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“This is ours,” Holmes slides the sleeper compartment door open and claims the top bunk by swinging his carpet bag up onto the narrow space. He makes way for Watson to enter behind him.
“I expect you will have done the sleeper train before,” Holmes says as he turns.
Watson puts his bag on the lower bunk. “Yes. I rather like falling asleep in England and waking up in Scotland.” He smiles back at Holmes. “I intend to have a couple of stiff drinks in the dining car and then it’s off to bed with me.”
“You go ahead.” Holmes moves the stepladder from its place stowed against the wall to the place where it hooks into his bunk. “I’m exhausted. I could do with an early night and we won’t have time to relax when we reach Aberdeen.”
”All right, old bean.”
Holmes warms at the endearment and wonders why he tolerates such frivolity from this man. He thinks he knows, but he doesn’t want to think about it too much. Not right now.
Once Watson has left in search of a decent whisky, Holmes changes into his pyjamas, stows his bag on the luggage rack above the narrow bench seat on the opposite wall, and climbs into his bunk. With an alarming, metallic screech, he is unceremoniously tumbled onto the edge of the lower bunk, then gravity and momentum roll him to the floor.
When he gets up and dusts himself down, he sees that the bunk, hanging at an angle of about forty degrees from where it ought to be, is beyond repair. He calls for the steward, who scurries off to find out if there is another vacant berth.
There are many apologies. The upper bunk is folded away and secured. The steward suggests he sits out the journey in the dining car and collect a refund on his ticket in the morning, but the only spare bunk is in a lady’s compartment and she has already retired and can’t be expected to share with a man she doesn’t know.
He eyes up the narrow seating, wraps himself in a blanket and lies precariously upon it. If he rolls over in his sleep, he will fall out of bed.
When Watson returns, pink-cheeked and frowning, Holmes greets him with far more sarcasm than is deserved.
”Did you have a nice time at the bar?”
“Actually, no.” Watson scoffs and sits on his bunk to take off his shoes. “The drink was decent, but the opinions of some of the other passengers were not. Talking absolute bunkum about the Great War. It only ended eighteen years ago and some folks have forgotten it already. I came back before I lost my temper.” He stands to undress then looks at Holmes. “What are you doing there? Why aren’t you in your bunk?”
“Watson, your powers of observation grow more formidable every day. The top bunk is out of service, I’ve just had a talk with the steward and it appears I’ll be sleeping upright tonight.”
“Preposterous! There must be another room we could use.”
“That avenue has been exhausted, much like myself, so you’ll excuse me if I dress and make my way to the dining car to find a comfortable seat for the night.”
Watson looks so put out on his behalf that for a moment he feels as though he should be the one offering reassurance.
“Why don’t you take this one and I’ll find a place to spend the night. Your sleeping schedule is erratic at the best of times and you ought to be well-rested for tomorrow.”
“Very chivalrous of you but you always have a bad night when you fall asleep in your chair. How much more so in these infernal seats?” Irritated as he is, the realisation that they have become familiar with one another’s habits suffuses him with comfort. How long before they’re finishing one another’s sentences? He pushes that thought away, along with its connotations.
Watson doesn’t argue, merely grumbles about not being as young as he used to be. Holmes loathes to bring up his war wound as a source of weakness and is grateful that Watson has taken his point.
“Well, we did suffer worse in the army. Why don’t we simply share the bunk?”
As if there is anything simple about that suggestion.
“I can think of a few reasons… For one, we won’t fit.”
“Pish posh! We may not fit side by side but you’re light enough to lay atop me. Why don’t we try and see if we can get to sleep that way?”
Holmes gets up and lingers with his hand on his bag. He feels Watson’s eyes on his back for a few seconds, then hears Watson sigh.
”We used to sleep like that when the field hospital was full and our bunks were needed for casualties. Packed in like sardines. Us medicos would double up. Murray, my orderly, would sleep on me like that because the floor was too cold. He said I was the best mattress he’d ever had.”
A smile grows on Holmes’s face despite the slight pang of jealousy that he bats away because it is irrational. When he hears Watson speak next, there’s cajoling humour in his voice.
“And I was a beanpole back then. Think how much more comfortable I’d be now, hah!”
Holmes turns to face him. “Won’t I be too heavy?”
“What? There’s nothing of you, my dear old boy. No more arguing.” Watson gets into the bunk and lies back with both pillows supporting him a little higher than normal. He holds the covers back, inviting.
“Get in. I want to go to sleep. If you really can’t get comfortable, then we’ll think of something else.”
He does not want Watson to think of something else.
Holmes tries to approach the situation as he would any other problem, fairly and logically. The moment he crawls over Watson and gazes down into his eyes– how green his irises are around the edges up close!-- all thoughts of logical action fly from him.
“Should I… on my back?”
“I think you’d better lie on your front and rest your head on my chest, it will be more comfortable.”
“Where should my legs– oh, dreadfully sorry, hmm…”
He feels himself redden as Watson gently manoeuvres him into position and is very glad for the low light. When he’s finally stretched atop his companion with his legs tucked into the narrow valley between Watson’s legs and his head over his heart he finds it is very comfortable but the devil knows how he’ll get to sleep this way! Already his body betrays him. How long since he’s been like this with a man? Years and years, perhaps a decade. Watson is warm and inviting beneath him; the bulk of his stomach like a cushion and the rise and fall of his chest a silent lullaby.
“See? No trouble at all,” Watson murmurs, his words reverberating against Holmes’s ear. A hot hand pats the small of his back.
Holmes doesn’t know what to say so he closes his eyes and prays for sleep to come quickly.
Watson shifts a little lower, moving him a little higher in the gentle manoeuvre. His head rests on Watson’s shoulder now and he brings his arms up for stability, hands tucked under the pillows. Watson’s arms settle around his back. After a minute or two, Holmes moves his hands to curl around the top of Watson’s shoulders.
When the train gives a slight lurch that pushes him up against Watson, he realises with utter mortification that his dear friend must be aware of his predicament. His embarrassment is not lessened when he recognises that the slight hardness he can feel against his lower belly is Watson’s similarly affected prick.
He must get up. He must.
He doesn’t dare move a muscle.
He must have tensed, muscles ready to tip him off his comfortable perch onto the cold, hard floor, for Watson huffs out the barest hint of a laugh. ”Go to sleep,” Watson murmurs into a yawn. “Purely a physiological phenomenon. Pay it no heed.”
Purely a physiological phenomenon.
Of course that’s all it must be. He can sleep here, comfortable, knowing that Watson won’t judge his treacherously human body. He lets his muscles relax, pulls the blanket a little higher and closes his eyes.
Sleep comes. Eventually.
In the dream a nude Holmes straddles Watson in the bunk and thrusts his hips in time with the rocking of the train. The steward walks in on them in flagrante delicto and informs them that the dining car is still open. Watson laments that they cannot stop to eat and Holmes watches in bewilderment as a full Sunday roast is paraded in by uniformed attendants. A chocolate souffle is presented to them. Then he’s standing in their parlour at Baker Street, still absolutely starkers, while Watson assures him they will return to Aberdeen when the souffle rises again and in the meantime they should get back into bed.
He wakes to a loud snore and an erection that demands attention.
“Watson,” he murmurs, attempting to exit the bunk before he embarrasses them both.
“Mhhmmm?”
To his horror Watson rolls onto his side, pressing Holmes against the wall of their compartment. He dimly registers that they do in fact “fit”, although their legs are hopelessly entangled and Holmes’s obstinate cock is trapped against Watson’s groin. He inhales with a shudder at the momentary pleasure of it, and the comforting feeling of being wedged snugly between a warm body and a hard surface. Watson’s face is inches from his own, brow creased.
A moment later his senses return. The arousal building in him at their predicament is unforgivable and he silently chastises his baser impulses.
“Watson,’ he hisses.
“What’s that Holmes,” Watson murmurs, to his horror. He’s been so caught up in his own shame that he hasn’t registered that Watson is somewhat awake.
“Please roll over.”
He half expects Watson to stand and declare the whole attempt a disaster. Instead he grunts and manages a tight one hundred and eighty degrees so that Holmes is pressed against his back. His momentary relief is overshadowed by the realisation that his cock is now nestled in the warm valley of Watson’s buttocks through their thin nightclothes. How many times has he fantasised about those heavy thighs, those soft delicious curves– wondered how sensitive those ample cheeks are? Will the night’s tortures never end?
Slowly, oh so carefully, Holmes inches his hand between them and presses his erection against his own belly, shielding it from the delights of Watson’s arse. He closes his eyes and conjures up images: Lestrade of the Yard in a bathing suit; Mrs Hudson in a girdle; Mycroft.
He deduces that it must have worked when he’s jolted awake by a sudden lurch of the train. Watson grumbles and sits up, accidentally pulling the blankets off Holmes, but he apologises grumpily and throws them back over him.
”I’m not using that thing,” Watson says, pointing at the chamber pot supplied in the cabin. “Won’t be long.”
Watson puts on his coat in lieu of a dressing gown and slips his feet into his shoes, picks up his sponge bag and goes in search of the facilities. As soon as the cabin door slides shut, Holmes lies flat on his back, raises his knees to tent the blanket and takes himself in hand.
Listening out for Watson’s return and fantasising about how Watson might react if he returned too soon speeds him to a quick conclusion, and the memory of the feel of his prick in Watson’s cleft adds to the satisfaction. He gets up and washes as best he can at the little basin in the cabin. By the time Watson returns, he has almost finished dressing.
”Oh good, you’re ready.” Watson smiles. A little furtively, Holmes thinks, but there’s no sign of awkwardness. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough.”
Holmes brushes his hair back but it won’t stay. Watson reaches up and smooths out an errant curl, then pulls his hand back and turns away to finish dressing.
“Well, my dear, I’m famished.” Watson turns and smiles. “Will you come to the dining car with me for breakfast?”
The mention of breakfast barely registers with Holmes as for a moment he’s fixated on the fact that Watson has just referred to him by a rather more intimate endearment than he’s accustomed to. By the time they reach the dining carriage he’s almost convinced himself he misheard and a cup of strong coffee has done wonders to put him back on the scent, so to speak, and focus on the purpose of their journey.
“Going to finish that?” Watson mumbles around a mouthful of sausage as he points to the last sausage link on Holmes’ plate, ignored in favour of toast spread thick with marmalade.
“Have at it,” Holmes says, unable to keep from smiling. Watson has an appreciation for life’s little joys that has never come easily to him.
“You look a million miles away, old fellow, fretting about the case?”
“I’d nearly forgotten about it.”
“Solved it, you mean!” Watson says with a knowing look and a gesture of his fork.
In fact he’s fairly certain he solved it even before getting on the train but the evidence must bear out.
“I wouldn’t go that far but I have some idea of what we’ll find when we reach our stop.”
“I hope I can still be of use.”
“Always, my dear fellow.” Holmes watches out of the window as Watson finishes breakfast. ”I don’t expect we will be required to stay overnight in Aberdeen.” He glances at Watson’s face then looks away again as if the rushing scenery might be the most fascinating thing in the world. “I’ll see that we have a berth reserved for the return journey on the sleeper train tonight.”
”Two nights in a row in a tiny bunk?” Watson laughs.
Holmes is immediately attentive. “My dear—” He pauses as their plates are cleared away and more coffee is offered. “If your injuries are troubling you then of course we’ll stay in a nice hotel and return in the morning.”
“Don’t concern yourself, my dear. I was perfectly comfortable all night.” Watson reaches across the table and pats Holmes on the arm. “Another sleeper train will be quite all right.”
Holmes is hit by a sudden memory of the feel of Watson’s hands on his back as he tried to fall asleep.
”I should reserve one with two functional bunks.”
Watson gives him a lopsided smile. “Of course, old bean.”
Holmes lets his smile drop slightly and he can’t quite work out why he feels disappointed. He will, in time, if he devotes enough brainpower to it.
”Well.” Holmes folds his napkin and abandons his second cup of coffee. “I’ll find out from the steward which berths are available for our return tonight. I expect it will be the same train.”
”Hah!” Watson chuckles. “Of course it will be the same train. They wouldn’t send a sleeper carriage for the daytime trip.”
“Quite right.” He studies Watson’s friendly, open face for a moment. My boy seems too childish. Old Bean is Watson’s own preferred endearment. He needs another.
“Quite right, my bonny lad.”
To his delight Watson actually goes bright pink, sending a thrill of longing through Holmes. He wants to be the cause of every bashful blush that flowers on his cheeks. He wonders how it would feel to press their foreheads together in a secluded alcove and whisper every daft notion that occurs to him while under the spell of Watson’s charm.
The beauty of a northern spring is not lost on Holmes as they step out on Guild Street. Despite the crowds and the noise of motors the air is fresher than London's and the sky is a wide blue sea capped by the occasional wispy cloud.
He glances over at his companion.
“What a shame we aren't here on holiday, but it would be just our luck if the weather turned dour the moment we decided to enjoy ourselves. I suppose as long as there is a crime to be solved we'll be blessed with copious sun and a stirring breeze.”
“You’re a born pessimist,” Watson teases, squinting in the bright daylight. “This is a lovely place to spend a weekend regardless of the weather. Especially if the company is stimulating.”
He pats Holmes's hand where it rests in the crook of his elbow and Holmes wonders briefly if this is an invitation and how soon he might make good on it.
The case is just as unremarkable as Holmes's prediction and even Watson admits it would not make a very good story. A nudge in the right direction gives the local police what they need and although there is a bit of bristling that an outsider– a Londoner, no less– has pointed out flaws in their reasoning, a successful conclusion humbles the lead inspector. He bids both Holmes and Watson farewell with a warm handshake and a genuine smile and hopes they will return to Aberdeen on a more pleasant errand next time.
Holmes insists on a light supper with wine followed by a few ”wee drams” at a hotel near the railway station, then they amble arm-in-arm to meet their train, with Watson humming a jaunty air. They are just in time—almost the last passengers to board—and the steward chivvies them into their sleeper cabin.
Watson points at the upper bunk. “The cheek of it! Can you believe we have to put up with the same broken bunk on the way back too? I don’t think they’ve even attempted to mend it. We ought to complain.”
”I believe you’re right,” Holmes replies calmly. “But I’m too tired to do anything about it right now. If you’re amenable, perhaps we could come to a similar arrangement as last night. We did fit…just about.”
“All right, my dear.” Watson starts undressing. “We’ll be sardines again. You take the wall side. I’m more likely to want to get up in the night.”
“I’ll get in first, then, my bonny lad.”
He waits a few seconds but Watson only looks down and smiles then takes the bedding intended for the upper bunk and spreads it on the lower.
”Insulate your back from the wall,” he says. “Don’t want you getting chilled.”
Holmes undresses as far as his underwear, heart beating faster and head spinning a little in a way that is attributable to neither the wine nor the whisky. He gets into bed like that instead of finding his pyjamas, thrilled at the anticipation of feeling the bare skin of his legs and arms against Watson’s. In a similar state of undress, Watson gets in after him, facing him, and helps arrange the blankets to their liking.
“Good night, old bean.”
He gathers Holmes into a close embrace and throws a leg over his calf, bold as anything. Holmes wonders for one moment if he's unaffected but the insistent press of heat against his own rebellious cock cannot be ignored.
Holmes pulls back to gaze at his companion in the dim light.
“Are you comfortable?”
“How could anyone be uncomfortable with you in their arms?”
For a moment he's bereft of a response and then Watson's mouth is hot against his and they're fumbling with no more intent than to press as closely together as possible. The sensation is nearly as unbearable as is it addicting, for at once Holmes is overwhelmed with Watson's taste, his masculine scent, the tickle of his moustache against Holmes’s nose and upper lip, the way his hands find the sensitive spot on the back of his neck and palm his arse and pull him so tightly into a blissful crush that he's flooded with stimuli. Reason and rationality flee, leaving him to pleasure’s devices. He focuses long enough to slip a hand between them and signal his intent with a gentle squeeze of Watson's staff. The gesture slows them both down a little as they adjust. Not a word slips from either to break the tension, they merely slot together in such a way that the frantic rocking of their hips brings them closer to climax.
Holmes is near the edge when Watson pulls back, panting, red with exertion.
“Want you in my hand, pet,” he says with a shudder. He paws at Holmes’ scant drawers and frees his erection, tugging with a practised grip.
Perhaps Watson will think it's the delicious slide of his hand against bare skin that brings him to his little death but in truth it's the rare endearment, spoken as though he's kept it close in his heart and only waited for the right time to speak it aloud. Holmes has enough wherewithal to return the favour moments later and is awed by the way Watson trembles all over; undone by Holmes's efforts.
Afterwards, warm in Watson’s arms, he thinks he should be appalled by his lack of self-control and his complete absence of regret puzzles him. When had his regard for his dearest friend slipped from companionship to…to this? There is barely any light but he studies Watson’s face anyway, squinting in the darkness. He knows every contour and crease, every thought expressed by his brow and his eyes and the set of his lips. He sees no fear and no recrimination in those relaxed features.
He smiles and closes his eyes.
Next thing he knows there’s grey dawn light filtering through the curtain and he’s pleasantly squashed between the cabin wall and Watson’s broad back. His arm is thrown over Watson, and his hand is clasped and held against Watson’s chest. He’s woken up hard, his prick a ramrod against the meat of Watson’s arse, so he keeps very still.
”I know you’re awake, old bean.”
Watson shifts: a little wiggle that might be incidental to preparing to get out of bed. But Watson turns and gathers him up again then he’s kissed. It’s not like the previous night. There’s no heat in it—it’s light and soft and warm and brief and he can feel a smile behind it.
Watson keeps his voice low. “Good morning, pet.”
”Good morning, bonny lad.” Holmes smiles back. “I suppose we ought to get up.”
Watson chuckles quietly. “I’d happily forego breakfast for an extra half hour in bed this morning.”
”Better not.” Holmes strokes Watson’s moustache with a gentle fingertip. “The steward will be round knocking on all the doors soon.”
Watson sighs, kisses Holmes on the forehead and pivots himself out of bed in a somewhat stiff motion. Holmes gets up too, dresses quickly and goes to use the little washroom at the end of the carriage. When he returns, Watson is dressed and the blankets are folded.
Something is different. Something is missing. He frowns at the pile of bedding.
”Where are the sheets?”
Watson looks furtive. “I got rid of them. They were stained,” he says quietly. “You read the papers every day. You know what can happen. Accusations and whatnot.”
Holmes is flooded with gratitude for Watson’s discretion. He suppresses a laugh. “You bundled them up and dropped them out of the window? You clever thing!”
Watson beams at the praise. “Well now, pet. Since I can’t have my extra half hour in bed with you—”
”—perhaps we should go and have breakfast instead.”
Watson laughs delightedly as Holmes finishes the thought.
“I suppose I should have a word with the steward for appearances sake. A complaint about the broken bunk…
“No need, I, erm, arranged to have the same berths for the return trip.”
“Holmes, you clever scoundrel!”
Watson sounds equal parts awed and scandalised but there’s an undercurrent to his tone that suggests that he's newly enticed and Holmes wishes they were back at Baker Street so he could coyly remark that he is a scoundrel, a rogue, an absolute villain, and Watson should know every wicked desire that grips him.
The journey home will be a test of patience but now that he knows what's waiting on the other side of it it's easier to slip out into the corridor after a surreptitious squeeze of Watson's hand. For once Holmes is relieved his powers of observation are unmatched, for as they dine together, he sees in Watson’s every stray glance and unguarded smile the unmistakable warmth of love.