Work Text:
I sat in my armchair, trying to write, but I couldn’t focus. Holmes had just stalked off to his room with a bottle of cocaine. The news of the demise of Ilse von Hoffmanstal, the beautiful German spy, had tipped him into the black mood. His mood swings were becoming alarming of late, especially after the episode with the Russian ballerina and our subsequent squabble. Perhaps it had been just a squabble for me, but for him… for some reason it had upset him deeply. The sadness in his eyes wouldn’t go away ever since, even when he seemed to be in brighter spirits.
Anyway, I could not stand it any longer. I had to do something, to prevent him from injecting himself with the wretched narcotic at least once. There was nothing worse than being a powerless observer of his imminent ruin.
I sprang to my feet and headed to Holmes’s room. Propriety be damned, I pushed the door open without knocking. Holmes was standing with his back to me, his left sleeve rolled up and the hateful syringe pressed against his arm. To my relief, the syringe was still full. I had come just in time.
“Holmes,” I said. “Please. Sherlock.”
He gave a start upon hearing his Christian name and slowly turned to face me, somewhat perplexed. His dejected look was heartbreaking. Before I knew what I was doing, I dashed to him and embraced him. He froze, and there was a gentle clink as he dropped the syringe in surprise.
“Watson,” he said rigidly. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Thought you needed a hug,” I replied, holding him tightly in my arms. “Do you find it unpleasant?”
He didn’t answer but heaved a stifled sigh, and then, as if losing an inner battle, leaned into my embrace. His heart was hammering wildly, his agitation palpable. Never before had he let his guards down and accepted my support. Usually he would shy away from me, retreat into his shell or pretend that he was all right. It had been going on for years: he would do anything to make me feel better whenever I struggled with my own demons but shut me out immediately if I tried to help him. He would refuse to admit that he too could be vulnerable. That long lasting strain must have taken its toll on him.
I pressed him closer to myself, wishing to convey that he wasn’t alone, that I was there for him and would protect him no matter what, even from himself.
“You are making things worse,” Holmes whispered.
“Why?” I asked, pulling back and gazing at him searchingly.
He was silent, his eyes downcast. His actions belied his words, for he was all but clinging to me. Why would he if my sympathy was repugnant to him? Gently, I put my hand under his chin and urged him to look up. What I saw in his eyes astonished me to the core. There was such raw, hopeless longing in them that my heart clenched. Suddenly the pieces fell into place. That talk I had heard behind my back that I was Holmes’s “glass of tea”—so it wasn’t merely a ploy to dismiss some unwanted advances.
“Good God,” I gasped.
Holmes flushed up, hectic spots spreading across his cheeks. He recoiled from me and hung his head low.
“Please leave my room,” he said in a quiet, shaky voice.
Stunned, I remembered the conversation we had had after the ballet. My dramatic tirade about being disgraced and forever shunned from polite society because of him… how it must have hurt him. I had gone as far as mentioning my regiment and the supposed punishment my army pals would inflict on me. What rubbish. Of all people, military men would be the last ones to judge for such a thing. Both Holmes and I knew that perfectly well. Confound my drunk blabbering.
And now Holmes was tortured by my gaping. Most certainly he thought I despised him, having learned the truth. How could I persuade him that I did not? He wouldn’t believe any of my assurances. Acting upon instinct, with a few hurried steps I closed the distance between us, grabbed him by the shoulders, and covered his lips with mine. Holmes went completely still in my arms. He didn’t kiss back, and the kiss lasted only a few moments anyway. When it ended, it was Holmes’s turn to gape at me.
“This wasn’t out of pity, was it?” he murmured as he touched his lips with his long, slender fingers.
“No,” I said, feeling light-headed. “If anything, it wasn’t pity.”
“But your reputation of three separate continents—”
“Is a bit exaggerated.”
He laughed out loud at that, his eyes twinkling.
“Still, I’ve never had a man before,” I continued. “It’s so confusing, to be honest.”
“I’ve never had anyone,” Holmes said softly.
He didn’t seem ashamed of being a virgin at thirty-two. He merely stated a fact, much in the same way as when he would discourse upon his deductive methods. Perhaps he had accepted it about himself and directed his energies into his scientific pursuits. Or perhaps he had chosen not act upon his desires. Whatever the reason, for me his chastity was endearing.
“Then it’s new to us both,” I replied. “Would you mind if we took it slowly?”
Holmes shook his head, smiling, and pressed my hand. I smiled back at him. My world had just turned upside down—I, who hadn’t considered myself capable of the same-sex attraction, discovered that I was in love with another man. And that man was my best friend. There were two things I was sure of, though. First, I would never break Holmes’s heart. And second, he would take no stimulants that day.
Later in the morning we proceeded as usual: Holmes busied himself with his scrapbooks while I retreated behind a fresh issue of The Times. My mind was reeling. Was it possible to define the exact moment the friendship I felt for Holmes had transitioned into something more? From the start, there was a sparkle between us. I had many friends, but no intimate ones such as Holmes. Come to think of it, he was the closest person I had in the world. Our daily interactions were not unlike those of a devoted married couple. And I had been certainly jealous of Fräulein von Hoffmanstal, who for a brief period had become the centre of Holmes’s attention and, to add insult to injury, posed as his wife.
Peeking over my newspaper, I could see that Holmes was in an equally dazed state. He was browsing through his clippings absent-mindedly, his black clay pipe dangling unlit from between his lips. The lips which were a little chapped and an absolute delight to kiss.
Thankfully, we were shaken out of our reverie by Lestrade’s sudden visit. It was a blessing in disguise which spared us the awkwardness of the situation we had found ourselves in. Holmes agreed to take on a rather mundane case which nevertheless the Inspector could not clear up without his help. I accompanied them, taking notes. Following our usual pattern was quite illuminating. Nothing was any different between Holmes and myself. We had just acknowledged what had been there all along.
When we returned to Baker Street in the evening, we had a hearty meal and a relaxing smoke as usual. It was only that we preferred the settee instead of our armchairs which allowed me to have my detective in my arms again. He gazed at me, as if asking permission, and then kissed me tentatively. It felt natural. It felt right. I couldn’t care less about polite society. As to any concerns I might have had in regard to responding to Holmes physically, they were soon dispelled. I was burning for him as he was for me. Holmes’s lack of experience was compensated in spades by his unleashed sensuality. That night our resolve to take it slowly was tossed to the wind.