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"I should send Mycroft - ah - a thank you note." He squirmed in the chair.
Holmes slid up his body and planted a light kiss on his lips. "Please, don't talk about my brother right now," he requested with a laugh.
Watson chuckled. "Sorry," he put a hand on his shoulder and urged him back down. Holmes hummed as he kissed him soundly, then leaned back on his heels and returned to his task.
Holmes pulled away again a few minutes later, making Watson groan in frustration. "Holmes..." he said warningly. Holmes merely beamed at him and smoothed his hair back with one hand and wiped his mouth with the back of the other.
"You're going to want to cover yourself up, my dear," he said, "There are footsteps on the stairs." He stood and turned, and Watson had just enough time to pull the blanket off the settee and throw it over himself when the door flew open and a client barged in. He looked between them for a moment, and Watson hoped desperately that he couldn't tell his pants were bunched around his ankles. The man's eyes snapped back to Holmes.
"What's happened?" Holmes demanded briskly. The client continued wringing his hands, launching into his tale of woe as Holmes listened dutifully and Watson wished for all the world that the man would go away. Finally, Holmes agreed to accompany him to his estate.
"Watson will you be so kind...?" Holmes turned, took in his state and smirked. "Perhaps next time." The client looked between them confused, but Holmes merely strode out and down the steps.
"It was nice meeting you," the client said quickly. Watson ran a hand over his face and waved as the man turned to leave. The instant they were out the door he threw the blanket aside and pulled his pants up, grumbling. Once he'd redressed, he paced the sitting room in boredom, scowling at the fact that he'd somehow managed to miss out on sex and the case. In the last few months he'd learned that Holmes was an enthusiastic lover, as skilled in this as anything else he put his mind to. Watson was quickly becoming as swept away in this aspect of his friend as any other.
Mrs. Hudson brought up tea, and he sat gratefully. She mentioned on her way out that there was a letter for Holmes, but he dismissed it as unimportant; until he actually saw the letter. Handwriting he'd seen only once, but he was sure he'd never forget. His heart leapt in his throat as he held it, considering. It only took him a minute to make his decision, and he ripped the letter open and scanned it quickly.
Victor Trevor would be arriving in London on the morning of the twenty seventh, and was hoping to meet with Holmes. He'd read some of Watson's stories, he wrote, and was impressed but not surprised by the detective's success. Watson refolded the letter, mind racing. It was the evening of the twenty fifth. In less than forty-eight hours, Holmes' first love would arrive in London and then - what?
He started when the sitting room door began to open and quickly shoved the letter into his jacket pocket. Holmes stepped inside, looking pleased with himself.
"That was by far the - Watson?" he hurried over to stand in front of him, all traces of happiness gone. "Whatever has happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Not yet, he thought, laughing dryly. Holmes looked even more concerned at that. He tried to get himself under control. He pulled Holmes into a hug, burying his face in his chest and inhaling deeply.
"Take me to the opera," he said suddenly.
"Well, of course," Holmes said, still baffled. "Whatever you wish to see, we'll see."
"I don't care what it is. We'll go tomorrow night."
"Perhaps this weekend?" Holmes suggested gently. "I'm still working on the Stewart case, and -"
"No!" He leaned back and ran his hands down Holmes' jacket. "It has to be tomorrow night. Please."
"Of course," Holmes took his hands, ducking his head to gaze into his face, concerned. "Whatever you wish."
-----
Watson rolled onto his stomach, stretching his naked body against what was rapidly becoming a familiar ache. Holmes stretched out next to him, hands behind his head, watching him smugly. Watson caught his eye and laughed.
"Do you always have to look so proud after sex?" he chuckled.
"Any man would be proud to illicit such pleasant noises from their partner," Holmes teased.
"Did -" he make a lot of noise? Watson started to ask, but quickly stifled himself. Holmes obviously knew what he had been thinking, however, if his awkward demeanor was any indication. Watson kicked himself mentally. Why did he have to remind himself now of all times, when the source of this distress himself would be arriving the very next morning? Holmes cleared his throat, distracting him. "Did you enjoy the opera, then?" he asked quickly.
"Y-yes," Watson blinked, trying to mentally stay on track. "It was wonderful." He knew he should say something, but Holmes chose that moment to draw him close, pressing soft kisses to his lips, face and neck, and he settled against his friend with a sigh. Holmes smiled tenderly, smoothing a hand over his brow and drawing him into another soft kiss. Tomorrow, he told himself. I'll tell him tomorrow.
A telegram arrived for Holmes the next morning while Watson was eating breakfast. Holmes was still in bed, and likely would be for a few hours still. Watson tore it open and read it, his heart dropping. Trevor had dinner plans with Mycroft that evening, and was inquiring as to whether Holmes could join them.
His every instinct screamed at him to throw it in the trash. To burn it. But he thought back to reading the letter Holmes had received on a Christmas holiday, watching the emotion play over his friend's face as he admitted to loving this man, and knew he couldn't do it. As much as it pained him, Holmes needed this. The question was, would Holmes see it that way?
Making his decision, Watson quickly penned an affirmative reply for both of them. It was easy enough to convince Holmes to go to dinner; the man was still eager to please him after Watson's panicked episode two days before.
That evening, Watson nervously led the way into the restaurant. Holmes was watching him warily, still obviously concerned. Watson spotted Mycroft across the room, sitting across from a man who could only be Victor Trevor, engaged in easy conversation. As he watched, Trevor threw back his head with a rich, deep laugh. Holmes tensed the instant he heard the sound, eyes snapping ahead to take in the scene. Holmes gripped him painfully by the elbow and dragged him to the side.
"What did you do?" he hissed instantly.
"I just thought -"
"Thought," Holmes scoffed. "You haven't thought at all, have you?" He reached for Watson's wrist and tugged toward the door. "Let's go," Holmes said.
"What? They're expecting us," Watson protested.
"That was your faux pas, not mine."
They were halfway to the door when Mycroft's booming voice called from behind them, "Sherlock! Doctor! So glad you could join us." Holmes audibly ground his teeth as he turned around and forced a smile. Resigned, he lead the way to their table. Trevor rose from his seat and gripped Holmes' hand excitedly.
"Sherlock! I can't believe it. It's been so many years, dear friend, you must tell me how you've been faring."
"Indeed, I'm interesting in hearing of your exploits as well, Victor," Holmes smiled tightly. They continued to clasp hands beyond the bounds of what was proper, and Watson cleared his throat. Holmes immediately stepped to the side and gestured to him. "And this," he said proudly, "is my dear friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson."
Watson smiled politely and reached to shake his hand. Trevor was a few inches taller than him, he noted, though not as broad in frame. His smile was a little too innocent, giving him a slightly doe-eyed look about him. If he'd bumped into him in the street, Watson would have scoffed at the idea of him holding Holmes' affection; and yet here, his heart sank as he took in the poorly hidden excitement sparking in his lover's eyes.
They sat, and after an awkward moment, Trevor turned to draw Holmes into a conversation. For all his protesting at the door, Holmes' eyes drifted over Trevor far too frequently, and he smiled more than usual as they relaxed into conversation. The two men quickly became engrossed with each other's stories, to the exclusion of the others; Watson, vaguely hurt, struck up a separate conversation entirely with Mycroft, who merely smiled sympathetically and set about distracting him. It worked fairly well, until Mycroft pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. "I'm afraid I must depart, gentlemen," he announced. "I have another engagement for the evening."
"Oh?" Holmes asked offhand as he cut his meat, "With whom?"
Mycroft hesitated. "With mother," he said finally. Holmes stilled, knife still in hand.
"Your mother?" Watson asked. "I've never heard you speak of her. I assumed she had passed, actually." He started as the knife clattered on Holmes' plate. The three men looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"We don't speak," Holmes said finally. He picked up his knife again. "Well, good evening, brother," he said. They murmured their good-byes, and then Mycroft was gone.
After dinner, they stopped outside the restaurant as Holmes lit a cigarette. Watson stood off to the side and tried to quell the pain that lanced through him as the two men looked at each other, eyes shining, gazes roaming greedily over each other's bodies as though they still couldn't quite believe they were here. Holmes continued to smile brightly, reaching to grab Trevor's hand before his eyes darted to Watson and his smile faltered guiltily.
"We should get home," he told Watson. He nodded politely to Trevor, who was looking between them, crestfallen.
"Perhaps, tomorrow evening...?" he said hesitantly.
"I don't think - " Holmes began.
"Of course," Watson interrupted. Holmes' eyes snapped to him, wide and nervous. Trevor smiled warmly.
"Wonderful! I'll wire you in the morning." With that he tipped his hat and left. Watson and Holmes walked home in uncomfortable silence.
Holmes rounded on him the moment the sitting room door closed behind him. "I don't know what it is you think you're doing," he said darkly, "But I advise you to drop it."
"I thought you might need this," he said softly.
"Why?" Holmes demanded, eyes blazing. "Are you trying to fix me, doctor?"
"I thought I could help, yes. Your mother -"
"- hasn't seen me since the day I was caught in Victor's bed," Holmes snapped. "Damn it Watson, you can't fix everything."
"I can at least try," Watson spat back. He took a deep breath to calm himself. There was a long silence. "You really haven't seen her once, in all these years?"
Holmes shifted and looked away. "Well, I've seen her. I've gone past the manor," he cleared his throat. "Seen her through the window from time to time," he admitted softly.
Pity welled up inside of him, despite his best efforts to force it down. "Oh, Holmes." He stepped forward to enfold his lover in his arms.
"Not in years," Holmes said hastily. "When I was younger, you see -"
"- you missed your mother. It's alright; I still miss my mother on occasion," Watson admitted. Holmes finally wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his cheek on top of his head.
"Perhaps, if you were to go to her now..." Watson began, hesitantly. Holmes chuckled weakly, breath ruffling his hair.
"You aren't going to drop this, are you?" he said fondly. He ran a hand down Watson's back, dragging his nails down his spine and making him inhale sharply. "Fine. I'll accompany you. But I warn you, it won't turn out the way you want." Watson gripped him tightly, silently promising himself that he would make things right, even if it was the last thing he ever did for his friend.
-----
They met Trevor for dinner again the next evening. Watson sat aside this time, alone, watching as Holmes once again relaxed into conversation with his old lover. There was something innocent about his posture, a residue of a boyish happiness that Watson had never seen in his friend. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and focused on his meal.
After what felt like an eternity they stood outside once more. "I really must retire soon," Watson said. He took a step back, and Holmes moved to follow him. Trevor reached out and grabbed his arm.
"You don't have to go as well, do you Sherlock? We haven't seen each other in so long..." Holmes shot Watson a panicked look.
"No, you stay, old fellow," Watson said. Trevor's smile widened. The ache in his chest deepened. "I'm sure you have much to talk about." Trevor said a quick goodbye, obviously eager to have Holmes to himself finally. He spun them around and hurried in the opposite direction, leaving Watson standing there, watching them walk down the street arm in arm. Holmes was still watching him over his shoulder; Trevor leaned closer and said something and Holmes let out a surprised laugh, finally looking forward and relaxing slightly.
This is the way things should be, Watson thought sadly. Once they had disappeared into the crowd, he headed for Baker Street alone.
It was well after dark when Holmes returned home. The door slammed, waking Watson from where he'd been dozing on the settee. Holmes stalked over to stand in front of him. His hair was mussed; he leaned over Watson and captured his lips in a bruising kiss, tasting of cigarettes and whiskey and something painfully unfamiliar.
Holmes pushed until Watson was laying down and pressed down hard; pining his wrists beside his head, he ground their hips together in a way that was too forceful to be pleasurable. Watson cried out in pain and growing fear.
"What do you expect me to do?" Holmes growled as he leaned back a fraction. "Are you trying to drive me away?" His grip on Watson's wrists tightened painfully.
"You're hurting me." He struggled, but Holmes had him pinned, blanketing him with his body.
"Do you want me to leave? Is that it?" Holmes said in a choked voice. He tilted his head down to hide his expression.
Watson stilled. "I want you to be happy."
"Then why are you doing this to me?" Holmes pleaded.
Watson swallowed hard. "You love him."
"I love you." He relinquished his grip and buried his face in Watson's chest.
Despite everything else, happiness bubbled up inside of him. He wrapped an arm around Holmes' shoulders, running his fingers through his hair. "You kissed him," he said, gently. Holmes shuddered, but said nothing. After a long silence, Watson asked, "Where did you go?"
"His hotel room," Holmes choked out. Watson blinked as tears stung his eyes suddenly, chest aching. "We didn't - " Holmes said quickly; he raised his head and his eyes widened when he saw the moisture in Watson's. "Oh, Watson," he said morosely. His fingertips ghosted over his eyelids and cheekbones, wiping away the tears. "He told me ridiculous, exaggerated stories and smoked terrible tobacco and I kissed him, just before I left." He ducked his head again. "I am so -"
"No," Watson whispered. "Please, don't say it." They lay on the settee, just holding each other, feeling warm skin and firm muscles under their hands. When Holmes finally took him to bed that night, it was a slow, tender lovemaking; whispering his name like a mantra, Holmes mapped his body with his fingertips, murmuring soft prayers against his skin as their bodies pulsed in concert. When he finally collapsed hours later, weak as a kitten, Watson wrapped him in blankets and pulled him tightly against him, watching the sunrise through their tiny window.
-----
Holmes looked around with a fond yet occasionally pained expression as they walked up the path to his childhood home. Watson could see memories dancing in his eyes as he gazed at the neat row of hedges, a tall, strong oak in the distance, a worn bench where Watson could nearly see him reclining in the summer sun, book in hand. All places where he'd been loved, and if Watson had anything to do with it, would be loved again. Holmes stopped to the side of the steps. "They'll be less likely to slam the door in your face," he said by way of explanation. Watson drew a deep breath and knocked firmly.
A maid answered the door and showed him to the sitting room. He paced the room, unable to sit, finally stopping in front of a book shelf. The books were all old encyclopedias, pulled forward so far they teetered on the edge of the shelf. Idly, he moved to push one back and was surprised when it didn't budge. He raised up on the balls of his feet and looked behind them.
There, with a single bookmark sticking out of each one, was a row of Strand magazines. He tugged the first one gently from it's place, flipping it open to the marked spot and staring down at the first chapter of A Study in Scarlet, hope rushing through him. Footsteps approached the door and he quickly put the magazine back and hurried to the nearest chair. The door opened to reveal a petite woman, with eyes and hair so reminiscent of his friend that for a moment he simply stared. He shook himself.
"Please, forgive my intrusion," he began. "My name is Dr. John Watson," her eyes widened. "I am -"
"I know who you are," she interrupted.
"Then, surely you must know I've come on behalf of your son."
"Has he fallen ill?" she asked blandly.
"No, no; he's in perfect health," Watson assured. She sniffed dismissively and looked around warily. "He's outside," Watson explained. "I... I was hoping you would speak to him, for a moment -"
"I want nothing to do with that man. I told him as much myself, and my mind has not changed. Good day, doctor." She turned to leave, and anger flared through him.
"If you want nothing to do with him, why are these here?" He crossed to the bookshelf and haphazardly threw the books in a heap on the floor, revealing the magazines behind. Shock and embarrassment overtook her features for a moment before she composed herself.
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," she said finally.
"I don't understand," he spat. "Perhaps you'd care to explain?"
She took a deep breath. "I love my son - " she began.
"Love," he laughed bitterly. "You have a peculiar way of showing -"
"Watson." They both froze. He turned to see Holmes standing in the doorway; he didn't look at his mother. She took a hesitant step closer, eyes drifting over his features, absorbing all the changes.
"It's time for us to go," he said.
"But Holmes..." he said, but his friend turned and walked out without another word. Watson shot her one last glance before he hurried after his friend.
Holmes was waiting for him outside. "I'm sorry," Watson said. After a long moment, he added, "She said she loves you."
"She doesn't love me. She loves the idea of me." He said it briskly, eyes roaming over the grounds. He finally turned toward Watson, but his eyes focused over his shoulder. "A void which your stories fill admirably. Well done, old chap."
Guilt and shame rushed through him in equal measure. "It was a mistake," he ran a hand through his hair. "They've all been mistakes. I haven't been able to fix anything," he said ruefully. Holmes' eyes turned soft as he finally focused on him.
"Perhaps not," he conceded with a tender smile. "But you have given me a precious gift."
"What's that?"
"You tried." There in the yard of his childhood home, surrounded by memories, he leaned forward and captured Watson's lips in a slow, sweet kiss; pouring out all of his love, briefly, for all the world to see. Watson was breathless as Holmes leaned back, a soft smile on his lips. "Let's go home," he moved to take Watson's arm. As Holmes was leading him away, Watson looked over his shoulder one last time. Holmes' mother stood at the window, fingers pressed to the glass, watching her son walk out of her life once more.
-----
"It was lovely to see you," Trevor said yet again. Watson rolled his eyes, and Holmes looked at him apologetically over Trevor's shoulder. "And to meet you of course, doctor," Trevor added hastily, turning to nod at him.
Watson nodded in return. "The pleasure is all mine," he said with a slight smirk. Holmes shot him a warning look and led Trevor to the door.
"The Ghost of Christmas Past," Watson muttered as he looked out the window, watching Trevor hail a cab to the train station.
"Some ghosts should stay in the past," Holmes said softly as he re-entered the room. "However..." Watson turned to see him looking at a box in his hands thoughtfully.
"What's that?" he asked. He moved to stand beside Holmes as he sat at the table, still staring at the box.
"Mrs. Hudson informs me it arrived this morning," he said.
"Who is it from?" Holmes didn't respond. Instead, he carefully lifted the lid and dug through the paper inside. From underneath he lifted a thick, leather bound notebook. He flipped it open.
"My mother's journal," he muttered. He ran his fingers over the date on the first page. "A year after I left home," he explained breathlessly. He flipped through, Watson leaning over his shoulder, watching fascinated as the years flew by, a pale outline of a woman's life, wrapped in simple poetry and occasional pain. The last entry was a week before their visit. Holmes closed it and rested his hand on the cover for a moment, running his fingers over her monograph. Then he carefully sat the book on the table and stood, drawing Watson into his arms with a smile, bumping their noses together lightly. Watson smiled up at him, feeling like his heart would burst.
"Thank you," Holmes murmured.