Work Text:
1.
Whenever Sherlock Holmes was plagued by melancholy, I had reason to fear that he would do one of the following: Smoke enough to chase me out of my own rooms in search of fresh air, scratch the strings of his violin until one or more of them inevitably had to be replaced, or, in worst cases, dose himself with his favourite seven-percent solution until he was unable to think straight.
We went about a week without cases. One morning, Lestrade had stopped by, and hope had sparkled in Holmes’ eyes, but the good inspector was merely delivering news regarding his absence and to look for Inspector Gregson if we had any need of the police force. Holmes had been so irritated following said visit that my eyes automatically had darted to the shelf where he usually kept his morocco case, deciding that I would not step outside today in favour of monitoring his mood and intervening should he resort to something foolish.
Nothing grave happened by lunch, and although it proved itself to be a challenge, I managed to coax my fellow lodger into eating something, even if it was only a piece of toast and some cheese.
It was 3 in the afternoon when Holmes, after having scoured the newspaper for the umpteenth time, announced to me that there was a concert lined up for the evening he would very much like to attend and whether I would be amenable to accompany him.
“To-night?,“I asked, astonished. That was rather short notice, I had to admit. Rent was due soon, and I had been rather lavish considering our outings at restaurants that past month.
“Indeed, my dear Watson,“he confirmed, “And do not worry yourself over the admission. You’re invited.“
Oh.
“Holmes, I truly appreciate it, but I cannot ask that of you,“I tried, but he waved me off, evidently having none of it.
“Tut, tut! Nonsense, Watson. I know I have been a little trying as of late, with no work to do. It is the least I can do.”
I resisted the urge to tell him that I had experienced him in much worse moods over the years, lest he take back his offer. The thought of spending an evening with him, enjoying live music by his side and observing his content expression whenever he lost himself in the melodies, caused my heartbeat to pick up speed in ways that were very much dangerous. Not medically, that is – rather socially.
I, as I had done so many times, bit my tongue and my feelings down.
“If you would do me the favour to be ready by 5:30, I would be very much obliged,” Holmes told me, a smile on his face that told me that he would not even consider touching his syringe.
I smiled back, relieved. “I will. And, thank you for the invitation. I am looking forward to it.”
“Me as well, Watson, me as well! They will be playing the music of one of my favourite composers, and while I am quite familiar with it myself, it does sound rather better when played in a group, and…”
I had no idea what he was talking about, chuckling to myself as I watched him pace and assemble himself for the event.
“By god, I love you,” I muttered, and he quieted instantly.
His head snapped towards me. “What was that?”
One would expect me to defend myself, but I felt strangely calm. “Shall we go, Holmes?”
Holmes shot me one more puzzled look, but deduced that some matters were better dismissed. He opened the door for me, and we descended downstairs to meet our hansom.
***
2.
The hut was shabby and chilled. It was no wonder Holmes had brought three separate blankets to keep himself warm; his low tolerance towards colder environments was surely not helping him to focus on the investigation.
“Come in, Watson,” he told me, ushering me inside, “We have little time to spare, seeing as you need to resume your mission to observe Sir Baskerville, but I admit that I have missed you and would very much like to inform you of the results of my own inquiries.”
“I missed you too, Holmes,” I told him, reaching for his hand. It was, just as I had expected, cold in my grasp, and I began rubbing my thumb up and down the back of his palm in hopes of generating some heat. If the gesture displeased him in any way, he did not show it.
I only let go of him when we both were seated on the opposite sides of the hut, Holmes offering me some dry bread which I politely declined, opting to introduce him to a proper meal at Baskerville Hall later that day.
“I am, well,” I said after he’d finished explaining his thought and deduction process, “I am pleased that my reports were of some use after all.”
“Of course they were, Watson!,” Holmes exclaimed, “In fact, you have overtaken me when it comes to questioning Mrs Lyons. I only arrived at that conclusion a mere hours ago. For that, I must congratulate you. You have learned a thing or two about logical reasoning, it seems.”
“I hope I was not a complete buffoon before, but I have learned something indeed,” I chuckled, and he chuckled as well.
I do not know how I had managed to survive in those grim castle walls amidst the grey, damp moors before my knowledge of him being here, and before him being with me.
“Holmes,” I began, and his head turned to me.
“Hm?”
“Do you-” I bit my lower lip. “Well, do you believe there is indeed some sort of hound in the moors? With every passing day, I grow less sure of what to believe.”
He hummed. “I must confess, I do believe there is a hound indeed.”
My eyebrows shot into my hairline. Sherlock Holmes, of all people, believing in mythical beings?
He appeared to have seen through me and smiled. “It is not what you think, Watson. There is a hound, yes, but it is nothing more than a larger, albeit regular dog. It is dangerous, because it was trained by a dangerous man, but it is not some supernatural creature, that I can assure you.”
I was not sure whether that was better or worse.
Once again, Holmes sensed my anxiety, and his hand reached out to make itself comfortable on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze that sent a wave of warmth and euphoria down my spine.
“Do not worry, my dear Watson. I already have endangered you enough by merely bringing you here. I will see to it that you do not come to any harm, I promise you this.”
Holmes was not a sentimental man, but I could not describe this declaration as anything other than sentiment.
“Thank you, my dear Holmes. I really do love you.”
An amused chuckle. “Watson, I do believe this is the second time you have said that to me.”
He was not taking it seriously, then.
I smiled, well aware of how to save myself from humiliation. “Why, of course. You are, after all, my dearest friend. How could I not cherish you?”
Any disappointment I saw in his eyes I ignored, for there was no way he would ever return my affections.
***
3.
The water was slapping me in the face as I tore open the skin on my palms and knees, cowering on the rocky surface and shouting into an endless abyss.
I knew. I knew that not even the most resilient person on this godforsaken Earth would be able to survive such a fall, and Holmes was not the most resilient person on this godforsaken Earth. If anything, he was always rather frail, the past weeks having taken their toll on him as he was constantly anxious for his life and the lives of innocents in all on London with Professor Moriarty at his strongest.
Had been anxious. Had been frail.
He was no more.
“HOLMES!,” I tried another time, met only with more ice-cold droplets of fresh, Swiss mountain water. This place had been lonely before, but now, as realisation that I truly was fully and utterly on my own set in, I might as well be the only man left in the entire world,
The water from Reichenbach mixed itself with my salty, warm tears as I sank against the rocky wall behind me, covering my eyes with my battered hands. I sobbed shamelessly, nobody hearing me, aware that not a soul would understand the sheer depth of despair I was experiencing.
Why had I never told him what I truly felt? There had been so many good, too good, opportunities to admit my feelings. In Meiringen, we had even been forced to share a bed, much to my pleasure. At least I had been able to indulge in my desires without having to confess my unconditional, romantic love.
Oh, how I wish I had.
Holmes had always been such an isolated fellow, having little to no friends and relying on acquaintances such as Stamford or his landlady if he ever craved social interaction. He had managed to form what I presumed was some sort of friendship with Lestrade, but I had been the only person whom he had ever trusted. At least I hoped he did, but the fact that he had requested me to join him on his escapade to Europe spoke for itself.
He had deserved to know how deeply and dearly cherished and loved he had been.
I folded his letter to me, the ink now slightly smudged with my tears, and carefully tucked it into my breast pocket.
I would have to return to Meiringen, report what had happened, and spend the night in a cold, far too large bed before I was expected to find the strength and willpower to travel home to London.
Throwing myself down the waterfall in solidarity seemed a much easier option, but Holmes would not want me to do that.
I crawled back towards the edge, the water roaring in my ears. I suspected I would never be able to drown that sound out for the remainder of my life.
“I love you,” I said to no one in particular.
My own, quiet echo answered.
“Holmes!,” I shouted, louder this time, “Holmes, I love you!”
Again, the sentiment was echoed back to me.
For one split second, I could have sworn I was answered in his voice.
I stood up and trailed back to the village, never to return.
***
4.
The roses I had left on Mary’s grave were likely wilting on that faithful day in late March.
I had never felt guilty for marrying her when my heart lay with Holmes. I knew that, even if I had ever mustered up the courage to tell him what he meant to me, the chances that he’d ever return my affections had always been near zero, and I had made my peace with that. Mary Morstan had been a good friend and continued to be so even after our marriage, her having found her happiness with her lady friend, and I was too glad to provide a cover for both them and my own inclinations.
Just having returned to my Kensington practice, I threw my keys onto a shelf and ran my hands over my face. I had no one left, and yet, I was expected to carry on as if I hadn’t lost two people I loved within the past three years.
I knew exactly how Mary’s lady friend had felt when Mary had succumbed to her illness, and I heard she is now in the United States in hopes of finding independence and heal. I wished her nothing but the best.
One could imagine that when that old bookseller entered my premises, I was less than thrilled about having to converse with him. The murder of Ronald Adair was weighing on me, for it was precisely the kind of case Holmes would have liked to solve and the ache in my heart was becoming more and more unbearable with every second I spent thinking of it.
I was more thrilled when that bookseller turned out to be Holmes, alive and more or less well, smiling at me with a sparkle in his grey eyes.
I clung to him like a man would cling to a lifeline in a tumultuous ocean, hoping I would not damage his fragile bones by squeezing to hard, but at the same time, I could not do anything else. He did not chastise me when my tears stained his shirt, his long fingers rubbing up and down my back as he soothed me, apologising over and over for his deception and assuring me that it was not a lack of trust in my person that had driven him to make the choices he had made.
After a few minutes, I backed away, wiping my tea-stained face and realised that I had been granted an opportunity that most people are not fortunate enough to be granted.
“Holmes,” I spoke, gripping the fabric of his sleeves, “Holmes, you need to know?”
“What is it, Watson? Need to know what?”
“I love you.”
He blinked. “Ah. Yes, I believe you ha-”
“No,” I interrupted, shaking my head, “Not- as a friend. Well, that too, of course. I meant that I am deeply and irrevocably in love with you like I should be with a woman and yet I find I want nothing else. I was an empty man in all these lonely years, a man without a heart, because you are my heart and I cannot live without you.”
The confession stole his breath, and he looked at me with eyes as wide as dinner plates. This could go two ways, I figured – either, he would cut our connection entirely, not wishing to remain in the presence of such a deviant even a moment longer, or he’d accept that I was hopelessly in love with him and we could go on as we had before the events that had separated us.
“I find that-” He swallowed, cheeks tinged with red. “I find that I, Watson, share a similar sentiment when it comes to you.”
Apparently, there was a third way indeed.
“You- you do, Holmes? Truly?”
“Truly indeed,” he confirmed, running a hand through my hair, “We can discuss what this means later, Watson, for I fear we have a case to solve, but- yes, truly.”
I had never felt happier in all my life, I think.
***
5.
My newest report of one of Holmes’ cases had just been published in The Strand that winter, Holmes already having talked my ear off about the supposedly excessive romanticism and the unnecessary, unscientific details that, in his opinion, did not belong in a retelling of a criminal case.
Of course, I knew better than to take his speech to heart. Shortly after he had been returned from the dead to me, I confessed that my writing his cases, our memories, had sometimes been the only solace I found during those three dark years, and that chances were that I would not be here right now if it had not been for his adventures for me to reminiscence about. Ever since, he had never stopped me from writing up anything about him, albeit Sherlock Holmes would not be Sherlock Holmes if he did not give me his typical earful about my literary inclinations.
“I’ve had it with you, Holmes,” I said with a grin after he had finally stopped talking, “It snowed outside. How would you like a stroll do get away from these stuffy rooms?”
He scoffed. “I thought you’ve had it with me.”
I rolled my eyes. A few years ago, I would have thought twice about such a reaction, but compared to the casual, even if not seriously meant insults Holmes oftentimes threw my way, I had earned the right to roll my eyes at him for as many times as I wished. “Come, Holmes, do not be dense. We shall go to Regent’s Park and build a small snowman.”
His expression softened, informing me that the exasperated shake of his head was not meant to be taken literally. “Oh, all right, Watson. I shall indulge your childish ideas, but only because it is you.”
“Why, thank you, Holmes. Now, get dressed in your warmest coat, and do not forget your scarf. I have little wish to nurse you through yet another cold.”
To my surprise, he complied with little argument, and soon we found ourselves in the park, Holmes helping me roll small snowballs to create a snowman. I was put on duty of sticking them together while he scoured the park to produce perfectly sized sticks for the arms and the perfect rocks for the eyes, and when we finally placed our creature on the ground, it would up reminding me a little of Holmes.
I told him such, and he hummed in approval. “I suppose he does. But, in that case- Give me a moment.”
He began rolling another snowball, not allowing me to help. “It will take but a moment, Watson,” he dismissed me, and true to his word, the Sherlock Holmes made out of snow was joined by a smaller snowman, fragments from a stick posing as a moustache.
“There cannot be a Sherlock Holmes,” Holmes announced, “Without his John Watson.”
That was probably the closest to a declaration of love I would ever get. Tears of joy filled my eyes as I discreetly fished for his gloved hand, giving it a loving squeeze. Thankfully, the children and their parents were too occupied with their own snowmen to pay attention to the two of us.
“Oh, Holmes,” I whispered, looking around me just to be certain, “I love you.”
He nodded in acknowledgement, but said no more.
I was perhaps selfish for being hurt. Romance did not come easy to Holmes, and I considered myself lucky to even be on the receiving end of any sentiment of his.
Just once, though, I would like to hear those three words said back at me.
A snowball clashed against my coat.
“Come on, Watson! You will not stand there and throw nothing back at me, will you?”
I grinned. “You will regret having warned me, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
***
+1
The police had been, as always, terribly late.
Holmes had wrapped my leg with his coat acting as a makeshift bandage, dismissing all my concerns about staining it with my blood. It was dear to him, but he’d told me it was not dearer to him than my leg, thank you very much.
After having my own diagnosis confirmed by another doctor – mostly for Holmes’ peace of mind, as I had told him that my wound was superficial – I was now seated in my armchair at Baker Street, a mug of hot tea in my hands, Mrs Hudson having promised to bring some scones in a few minutes. All in all, a perfectly ordinary day, if it wasn’t for Holmes cowering on his own armchair, knees drawn to his chest and refusing to meet my eye.
I sighed fondly. “Holmes. You need not fret. I am perfectly fine, as you know.”
He merely grumbled.
“I mean it,” I repeated, “Nothing has happened. The criminal has been apprehended, and we are here, safe and sound in the warmth of our flat. Do not get lost in the “what ifs”, Holmes, please.”
He stood up, walking up to the fireplace. Mrs Hudson entered with the freshly bakes scones, which we both thanked her for, and I wanted to reach out to take one, but Holmes was first and put some jam onto the baked good before carefully placing it into my hand.
I could not help but feel touched at how affected he was.
“Thank you, my dear,” I spoke.
His eyes softened.
“You are very welcome, John,” he replied, “And I am sorry. I do not mean to make an elephant out of a fly. You are right, of course, that you are all right. But for a moment, back in that room-” He inhaled sharply, then swallowed. “I thought you were lost to me. All I could see was your blood on the floor, and as you know, I was ready to murder that man had you been indeed killed. It appears I am having a rather difficult time getting over that frightening experience.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I answered, and he flinched. “No, no- Sherlock, I do not wish to make you feel guilty. Water over the bridge, all right? I just wanted to apologise for scaring you so.”
“It was hardly your fault.”
“No, it was not,” I agreed, “It was that scoundrel, Evans. And yet, I am still sorry. I would not wish that experience on anyone; that crushing grief. But I am here, darling. I am all right, and I am with you.”
Holmes returned to his chair, squinting at the dancing flames. I handed a scone to him, and he began chewing on it, evidently still deep in thought. As much as I wanted to know what he was brooding about, I had learned that it would be better if I left him to tell me at his own pace.
“There is one more thing,” he finally spoke after a bout of silence.
“What is it?”
Holmes turned to me, a vulnerability in his expression that might have alarmed me had I not known him to be out of any danger. “I could have lost you without ever-”
I tilted my head. What was this all about?
He stood up, crossing the small space between us and taking my hands in his. “I could have lost you without telling you how much I love you, and I do not think I could have lived with that.”
I gasped. “You-”
“Yes. I love you, John, and please forgive me for being coward enough not to tell you until now. You are the dearest person on Earth to me, and I hate that it had to come to this for me to tell you. I love you.”
Oh. Oh, my words.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” I whispered, and he leaned up to align our lips with each other, his arms wrapped around my neck.
Both of us pretended not to hear the fond chuckle of Mrs Hudson as she came to refill our tea.