Anyway, I've written a fic inspired by the recent drabble called "I Am an Actor After All." Without a Clue is one of my favorite movies, but I have previously not seen slashiness coming off Reginald Kincaid or his awesome John Watson. But I found the inspiration and decided to do it, but it's going to be a one-off only. I probably won't continue it like my Private Life fic. I'm not sure I really captured Kincaid's voice here, but I thought I'd try it.
SPOILERS for the movie below:
The movie appears to be set in November 1900, which is the date you can read off the "Silver Blaze" Strand magazine that they show a few times. (Of course this is not the real date of the actual SILV Strand magazine.) Additionally, the printing plates for the five pound notes bear the date of Feb 2, 1900. Watson tells Norman Greenhough that he invented the character of Holmes nine years ago, which would mean they've been working together since 1891. It's odd, since it makes Watson and Kincaid meet much later in time and (apparently) have no FINA fake death and separation of three years. Moriarty is very much alive in this movie, though his Sebastian henchman does not appear to be a colonel like Moran.
But whatever. Go with the flow of the movie-verse. I just wish I knew the real name of the fake Leslie Giles. There's apparently no Mrs. Watson either. Mycroft is also not mentioned in the movie, but I decided to mention him in this fic. There's no firm time period between Watson's fake death and the scenes at the Orpheum Theatre, but I'm going to assume that it's been at least 24 hours. Possibly 48, given that both Mrs. Hudson and the fake Leslie change their clothes from the day morning after Watson disappeared.
Reggie & John
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Story: Without a Clue movie-verse
Warnings: slash, rated PG-13
In front of the press, I dared to call Watson "my friend" that morning, and not merely because he wrote us as friends in his stories. After this harrowing case, it felt as if we genuinely were friends now, and Watson seemed touched by my words, as well as my applause. The crowd joined in, but they probably thought I was just being kind to Watson because I had feared him dead; those reporters would never know how very much he meant to me. Only Mrs. Hudson and Wiggins came close to understanding my sincerity, and only they knew how much credit Watson has deserved over these nine years. He is the true detective.
I tried to complete the gesture by announcing my retirement, but he denied it and insisted that I was joking. He wanted me to stay, and it was my turn to feel surprised and touched. So we were truly friends now, and he did not wish to get rid of me any longer. He came to stand beside me, and with a smile I declared the case closed. We shared a laugh before posing for the cameras.
At last we dismissed the crowd and hurried inside the house with Mrs. Hudson and Wiggins. Lord Smithwick had given us the painting of Queen Victoria again, so we lugged it with us from the carriage. We were all exhausted from the long night, and Mrs. Hudson had no objection to letting Wiggins stay for a nap, since he after all had summoned Scotland Yard to save us at the Orpheum Theatre. She sent him off to an extra bedroom that she had downstairs, and she hugged the doctor once again.
Watson promised to sleep past noon and not disturb her, then we headed upstairs to our flat. Our flat. I was so happy that it was still ours. He was alive, and I was not to live alone grieving for him anymore.
We set down the painting in the sitting-room, and then I went into my bedroom to begin undressing, but Watson kept looking at the painting and trying to decide where to hang it. I said, "Leave that alone, Watson. Go to bed."
"Perhaps we should hang it near the patriotic V.R. on the wall?"
"Perhaps we should give it to Mrs. Hudson instead? It might get damaged by the chemicals in your laboratory."
"Hmm, yes," he said, considering it.
Then I heard him chuckling, and peeked out to see him at the chalkboard where I had tried to deduce clues about the case. He was amused by my notes about Moriarty's name, but he murmured in amazement, "And yet you solved it. You solved it without me. Even if we were both wrong about 234..."
I repeated, "Go to bed, Watson. You need it. God knows where you've been all this time."
He answered, "Oh, I'd been hiding out for hours at the theatre waiting for Moriarty to arrive. Before that I was staying with my brother." Oh, Mycroft. The brother that he'd transplanted onto Holmes in exchange for my real alcoholic brother, whom I take after. Bloody fathead Mycroft who didn't have the decency to tell me what was going on.
"Anyway, goodnight, old chap." Watson came over to pat my arm fondly. "Or good morning, rather."
I nodded and watched him go to his room.
So he retired to his own bed, and I to mine, as always. I slept better knowing that he was alive, and yet I still felt miserable to remember my grief. In truth, Watson was the bloody fathead for not telling me that he was alive. But I know I should not say so, lest I lose him again. I shall have to swallow it down with more alcohol. A pity. I had hoped to be able to give up drinking for him, but I suppose it is not to be. I shall have to find a better hiding place for my whiskey bottle.
I awoke at noon, but as always, Watson was up earlier than me. His mind is ever bright and restless. I found him in the sitting-room, crouched in an attractive yet oblivious fashion. He was curiously examining the red sofa, and he muttered to himself more than to me, "This leg is damaged, and there are footprints on the seat..."
"Good God," I said with irritation. "Yes, I bloody tried to hang myself. Can you refrain from comparing my shoe size to the prints?" Stupid Italian shoes anyway.
"What?" Watson then noticed the damaged chandelier above and got up to look at it with his magnifying glass. He found some fibres from the rope, then he turned back to me, looking horrified. "My dear fellow--"
"Don't you 'dear fellow' me!" I could not control my anger without a whiskey. "What did you expect me to do? I thought you were dead."
He came down to the floor and still stared at me with wide eyes. "Because you thought--?" He shook his head and put the lens down. "I hadn't realised. I--"
"Oh that wasn't part of your brilliant plan? To drive me to despair and be rid of me?"
"No, no! I didn't mean that!" He went up to me and tried to take my arm.
I shook him off and sat down at the breakfast table, trying to hide my tears.
He stood before me and said, "I'm so sorry, Holmes."
It really bothered me, then, him calling me that. But since I had already risked too much, I said nothing and just stared at my feet.
He sat down and continued, "I didn't expect you to be so upset."
For a genius, he can be bloody stupid sometimes. "Watson, you left me in the middle of the case! With no one to turn to except your brother maybe, but he's never liked me, and he probably would have turned me away, given that he was hiding you!"
"No, no, he would have helped calm you down. He'd tell you that he would take over the investigation."
"Oh I'm supposed to believe the lazy fathead suddenly decided that he would do some detective work himself for once?"
"The threat of counterfeit notes ruining the economy is certainly motive enough, don't you think?"
So apparently Watson had it all worked out. Too bad I never acted according to his logical plans. Maybe it would have been nice if Mycroft didn't laugh at me for once, or tease me for being his stupid "brother." But then again, maybe he would have seen through my naked grief, and mocked me for that instead. Been offended on behalf of his real brother, and tossed me out into the street.
Touching my hand, Watson said, "If he'd seen you in such despair, he would have soothed you and told you not to worry."
"Not to worry?" I scoffed. "It wasn't just the case, Watson! You were gone! You--" Here I could no longer fight my tears. "I blamed myself. I'd called out, and Moriarty spotted you."
"Oh Holmes! No. I'm so sorry." He actually hugged me then, held me close and patted my back while he repeated his apologies.
I tried not to get lost in the touch, and I wiped my eyes. "Why didn't you contact me? When I didn't go to Mycroft, why didn't you come see me, or have him see me?"
"Because of the impostor. And I didn't think you'd do anything desperate." He shrugged and said with a sigh, "To be honest, I thought maybe you'd spend a couple of days getting drunk and then seeking comfort in the fake Leslie Giles."
I pushed him away and stood up in outrage. "Do you think I have no feelings whatsoever? That I'd seduce her with your corpse not even cold--not even found!"
"Don't call me that! I'm not Holmes. I'm not that unfeeling machine you write."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He approached me again, and he touched my face this time. "My dear Kincaid, I would be upset about losing you too. Remember how I gave you those bullets for your gun? I feared that this case was getting far too dangerous, and I did not want you to get hurt or killed. That was why I wanted you to be safe at home, and distracting the impostor."
I calmed somewhat, glad that he did care for me a little. But his hand on my face made me nervous, so I turned away. "It was still a rotten thing to put me through."
"I know." He hesitated behind me, and said, "I would take it all back now if I could. I would have Mycroft send you a message right away."
I turned back to face him. "And you'd let me see you, alive?"
"You'd want that?"
I nodded. "It couldn't just be a message."
"Very well, if you had insisted. Although in that case I couldn't send you back to Baker Street, lest you accidentally reveal all to the fake Leslie Giles."
Actually, I'm not so bad an actor when sober; it's just that I am seldom sober. "I could have helped you, too," I said. "I mean, at least I could have fetched Scotland Yard for you. Watson, how did you expect to capture Moriarty and his six henchmen all by yourself? Not to mention that female spy? You could have been killed."
Watson considered it and looked slightly embarrassed. "Indeed I should have brought some backup, but I feared risking anyone else's lives, after all the cold-blooded murders Moriarty has committed or ordered." He shrugged and sat down. "I also thought I had to get used to working alone, if this was to be our last case."
"Well, lucky that I came and found you anyway."
He smiled. "Yes, lucky indeed." He didn't even berate me for distracting him at first, simply praising me again for my feat in deducing that Moriarty was operating out of the Orpheum Theatre. I must have really impressed Watson, even if we both were wrong about what Peter Giles meant.
I sat down with him at the breakfast table.
Watson said, "You even got to show me your duel on the stage. Was it like the third act of 'The Shadow of Death'?"
"Somewhat. Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes. It was a performance I shall never forget."
I looked into his eyes for any trace of sarcasm, but he seemed sincere. He seemed almost... but I have fooled myself with wishing before.
All I know is that I liked coming to Watson's rescue for once. I liked seeing him proud of me and seeing him admire my swordplay. I almost thought maybe he could fall in love with me. But then, he'd written Holmes as a swordsman too.
"Watson... John. May I call you John now? If we are friends?" Nine years to become friends instead of employer and employee.
He nodded. "We are friends. Shall I call you--?"
"Call me Reggie," I said.
"Reggie," he tried it out. He was so used to calling me Holmes, or "you idiot" that I'm sure it felt foreign.
"John." I reached over to touch his hand, and he allowed it. "I'm glad that you're alive."
"I'm glad you are as well." He reached to touch my face again, and he turned my neck in such a way that I misread him and I kissed him.
He froze, and only then did I realize that he was trying to examine my neck for any bruises from the noose. I pulled back miserably and stammered an apology, "I'm sorry, I-I wasn't thinking. I had another drink--"
He hushed me and stopped me from getting up and retreating to my room. "Holmes--I mean, Reggie."
"No, don't. I just, I hadn't expected... I mean, all your womanising."
I admitted, "I like them as well. Either sex is fine, and besides, one of us had to have a reputation, or there'd be rumours about us. Two bachelors, living nine years together..."
He looked stunned. "I-I hadn't realised..."
I quickly said, "Not that I thought... I mean, it's just the fear since Oscar Wilde--"
He interrupted me and made me face him, "And just now, when you kissed me--"
"I-I misunderstood you. Forgive me please." I feared he might change his mind about letting me stay as Holmes. "I shan't--"
He suddenly kissed me back.
"Reggie... lock the door."
I hurriedly did so, tripping over myself a little, but he did not mind.
He stood up too and looked at me so differently than normal. He watched me like he did at the Orpheum.
When I returned, I pulled him close and kissed him intensely, opening his mouth.
He moaned in surprise and clung to me.
I worried a little about whether this new hunger in him had been awakened by seeing me duel, seeing me be like his image of Holmes, but he kept sighing "Reggie," and I felt better.
I ran my fingers through his hair, caressed his charmingly perfect whiskers.
Meanwhile his fingers caressed my neck again, so I told him, "The rope never got tight enough."
"Thank God," he whispered, truly looking worried for me. "I'm sorry."
I kissed him again and took him back to my bedroom. We undressed, and I showed him that I was skilled in another kind of swordplay.
The only thing I could see happening after this would be maybe that Watson suggests they go meet one of the real Leslie Giles's friends in Paris, and hire one to pose as Watson's wife. He could move out and get a practice while secretly still seeing Holmes. Then later they could have the fake wife go back to France, saying that she was ill and needed to return to her family, but Watson couldn't come because he had to take care of his practice. This way, Watson and Holmes could have a place to be together away from Mrs. Hudson, who I think still wants a "respectable Presbyterian house."
But maybe that's too convoluted, and Watson would prefer to remain in Baker Street. I don't know. That's why I'm not writing any further on this.