Chapter Text
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
“Ha! We’ve done it, Watson!”
Watson, who in his own opinion had not done much at all, was elated nonetheless as he watched his tall friend grow another inch or two as the procedural of the long-lasting case finally came to a satisfying conclusion in his mind.
“I cannot believe it was Mr. Naggington after all! Why, I am positively puzzled still! Holmes, you’ve been just brilliant!”
“Have I not!”
So pleased was Sherlock Holmes not only with his mind’s capacities but his friend’s genuine praise that he held out a hand to the very man lounging there in his usual armchair in front of the fire. Puzzled but obliging-as-ever, Watson let himself be guided out of his chair by Holmes’ strong hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“There,” said Holmes and suddenly pulled him against his torso as one hand snaked around his waist and the other, the one by which he had pulled his friend off the chair, led them into a position that was unmistakably that of a dancing couple. “Let us – dance!”
Before Watson could protest or inquire or curb Holmes’ ecstatic mood, he had begun spinning him expertly and energetically around the room, and to his surprise Watson found he could follow him seamlessly, despite being used only to the traditional male leading position. Sherlock's long limbs directed a steady path through the cluttered room, and Watson found he quite liked it. “This is how he did it,” Holmes spoke against his ear, “during the ball, when the suitors were occupied with their ladies.”
He gave a flourish to the word and then to Watson, releasing him only to pull him closer, for a moment, and then grabbing him, beaming, by both arms. “And it was you who put me onto the right track with that, truly, silly and misinformed comment of yours - alas! You played your part. Watson, I could-”
His fingers tightened on Watson’s arms, strong but not overbearing, as Watson found, and he looked warmly into Sherlock’s face as he asked, quite genuinely, and not noting the abrupt silence that had befallen the detective – “Could what, Holmes?”
Only as the words left him, quite at the very moment, indeed, but perhaps too late, did he note the look of panic on Sherlock’s face. Or had he imagined it? What did it mean? Leaning forward a little, he scrutinized Holmes’ expression closely, but it was carefully controlled now. Searched his face. Noticed him swallow. But could not, somehow, move his eyes towards the motion, fixed as they were on Holmes’.
His breath fanned across his face. Tobacco and cognac, their private little celebration.
“What, Holmes,” he repeated again, his mind suddenly empty, wholly uncertain of the answer but wanting to hear it nonetheless. It seemed important. If only he weren’t so distracted, with Holmes so close. They stood, Watson realized dimly, as lovers did: staring at each other's lips for a moment that was clearly too long to be anything but what it was. An acknowledgement of something important, curled up securely in his chest, unfurled its limbs and shivered awake.
Had Sherlock Holmes turned his attention on it in this moment, had he truly looked at John Watson’s face, the minute widening of his eyes or the spark within them, had he not in this moment been occupied with his own internal demons, and ways to right his slip of tongue and heart, the outcome might have been different.
As it was, he did – once, fatally – not notice.
“Oh my dear Watson,” Sherlock mumbled suddenly, his voice low, and the expression on his face turned painfully affectionate. “It's nothing.”
As he said it, his expression went from hot iron to cold, as Watson had observed it many times, as if doused in water and hardened by expert hands -- his own, unforgiving and masterful, those dear, busy, nimble hands.
Sherlock lowered his arms to his sides and their hands touched by accident. Without thinking, Watson reached back for it, to the steady safety it had brought moments ago, and lifted it with his. He looked along their joint arms, then, held loosely but still vaguely in position, as if to bring to and end the dance that had been started, and Sherlock followed his gaze. They did not see the same thing. They had been so comfortably entwined, Watson mused, his hand resting within Sherlock’s loosely but securely, warming it, and wasn’t that nice, warming his cool hands for once, and did they not fit together–
Sherlock dropped his hand, then.
He did it in such a way that Watson felt himself rejected, which was a silly notion but stung nonetheless.
He’d let go forcefully, casting him off with a downward flick of his wrist, as if he’d seen a bug or a spider cross it and urged instinctively to fling it away, the corners of his mouth turned down, in a short lapse of his facade, in disgust. But, no. How could he be? Disgusted by him, Watson? Or worse – himself?
It would not do.
“Holmes,” he said finally, in a tone that sounded weird even to him. And then: “Sherlock?”
“It’s nothing,” Holmes repeated and turned away dismissively towards the curtains. Had they caught fire from the intensity of the stare he was surely sporting, Watson would not have been surprised. Anger flared suddenly between them, unasked for. Watson waited uncertainly and then marched audibly towards the door, jerking it open and, unable to help himself, turning around in the doorway in one last effort to give Holmes a chance to avoid a row.
Holmes seemed to like the prospect as little as him. He turned his head back an inch. It was enough to hold Watson there. “Really, it was nothing," he repeated, and this time did not even try. He sounded resigned, and Watson felt suddenly sorry for pressing the matter so insistently. "Just…”
“Just a trifle, I'm sure,” Watson said quietly.
At this, Holmes’ piercing gaze bore into him. For a second he looked almost shocked, grasping the meaning of the words, then his eyes quickly flicked away.
But there is nothing as important as trifles.
A potent silence settled between the two men then.
It stretched unbearably until Watson realized Holmes would not break it, would not reply – what was there to reply to such a bold fact laid out so plainly? Watson had already implicated himself. Foolish doctor, he thought. He cleared his throat. It did not help, but his voice was gentle through the rasp.
“Good night, Holmes.”
He closed the door without waiting for an answer that would not come.
Only then did he realize the slight tremor that held him rigidly, and his heart began beating wildly in his chest as he ascended the stairs to his room.
Whatever had just transpired between them? He could not put a name to it, and perhaps that realization revealed more to him than had he been able to. There was a longing inside him that had been his companion for so long he had mistaken it for contentment. He closed his eyes as he reached his bedroom.
When he opened them again he could still see Holmes’ face inches from his.
Was still inexplicably longing to close the distance between them.
Their lips had not touched.
But they might as well have, thought Watson. They might as well have.