A Love Story Between Two Men, part 3
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: movie-verse, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: slash, PG-13
In the morning Watson woke with a hangover. He really had drunk quite a lot of vodka. He groaned and rolled over to turn off the alarm clock. Why on earth would he set his alarm clock so early, especially on a night when he'd been drinking heavily? Six in the bloody morning? Maybe he didn't do it. Maybe it was a prank by Holmes.
Holmes! Watson's eyes sprang open, as he remembered last night. Holmes had lied about their relationship, and Watson had been so angry to find out. It was stupid of him. After all, he had a reputation and three continents of women to vouch for him. But Holmes had eventually soothed him, and began to serenade him on the violin. Why had he never thought of that before? Holmes serenaded him. Watson had never realised that it was Holmes's way of expressing his feelings. Watson had always blindly thought that Holmes was merely playing all those songs he liked as a favour to him, as a way of apologising for anything he did to annoy him as a roommate and friend. Watson had never wondered at the idea that Holmes would play songs that he personally hated, just because Watson requested them.
"I've been such a fool. He loves me. He's always loved me." Watson sat up then, but groaned again at his headache. He remained still for a moment to let himself recover, before going to take an aspirin with water. He also soothed himself with the thought of Holmes's face last night. His tears and his vulnerability. His beauty when he was dishevelled by kisses.
When Watson felt better, he went to wash his face and comb his hair a little. He did not want to look ridiculous when he saw Holmes. Then he put on his dressing-gown and finally left for Holmes's room.
He knocked softly, then entered. "Holmes?"
He was still asleep.
Watson came in and closed the door.
Holmes started a little at the sound and he turned around. "Watson?"
"Good morning." Watson came nearer and untied his dressing-room before taking it off and tossing it across a chair. Then Watson pulled back the covers and climbed in beside him.
"Watson?" Holmes stared dumbly at him, wondering if he were hallucinating. Had Watson been right after all about the terrible effects of cocaine?
Watson stared at Holmes and finally looked worried. "You don't remember last night? Were you--were you drunk too?"
Holmes blinked and shook his head. "No, I did not have any vodka, but..." he trailed off, no longer remembering the terrible taste of the red pepper. He touched Watson's face tentatively to reassure himself that he wasn't dreaming his presence.
Watson suddenly smiled and said, "You mean you only tasted the vodka that I had?" He laughed and pulled Holmes into his arms.
"Oh, Watson!" Holmes clung to him and nearly cried in happiness.
"Hey, it's all right." Watson kissed him again. "Come here."
Holmes kissed him back, delighting in the feel of the doctor's moustache and even his early morning stubble. He had imagined for years what it would feel like, but it was much better than his imagination.
"Good," Watson said, when Holmes calmed down somewhat.
He remained puzzled, though. "Watson, how can this be? You've always liked ladies before."
"I know, but you've also--" Then he stopped and frowned. "Wait, you lied to me about your fiancée, didn't you?"
"No," Holmes said truthfully. "Her name was Violet, and she died, as I told you. It was the first blush of youth, a romance that pales beside mature love. I only lied about the name Eunice, when I spoke unwisely."
Watson looked surprised. "Then you haven't always been queer?"
Holmes replied, "Nor have you."
Watson considered that and shrugged. "I suppose so. Hmm, perhaps we are like Sergei."
"One of the ballet dancers who leered at me last night. That director fellow told me not to worry that you had told 'our' secret, for they were not bourgeois. He then pointed out to me all the dancers who were queer. He said Sergei was half and half."
Holmes laughed. "Half and half! Well, I should have known."
"That you, as always, are an exceptional man."
Watson blushed. "Am I?"
He nodded. "You are so perfect."
"Indeed." Holmes kissed him passionately.
Watson happily kissed him back, and began to undress him.
"You are so eager, Watson."
"Well, after you stopped me last night..."
Holmes moaned as Watson unbuttoned his shirt and began to kiss his bared skin. They undressed each other and tried to make love, but found themselves fumbling around clumsily. Each had only experienced sex with women before, and they were unsure how to mesh themselves now.
Watson even stopped to demand to know more about Holmes's sexual experience. So Holmes confessed about Adele, the most affectionate woman he ever knew; he had a passionate affair with her, but she turned out to be stealing cyanide from his lab, so that she could poison her husband to death.
"An affair with a married woman? Really, Holmes!"
"Well, she was trying to correct that error, you have to admit. Luckily I discovered her in time, and she was hanged."
"Good lord." That certainly put Watson out of the mood. "And so now you do not trust women. Like what you said the other day to me, about the twinkle in the eye and the arsenic in the soup."
"And you call my stories lurid!"
Holmes shrugged and curled up close to Watson's naked body. At least he could enjoy this warmth and feel his heartbeat.
Watson nuzzled him and sighed. "We must figure this out. Do we dare inquire of the Russian ballet dancers to ask them how one accomplishes sodomy and buggery?"
"Not if they're going to leer at you."
Watson was surprised. "Are you jealous?"
Watson smiled proudly.
"This shall do nothing good for your modesty."
"I'll take that risk. Tell me, may I call you Sherlock now?"
"What? Oh." He grimaced at the thought. "Currently the only person who calls me such is my brother Mycroft, and you know how difficult our relationship is."
"I see. Very well. I'll stick to Holmes, then."
"Thank you, my dear, and I shall call you John."
They laughed together and kissed a while, but then heard footsteps on the stair. Glancing at the clock, they now realised how long they had lingered in bed together.
Watson reluctantly got up and dressed again so that he could sneak back to his bedroom before breakfast.
Holmes kissed him before he went, then lay back in bed, smelling the remaining scent of Watson in the sheets and pillows. He could hardly believe his luck, that Watson desired him after all. Perhaps even loved him, considering what he had almost said last night. Holmes would have to coax him into saying it fully. How wonderful that would be.
He contemplated whether they seriously could contact any of the Russian dancers for advice. But no, they believed that Holmes and Watson's affair had lasted for years, so it would not be credible for them to need beginner's instructions. Besides, those Russians would be returning to St. Petersburg soon.
No, what he and Watson needed was a holiday away from Baker Street. Somewhere that they could practice the art of love freely and loudly.
Hmm, perhaps Venice would be nice at this time of year?
Of course, after this I would have to assume that the rest of the movie didn't happen. "Gabrielle Valladon" would not arrive to ask Holmes to find her husband the naval engineer, Emile Valladon. Or at least Holmes would not fall for her and would actually listen when Mycroft told him to drop the case. Then Mycroft and the Diogenes Club would handle the German spy themselves.
Perhaps then Mycroft would confront Sherlock about his new relationship with Watson, too. I don't know.