baker Street several days later, he finds a series of notes pushed under his door. He doesn't read them; he consigns them straight to the fire. He doesn't want to know what Watson has to say. The officers had been pointed enough in their remarks about Watson's worry, and he wonders that he is the only one to see it for what it is – never worry.
Friends worry.
Watson has left another note at Holmes' place at the table; he crumples it. Another rests on his chair, and another rolled into his pipe, and he hurls it across the room in frustration. Leave me alone, he thinks. I can't give you what you want. And you won't be what I need.
He leaves before Watson even comes back.
*
When he returns, things are different again. There is a light in the sitting room as usual, but when he would pass by, "Holmes," comes from the door. He starts, but doesn't stop, doesn't stop until he reaches the door of his room, and the doorknob doesn't turn under his hand.
"Holmes. We have to talk."
He locked the door. He locked it. "You – How could – Why did you lock my door?" he says, his anger and panic growing by the second. He's trapped, he's trapped…
"I'm sick of you hiding from me," Watson says, and Holmes turns on him.
"You locked my door," he snarls, takes two steps forward and it's the first time he's faced Watson in weeks hits him, straight in that smug mouth.
Watson stumbles back, has the effrontery to look shocked. Holmes doesn't give him a chance to respond; throws another punch, follows with a jab, and suddenly Watson snaps back, throws his weight against Holmes, pins him against the wall for a moment, and Holmes can't stand the feel of Watson touching him like this.
"Get off!" he spits, and Watson snarls back at him, his teeth stained with blood from the split of his lip.
"No," he says. "Not until you stop and listen. God, Holmes, why are you so stubborn?"
Holmes twists, kicks at him, slips out of Watson's hold, and flings himself across the hallway, where he stands, leaning against the wall, panting with panic and exertion. Watson stays where he is, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, breathing heavily. "What do you want?" Holmes asks, and there's a note of desperation in his voice that he hates.
Watson stares at him. Sighs, closes his eyes. "Holmes," he says, wearily. "This is ridiculous. Will you just talk with me, for a few minutes? Things can't continue like this."
Holmes hates to admit to admit it, but Watson might have a point. This is hardly the best of situations, rapidly approaching intolerable. He doubts there is anything they can say to make it more acceptable, but maybe he can make it clear to Watson how very, very much he has come to dislike the sight of him, in a way that his avoidance obviously has not.
"Very well," he says, stiffly, warily.
Watson glances at him sidelong. "Not here," he says. "Come sit with me," he adds, cajolingly.
"After you," Holmes replies, sharply. Watson's lips tighten, and he winces as the cut on his lip opens again. He raises a hand to it, prods at it; turns and goes into the sitting room.
For a moment, Holmes considers bolting.
He doesn't.
*
He follows Watson into the room, stands at the doorway until Watson sits on the settee, and settles himself in his chair, angled away. Watson is silent; Holmes refuses to start the conversation.
Watson clears his throat. "Have I hurt you?" he asks. Holmes stares.
Watson frowns. "Have I hurt you?" he repeats. Holmes doesn't know how to reply; yes, with every action and every word, by lying to me from the moment we met, by betraying my trust, by ruining something I thought I would never have, will never have? It's true, but he doesn't think that is what Watson is looking for.
"Physically?" he says. "No. No. You haven't."
"Implying that I have in other ways," Watson says. "Yes. I know I've … unsettled you," and Holmes almost laughs at that, far too small a word to describe the upheaval Watson's admission has caused. "I didn't mean to … but I you agree that I haven't hurt you physically?" Holmes nods. Watson closes his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is taut as violin string, vibrating with a similar undertone, warning that it is about to break. "Than would you please at least make an attempt to act as though I am not going to seize you and beat you to death if I set eyes on you?"
Holmes flinches despite himself, and Watson draws a harsh breath. "That," he says. "I cannot take much more of you flinching away every time I say anything, every time I look at you, every time you think of me. God, Holmes, why are you so cruel?"
"I?" Holmes bursts out. "I? Cruel? You – you – you!" and he can't even find words for what he wants to call Watson. He settles instead for striking where it will hurt most; if Watson is sick of seeing him flinch, he will make Watson flinch. "I'm not afraid you're going to hit me," he snaps, and oh, Watson flinches beautifully.
"You need not fear on that count," Watson says, strained. "I prefer my partners willing," and if this a competition to see who can draw first blood, Holmes thinks he is going to lose.
"What do you want?" Holmes whispers.
Watson looks down, focuses on his hands. "I know things can't go back to how they were. You've made that abundantly clear," with a twist of lips that can't really be called a smile, even a bitter one. "But … can we not even try? It is impossible to keep going as we are; I miss you, Holmes." As I miss you, Holmes thinks, but it is not this Watson that he misses, it is a Watson that never existed. "I am still your friend."
"You were never my friend."
Watson pales, but responds, his voice shaking only slightly. "I have always been your friend. Wanting … more than friendship does not mean there never was friendship. Holmes," he stops, gathers himself again. "One does not stop feeling friendship just because it is not appreciated. You have been my closest friend; I am not giving it up so easily. I am hurting as well, you know."
"What kind of friendship is based on lies?" Holmes watches Watson's face twist, and for a moment, he can sympathize; it is trying to have someone flinch at your every word, even if he intended to hurt. He relents. "Yes. I realize you are … pained as well." He hesitates. "I had thought it fair punishment for this betrayal," and God, Watson flinches again, "but … I may be being too harsh."
"Holmes," Watson breathes, shocked. Holmes looks away.
"I do not think we can be friends – mutual friends, if going by your definition – again. That is what you are asking for, is it not?"
"Can we try for civility, at least? Can we – dare I even hope – attempt a working relationship?"
Holmes worries his lip. "I – Maybe. Is that what you want?"
Watson smiles, and it doesn't even resemble his usual smile. "There are many things I want, but that will be enough. I am sick of fighting. I am sick of feeling like a monster. I am tired of having you hate me."
Holmes has to respond to that, and he's not sure why it strikes him. "I don't hate you. I don't think. I … don't know how I feel about this right now, but I don't think it's as simple as hate." He pauses, continues slowly. "I am … at the moment, I am mostly hurt. Know this, Watson; you have wounded me, quite badly, and it has only barely begun to scab over. It is nowhere near to healing, and I am still fighting to keep it from festering."
Watson looks … defeated. Exhausted. "I'm sorry, Holmes," he says. " I didn't choose to fall in love with you. It just, happened."
Holmes catches himself, stills the flinch before it has a chance to show – much. Watson still notices.
"I will try," Holmes tells him.
*
It is not easy. He doesn't even try to push himself, setting instead small tasks for himself; wake and emerge from his rooms before Watson leaves for the day. Nod to him as he leaves. Come back before Watson passes out from exhaustion.
It's not as hard as he thought it would be.
He comes back later than he has been trying; he'd been caught up in a case. Watson is asleep on in his chair again – again. Holmes stops, stands in the doorway, indecisive. He should, he should … he should try.
He stands beside Watson's chair, looks down. Watson looks tired, even asleep. "Watson," he says. Watson doesn't stir. "Watson," he says again, louder. Watson stirs, blinks.
"Wha- Holmes," he says, startled. "Oh."
Holmes says nothing else. Nods to Watson, turns, retires to his rooms.
*
Holmes curses under his breath as he approaches Baker Street. He's been stupid; he'd been slow, distracted. His own damn fault. The criminal he'd been chasing had turned, faster than he'd anticipated, and he hadn't been able to twist away fast enough to entirely avoid the knife. He rockets up the stairs, brushes past the open door of the sitting room, discarding coat and scarf and gloves along the way. If he can just get to his room, he can fix himself. They shouldn't need stitches; he doesn't think they were that deep.
"Holmes?"
He freezes.
"Holmes? Is something – Holmes! Open the door! There's blood on your coat! Holmes!"
He considers refusing, considers it seriously, but the panic in Watson's tone is ratcheting up with every second, and yet he still isn't banging on the door, hasn't even tried the knob, and Holmes didn't lock it – Watson's trying.
He opens the door. Watson stares at him, face drained of blood, holding his coat in one hand, the other painted in brilliant red. Watson starts forward, checks himself. "How bad is it?" he asks.
"Hardly any of it is mine," Holmes tells him, and Watson cracks.
"Holmes…"
"I'll be fine. It's not serious, just inconvenient."
Watson closes his eyes, blows out a breath that ruffles his mustache. "May I please see it?" he asks, tightly.
Holmes fights back his first reaction. Doesn't slam the door in Watson's face. But he doesn't say yes.
Watson opens his eyes. "Please, Holmes. I- you've been know to lie about the severity of your wounds before. I won't, I won't even touch you. I just need to see."
Holmes tightens his lips, but he has to admit it's not an unreasonable request. And he's being truthful; Watson has shown excellent control so far tonight, and he thinks he can take the chance. He starts to unbutton his shirt; looks up. Watson is watching him, impatiently, brow furrowed. "Don't watch me," Holmes tells him.
Watson blinks. Swallows. Turns away, raises his hand to his face, and Holmes realizes suddenly that he's being petty. How would he feel is Watson wouldn't let him know how badly he was hurt?
His hands still. How would he feel…
No.
He wrenches his mind away, finishes unbuttoning his shirt, slides it off. The cut on his arm sticks briefly to the fabric, breaks open the thin scab, gleaming wetly. Watson looks at it closely. Nods. "You're right; it's not serious." He hesitates. "Clean it out well and keep it wrapped for a few days, and it should heal fine." He glances at it again, takes in a breath, lets it out again. "Right," and turns away.
How would he feel…
"Watson," he says slowly. "Would you favor me with your medical skills?"
Watson's head snaps up. "I- do you think I should?"
Holmes looks at the cut. It's not bad. It wouldn't be hard to take care of himself. It will be hard to sit, have Watson that close, close enough to feel his breath on Holmes' skin, have Watson touch him, keep himself from flinching.
How would he feel…
"Please," he says.
*
The atmosphere of Baker Street is no longer quite so hostile. Holmes can exchange as many as several dozen words with Watson at one time before he feels the urge to distance himself again. On occasion, he has looked up and realized that he has been sitting in the same room as Watson for hours, without reacting to his presence. Of course, once he is aware of it, his skin begins to itch until he has to leave, overtaken by thoughts of being watched. He keeps his eyes away from Watson when he leaves, which means he misses the beaten expression on Watson's face.
He does notice, however, the subtle smoothing of Watson's brow when Holmes initiates a conversation. The hint of a smile around the edges of his lips. The relief – the gratefulness – that he keeps quietly tucked behind his irises.
It bothers him that Watson should light up at such small things. That Watson still - still - has not moved on, has not transferred his affections; hidden behind the relief and the self control, Holmes knows he can still see the thread of want in Watson.
It is very trying.
But Watson is trying, he must acknowledge that. He just hadn't realized how … painful it could be to watch someone make such an effort.
He has grown used to seeing Watson light up, smile widely and full of joy, laugh easily; only he has not grown used to seeing those things at all. What he has truly grown used to is the beginning of these expressions; grown used to watching Watson catch himself, shove his reactions back down, still the laughter before it becomes more than a breath, turn the smile into nothing more than a tightening of his lips.
He doesn't think it should bother him so, to watch Watson censor himself on Holmes' behalf.
The atmosphere may no longer be out rightly hostile, but that does not mean it is comfortable.
*
A grateful client has sent him tickets to the opera. Good tickets, for a few nights from now. He frowns at the envelope.
At one point – at one point, he would have delightedly informed Watson they were going out, badgered him into joining Holmes at the Royale beforehand, given in to Watson's insistence that he dress properly for once, Holmes, I know you are capable of it; if for no reason other than that you've stolen most of my nice things. Teased Watson about his complete lack of interest in the higher forms of art.
Enjoyed himself.
That was when we were - no. That was when I thought he was my friend.
He has no desire to go anywhere at all with Watson for company. No real desire to go to the opera any longer as well; he tucks the tickets into a drawer and promptly forgets about them. Tries to forget about them.
A week later, Watson will find them while searching for a few more blank sheets. Will weigh them in his hand, consider all the various implications, and choose the most painful. This does not mean they are also necessarily the accurate ones; but in this case, they are more likely to be.
For the rest of the day, Holmes will find that Watson seems to be avoiding him for once.
*
Holmes is present at Baker Street often enough lately to be aware in a more accurate sense of Watson's comings and goings, and has noticed Watson has taken to sharing his tea with someone else. Someone … female. The scent lingers on his jacket.
Holmes is hopeful.
When Watson finally brings himself to speak of meeting Mary, Holmes gives him no reaction aside from disinterest. Watson takes his lack of interest for simply that, and Mary comes up more frequently, accompanied by a certain tone – something fond, wistful, curious.
Holmes is relieved.
*
Watson has been tetchy all morning, has kept a grim eye turned to the window, to the dark grey of London's sky, to the steady downpour that has quite effectively trapped them at Baker Street. Holmes is growing steadily more antsy by the hour, and he can feel their ragged emotions feeding off each other, fraying relentlessly. He sighs and drums his fingers against the glass. Watson grimaces and rubs his thigh.
The door opens below them, Mrs. Hudson's voice filtering up the stairs, and Holmes really isn't in the mood to see anyone at the moment. He remains where he is, only the stiffening of his spine betraying his discomfort, and Watson huffs in irritation, goes to rise.
Holmes can see as soon as he moves that something is off, starts forward automatically. Checks himself, and in the space of time he pauses, caught by his own distaste for touching Watson, Watson's leg buckles and he falls, hits the floor with a thud and a curse and a whitening face. Holmes stares at him, starts forward again, only to hover over Watson. He should do something, should offer a hand, but he can't seem to make himself reach out.
"What are you doing?" Watson says through gritted teeth.
Offering assistance to a fri- Since when are they friends again? Since when where they ever friends? He jerks back. "Nothing," he says. "Nothing," and backs away, turns and nearly runs out, brushing by a startled Lestrade, straight out into the rain.
He doesn't know where he is going, only knowing that he cannot stay there for another moment. He wants to be among people whose relationships in regard to himself he can easily define. He wants his mind to stop worrying at little details, showing him how Watson is as wounded as Holmes when that's the last thing he wants to know. Wants to be able to hate without feeling doubt creeping in, without hating himself in return.
He visits one hole after another, until he is just impaired enough that poor plans sound reasonable, takes himself to the punchbowl and finds oblivion, assisted by a meaty fist or two and a shining, vicious needle.
If he tastes a little blood in his dreams, maybe he deserves it.
*
Watson doesn't have anything to say when Holmes reappears, reeking of spirits and unwashed clothes, blood crusted and pooled beneath one eye.
Neither does Holmes
Strangers seldom do.
*
Watson comes home with a distant, dazzled look in his eyes; it puts Holmes on edge.
"Holmes," he says, tentatively, no longer able to judge Holmes's moods. "I have something to tell you. And something to ask you."
He isn't going to like, he's sure. "Then you might as well tell me," he replies.
"I- I asked Mary for her hand tonight." Watson glances up from his own hands. Smiles. "She accepted."
Holmes has no words.
"I wanted- I had hoped you might do me the honor of standing as best man."
"Isn't that better taken on by family, or friends?" Holmes asks, absently, his mind still turning the words accepted, for her hand over and over, trying to make them make sense. Some emotion he refuses to acknowledge is suffocating him.
Watson is quiet for a second, and then, quietly, "I have no family left. Nor…" and he hesitates, "nor do I have many friends, especially those close enough, those I regard highly enough for this."
So you make your decision based on convenience, Holmes thinks, harshly. He finds it difficult to believe Watson does not have a surfeit of choices, and yet, he finds he cannot think of even one person he has heard Watson call friend. It is startling.
"I still consider you my closest friend."
That is … remarkably sad. That Watson's closet 'friend' is a man who will not call him friend in return, who cannot bring himself to touch Watson even in the most impartial of gestures.
Watson is as alone as Holmes.
"I would be honored," he tells Watson, and there is no way he can make those words seem less … mocking in Watson's eyes. Watson would not be able to believe that Holmes is in earnest for once. "I suppose congratulations are in order then?"
Watson's cheerful air has quite disappeared. "Only if you mean them, Holmes. You needn't lie for my sake."
Holmes considers saying nothing, letting his silence speak for him. He looks at his hands, speaks. "I wish you every happiness."
"Thank you," Watson says, startled. "I- thank you."
Holmes nods. Stands. "I think I will retire now," he tells Watson, knowing he's telling a lie, but he has to get out of here before is hits him, this revelation that is building in his mind, pressing against his skull, waiting to rip him apart. He doesn't want it, can't avoid it.
He slumps against the door of his room, denying his thoughts for a moment longer, just one more moment, just one more … it doesn't work.
He's- he's- he's jealous.
He's jealous.
Dear lord, he thinks, I can't be. I can't.
How could he have missed this?
How could he have missed, somewhere along the line, giving up his heart? How did he not miss it beating in his chest? How could he have been so careless?
What timing you have, he thinks. Too late.
*
There is an awful moment the next morning when he sees Watson and wants nothing more than to blurt it all out. Wants to beg Watson to leave, to not look his way again. Wants to reel him in and bite his lip and moan against his mouth.
He looks away very quickly.
He listens to Watson talk about meaningless things, trivial, and something must be done. Something. He can't let Watson simply walk away.
He can only pray that he has not already doomed himself.
*
Watson smiles when he speaks of Mary; Holmes racks his brain to remember if Watson ever smiled that way over him.
He is invited to meet Mary, to have tea with Mary, to talk with Mary, and he runs through excuse after excuse in his mind, none of them of any use. No matter how he phrases it, Watson will see through his words to the meaning; he does not want to meet Mary.
Watson will not know why, but it will not make him any less unhappy.
Holes agrees, finds himself trapped, trying desperately to make small talk, when he doesn't want to talk at all, when Miss Morstan is trying to tease him into revealing his methods, into exposing some detail of the great Sherlock Holmes. She wants him to show off.
He doesn't want to tell her all the things he has noticed. He doesn't want to tell her her own history; more importantly, he doesn't want to be the one to tell Watson of that history, if she has neglected to do so herself.
He bites his tongue and praises the weather, and Watson smiles at him.
But not like he smiles at Mary.
*
He has to do something. This is intolerable. It no longer matters if Watson has lost interest, if Watson pushes him away, if Watson leaves for the curves and gentleness and normalcy of Mary. He has to know, even if all he finds out is that he is too late.
He has to do something.
*
Watson freezes; then he is kissing back, desperately, hungrily, like he's been waiting far too long for this, and he has, he has …
His mouth stills; he pulls back, regards Holmes with very wide eyes, far too blue. "Holmes," he says, "Holmes. What are you doing? I thought- what are you thinking?"
"You were right," Holmes says. "I don't understand myself. I don't. There is no explanation for what I want, but I do not want to be friends again. I want more than that. How you could possibly return it after what I've done – the things I've said – you cannot still want me, no one would, but it is as you said; I cannot help myself. I seem to have fallen in love with you, without my own consent." He reaches his hands up, reaches for Watson; Watson catches his wrists, stares at them.
"Mary loves me," he says, and Holmes goes so still, trembles. Gasps, his wrists wrenching against Watson's suddenly tight grip. Again, he has been mistaken, and his mistakes are always in the most vital areas.
His whole body is leaning away, straining against Watson's hold. "Wait," Watson says, hurriedly, stumbling over his words. "I did not mean, I do not know how you can doubt- I do not know what I mean. Oh, Holmes, I am so very bewildered. You must give me a moment, please."
Holmes does not think he can; but he must, for Watson still has not let go. They remain motionless, minds working frantically. Slowly, Watson raises Holmes' palm, presses a chaste kiss to the lines running across it, and Holmes can't decide if this is acceptance or merely prelude to a dismissal. Does not want to know.
"I am about to be very cruel," Watson says, and Holmes does not want to know.
"You know the pain of a broken heart, I think," Watson continues. "So you must remember you are in part responsible for breaking Mary's." Pulls Holmes close, and Holmes sobs out a breath against Watson's lips.
He will feel a little pity for Miss Morstan, later, but now – now there is only one thing on his mind, and it is relief.
"I have been so very dense," he whispers. "I have been utterly vile. I do not deserve even the smallest measure of your regard."
"Don't be an idiot," Watson tells him. "I love you."
*