Fic: "Undisclosed Desires"

[wave_of_sorrow]

Title: Undisclosed Desires
Author: wave_of_sorrow
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson, Holmes/Watson/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,108
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't claim. No money being made.
Summary: Maybe his biggest mistake was to befriend his roommate. Or maybe it was rooming with Holmes in the first place. Who knows?
Spoilers/Warnings: none
A/N: Fill for a prompt at shkinkmeme


Looking back, Watson doesn’t quite remember how it started. He only remembers how very tense the both of them were, constantly snapping at each other. Vaguely he recalls a night in the middle of a trying case, Holmes pacing in the sitting room, mumbling to himself, as Watson tried to read and not watch Holmes bite his lip, rub the back of his neck, stretch to reveal creamy skin… And then Holmes stopped abruptly, whipping around to face Watson.


“Would you do me a favour, Watson?”


You see, living with Holmes taught Watson to be cautious, to pick up on those minuscule changes in Holmes’ voice, in his eyes. And the way Holmes said those seven words made goose bumps break out over Watson’s skin.


“I’ll do you one, too,” he promised, tilting his head, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.


“…alright.”


Looking back, Watson realizes that this was his first mistake. His next mistake was not getting up and running when Holmes grinned at him like a Cheshire cat. His biggest mistake, however, was kissing Holmes back, tongue thrusting into the heat of Holmes’ willing mouth, licking and sucking, nipping and biting. Not saying no when Holmes proposed this strange arrangement, “just pleasuring each other, Watson, satisfying biological urges, if you will, no strings attached”, that might have been a mistake too.


Or maybe he made the first mistake long before that. Maybe his biggest mistake was to befriend his roommate. Or maybe it was rooming with Holmes in the first place. Who knows?


Fact is, they spent the better part of the following hour stroking each others’  cocks, gasping between kisses, moaning, dragging teeth over throats, nipping at earlobes, licking at nipples, scratching at hips, crushing their lips together until they tasted blood, tugging and pumping until they came onto each other’s stomachs.


Holmes’ sweaty forehead was pressed against the crook of Watson’s neck and Watson’s head was still thrown back, resting on the back of the settee, Holmes’ weight in his lap becoming heavier and heavier as he slowly drifted off,  sighing and burrowing his face deeper into Watson’s skin. Watson absent-mindedly rubbed Holmes’ back, the cooling stickiness on his abdomen uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to make him want to push Holmes away. They dozed on the settee for a while, regaining their breaths, waiting for skin to cool and sweat to dry. Then Holmes turned his head to press a kiss to Watson’s cheek and with a soft “thank you” he was gone. After a few moments Watson got up and retired to his own room. Thoroughly satiated and quite exhausted he fell into bed, sleep coming quickly.


Watson had to admit he didn’t feel nearly as tense the next morning. In fact, he felt quite relaxed. He had slept better than he had in weeks, and as they shared breakfast the next morning, idle conversation coming more easily than either of them had expected, Watson noticed that the tenseness had left Holmes’ shoulders and that he was smiling more often. For almost three weeks, however, they did not repeat their exploits, until one Sunday morning Watson started a fight about the mess in the sitting room, more out of boredom than actual annoyance. Holmes, just as bored and frustrated as Watson, gladly played along, snapping and insulting, glaring darkly at Watson from his position on the tiger skin rug.


Watson still doesn’t quite know what it was that made Holmes throw the book he was pretending to peruse to the floor and get up onto his knees, shuffle over to kneel before Watson and, without a word, wrap his  arms around Watson’s legs and bury his face in his crotch. Watson gasped, steadying himself against the desk as Holmes nuzzled his clothed cock. Holmes rubbed his nose, chin, cheeks against the quickly growing bulge in Watson’s trousers, rough fabric scratching against his skin, reaching up to squeeze and fondle his arse, placing hot, wet kisses along the length of Watson’s covered erection. When Watson was moaning above him, hips bucking and hands buried in Holmes’ hair, Holmes finally undid Watson’s flies, pulling his trousers and underwear down only far enough to free his surging cock. Holmes delicately kissed the very tip, smearing pre-come over his lips, dark eyes fixed on Watson’s. And then, after flicking his tongue against the head, he took Watson into his mouth, sliding down the shaft, lips stretched tightly and shining with saliva and pre-come, throat working, eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration.


Holmes carefully bobbed his head, trying not to gag as the head of Watson’s cock nudged at the back of his throat. It only took a few moments, the faintest contraction of Holmes’ throat around him, before Watson was coming into Holmes’ mouth, hands clenching in Holmes’ hair, hips jerking. Holmes tried to disguise the slight panic in his eyes as thick, bitter strands of goo filled his mouth. Watson chuckled breathlessly, stroking the underside of Holmes’ chin, then his throat in rhythmic, gentle motions, encouraging him to swallow. Holmes gagged slightly, shuddering at the taste, but got most of it down nonetheless.


Letting Watson’s limp cock drop from his mouth, Holmes leaned back slightly, licking his lips as he rubbed the heel of his hand against his own cock, pulsating in the confines of his trousers. Kneeling beside Holmes with some difficulty, Watson undid his trousers and slipped them down along with his underwear, revealing Holmes’ hard cock, throbbing faintly against Watson’s palm. He kissed Holmes, messily, teeth clicking and tongues tangling, as he roughly stroked him off, taking care to caress and fondle his balls and swipe his thumb over the tip of Holmes’ cock. Back arching and hips bucking, Holmes spent himself over Watson’s fist, moaning into Watson’s mouth.


The rest of the day was spent in companionable silence. Holmes stretched out on the rug, leafing through this book or that while smoking his pipe, and Watson sitting at the desk, writing, or in his chair, reading the paper and enjoying a cup of tea.


From then on they engaged in these activities more often.


Things suddenly became so much easier; they weren’t frustrated anymore, Watson didn’t feel the urge to hit Holmes quite as often and Holmes was much less irritable. Lestrade shot Holmes confused looks more than once and on one occasion even asked Watson whether everything was alright with the detective. Mrs. Hudson looked at Holmes suspiciously every time he failed to insinuate that she was trying to kill him. Watson’s patients were delighted at the absence of gunshots and explosions. Holmes didn’t blow up the rooms anymore. At least not much.


And Holmes and Watson were both happy and satisfied. They delighted in this new development. Watson for his part enjoyed being able to be intimate with somebody whenever he wanted, again. It was something he had sorely missed, though he would never admit it, and that it was Holmes who “satisfied his biological urges” was certainly a plus. Holmes, though he had proposed the arrangement in the first place, wasn’t used to being allowed and able to touch, kiss, caress someone just because he felt like it. The entire concept was novel to him and it took some reassuring and convincing from Watson to make him comfortable enough to , literally and metaphorically, climb into Watson’s lap and simply ask for what he wanted.


After Holmes had accustomed to their strange relationship on some days it was all Watson could do to keep Holmes from pushing him into the next alley and rubbing against him like a cat in heat. And, slowly but surely, what had started out as activities to engage in every few days turned into something else entirely. They could hardly keep their hands off each other.


Holmes woke Watson by sucking his cock or straddling Watson’s chest and demanding he take care of his morning erection. They ended up on the settee in a tangle of limbs after breakfast, kissing and caressing, tasting of tea and toast, mouths warm as the slid against each other, slowly, languidly, not seeking any release but simply the pleasure of touching each other. Watson drew a bath for them after an exhausting case, Holmes leaning back against his chest in the warm water, limbs loose and lax, arching up lazily as Watson stroked his cock. More often than not they shared a bed, falling asleep in each other’s arms.


The lines they had drawn began to blur and shift without their noticing, no longer fixed but fluent, bending this way and that to suit their desires. However, even as they became more and more intimate with each other, there was one line they had not, did not cross.


Until that one evening when Watson pushed Holmes face first against the wall after a long day with his patients, biting his neck and gripping his hips tightly as he ground against him. Holmes turned his head so that his cheek was resting against the wall and put a hand on the back of Watson’s thigh, just below the curve of his arse, urging him to grind harder. Watson groaned against the back of Holmes’ neck, rubbing against him in earnest. Watson tried not to think about how it would feel if no layers of clothing were between them, and failed miserably.


And just like that first night, it was Holmes who proposed the idea.


“How would you feel about sleeping with me, Watson?”


It would be a lie to say that up until that moment Watson had never thought about it, imagined it, even dreamed of it. But he hadn’t planned to ever act on those desires, mostly because he hadn’t been sure Holmes would want to. And maybe if Holmes had asked on another day, if Watson hadn’t been so worked up, if his head had been clearer, maybe he would have reacted differently. But Holmes hadn’t chosen to ask on any other day and Watson’s mind was already clouded with desire, and so he simply moaned against Holmes’ neck, sinking his teeth in, feeling soft flesh yield and give way, the faint taste of copper floating over his tongue. Holmes gasped, hips bucking forwards, backwards, looking for some kind of friction and finding none.


There were the obligatory “are you sure?”s and “is this really what you want?”s, the “I know what I want”s and “I trust you”s and it took them only minutes to go from fully clothed and leaning against the wall to naked with Holmes bent over the desk and Watson fumbling with the stopper of the oil bottle. He didn’t even bother to accuse Holmes of planning the whole thing; the mischievous grin Holmes had given him had been answer enough.


Looking back, Watson wishes he could say that he was nervous about it, that he was worried whether Holmes would enjoy himself or even that he wanted it to be special. But the truth is, all he cared about at the time was to uncork the damn vial and take Holmes. It wasn’t like he didn’t care about Holmes, though, it was just that they were simply enjoying themselves, scratching the itch, if you will, Watson didn’t need to worry about winning Holmes over and being gentle. They both knew what this was about and that was pure, carnal pleasure. Nothing more. So when Watson could finally pour some oil onto his fingers he simply nudged Holmes’ legs further apart, spreading his cheeks and running a slick finger down the cleft of his arse, circling the puckered hole before pushing inside, he didn’t take time to admire the way the muscles in Holmes’ back flexed, shadows shifting over the planes of his skin in the glow of the lamplight. He didn’t relish in the way Holmes threw his head back when his prostate was stimulated directly. He didn’t watch droplets of sweat run down Holmes’ spine and pool at the small of his back. He didn’t lick them away just to hear Holmes gasp. Neither did he draw out preparing Holmes. He didn’t twist his fingers with agonizing slowness, scissoring them, stretching Holmes’ tight muscles. He didn’t take his time just to make Holmes moan and beg for it. He didn’t do any of it for Holmes’ pleasure. Watson did it for himself, because he enjoyed it. Not because Holmes did.


It was then that he realized that he enjoyed it precisely because Holmes enjoyed it too.


Watson’s breath hitched slightly at the thought, but Holmes chose that precise moment to clench especially hard around his fingers, the sensation making his cock jump and all coherent thought leave his mind.


“Please, Watson…ah…please…please…”


With a quiet moan Watson pulled his fingers out of Holmes’ slick hole, biting his lip at Holmes’ whimper, and spread a generous amount of oil over his cock, stroking a few times from root to tip, running a hand down Holmes’ sweaty back. Another please from Holmes, a pathetic little whine, and Watson was gripping his cock at the base, positioning himself at Holmes’ entrance. Without further hesitation he pushed in. Not forcefully, not quickly, not in one smooth motion, but rather pushing in slowly, haltingly, feeling Holmes’ inner muscles stretch and clench around him, letting Holmes adjust to it inch by inch. Holmes was gasping and writhing on the desk, fingers finding no purchase on the smooth surface. Once Watson was buried to the hilt in Holmes’ tight heat he stilled completely for a few moments, feeling Holmes convulse around him as he tried to get used to the fullness, the hardness, the feeling of being stretched to the breaking point.


Watson waited for Holmes to push back against him, only then did he move, pulling out slowly and thrusting back in, creating a gentle rhythm. When he felt Holmes’ muscles loosen up he grabbed Holmes’ hips, changing the angle so he hit Holmes’ prostate directly with every thrust. With Holmes’ moans in his ears, high pitched and gaining in volume, Holmes’ tight heat convulsing around him, squeezing his cock almost painfully hard, rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck, chest, back, Watson soon lost control; pounding into Holmes relentlessly, groaning low in his throat and throwing his head back. Holmes’ hips were banging into the table painfully hard, bruises already forming on the fragile skin, but Holmes couldn’t bring himself to care as he held onto the sides of the desk for dear life, panting and whimpering, moans tumbling from his lips unchecked, his cock swollen and throbbing in time with his heartbeat as Watson slammed into him again and again. And then, with an especially hard stab against his prostate, Holmes felt his come spurt onto the underside of the table, cock jerking and hips bucking, crying out as his orgasm took him by surprise.


Watson deliberately slowed down as Holmes was coming, thrusting slowly, gently, as Holmes rode out his orgasm, clenching around Watson’s cock. He waited until Holmes had gone utterly limp beneath him, boneless and drowsy, before leaning forward and licking a stripe up his sweaty back, tasting salt and Holmes. Watson traced the rim of Holmes’ stretched hole with one finger, feeling Holmes deliberately tighten around him. Stroking Holmes’ sides, he began to move again, slower than before, more deliberate somehow, though Holmes’ mind was too fuzzy to understand why. His legs twitched as Watson’s cock barely grazed his oversensitive prostate, the bundle of nerves raw and over-stimulated. The next thrust hit it squarely, making Holmes jerk and whimper. Watson rubbed his thumbs over Holmes’ hips in a comforting gesture, reaching around with one hand to stroke his limp cock. Holmes arched his back, not sure whether he wanted more or tell Watson to stop. The stimulation of his prostate and cock, still terribly sensitive from his orgasm, made his eyes slip out of focus, blurred the lines between pleasure and pain and made him harden in Watson’s grip more quickly than he had ever thought possible.


Watson pulled Holmes up into a standing position, leaning back against Watson’s chest, head on his shoulder, releasing sharp cries as Watson pumped his cock in time with his thrusts. Holmes arched his back, hips bucking into Watson’s fist and back onto his cock, desperately wanting more. Watson could feel himself getting close, white-hot heat pooling low in his stomach. He sank his teeth into the side of Holmes’ neck, sucking on the mark he’d left there earlier and began to fist Holmes’ cock harder, furiously rubbing the leaking tip as he slammed into him, taking care to hit his prostate directly. Holmes screamed, not even aware of it, throwing his head back, jerking in Watson’s grip as his orgasm tore through him, come spurting over Watson’s hand and tears running down his cheeks. When Holmes’ clenched around Watson’s cock, Watson couldn’t hold back any longer, thrusting once more and then spilling himself deep inside Holmes, feeling his release move around his cock as he thrust weakly a few more times.


Holmes gasped and shuddered, shying away from Watson’s touch, his cock, his arse, his entire skin over-stimulated and sensitive. They collapsed onto the floor, Holmes still shivering and gasping, legs twitching and moaning breathlessly every so often. It took them a while to catch their breaths and cool down, but eventually Holmes rolled over, curling up against Watson’s side, his head tucked under Watson’s chin. Watson pulled a blanket from the settee, draping it over their bodies, still warm and somewhat sticky. Holmes sighed sleepily, smiling contently as he kissed Watson’s neck. Watson held Holmes closer, kissing the top of his head and breathing him in.


And just as they were both about to fall asleep, Holmes drowsily mumbled, “Love you,” into Watson’s chest, quickly followed by quiet snoring.


Watson’s eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling but seeing nothing. That night he didn’t sleep until the sun was already rising again, his mind whirling, watching Holmes’ utterly relaxed face, kissing his temples and holding him tight until his eyes, too, fluttered closed.


If Holmes remembered saying it the next morning, he chose not to mention it, and if Watson wondered whether he had meant to say it, he chose not to ask. Over breakfast Holmes shook his head and with a smile he admitted that he had never enjoyed himself as much as he had the night before, eyes twinkling with mischief. Watson’s answering smile felt forced with his mind stuck on repeat, replaying Holmes’ words over and over again. Holmes frowned, but Watson quickly waved his worries away and blamed it on tiredness. The last thing he wanted was Holmes believing he hadn’t enjoyed the previous night or indeed that he didn’t want to repeat it. Holmes’ grin turned positively filthy then and Watson could already feel heat pooling low in his stomach. They whiled away the day in bed, kissing and caressing, laughing breathlessly, tiring each other out in the most pleasurable of ways. And if Watson got strangely quiet after curling up with Holmes, neither of them chose to comment on it.


The thing about falling in love is, it never happens quickly. You don’t just meet a person and love them. You like them, you desire them, you may even care about them, but love requires trust, love requires knowing each other, love requires more than desire and liking. Falling in love happens gradually and slowly, until you are so hopelessly in over your head that you can’t turn back anymore.


Looking back, Watson didn’t remember what it was precisely that made him love Holmes. A part of his mind kept trying to remember that one day when he woke up with the words “I love Sherlock Holmes” in his mind. That morning when he looked at Holmes over the rim of his teacup and wanted to do nothing more but cup his cheek and kiss his warm, sticky sweet mouth. That day when he watched Holmes solve a case with graceful ease and felt proud of him. That evening when Holmes smiled at him during dinner and Watson’s stomach fluttered in response, when he watched Holmes play the violin and thought him beautiful. That night when all he wanted to do was crawl into bed with Holmes and kiss him to sleep. And then, the painful realization that he didn’t have trouble remembering such a moment, but that he couldn’t remember when he had felt differently for the last time.


Holmes never repeated his words from that night and Watson never called him on it and so they went on as they had before. And it wasn’t like Watson didn’t enjoy himself. Quite the contrary, in fact. He loved that he could pull Holmes into his lap and watch him ride his cock; skin glistening with sweat, face flushed, eyes screwed shut and brow creased as his thighs quivered and shook and cries escaped his mouth. He loved the way Holmes’ sweat tasted when it pooled at the hollow of his throat, skin scalding and salty under his tongue. He loved the sound – half-moan, half-gasp – that Holmes made when he bit the soft spot behind his ear. He loved how Holmes shot him meaningful glances at a crime scene and had him hard and miserable the entire carriage ride home. He loved being allowed to feed Holmes, the soft sounds of pleasure Holmes made, how he licked at Watson’s fingers greedily, the groans when they curled up and Watson rubbed his full belly. He loved being able to bend Holmes over the next semi-flat surface and fuck him into submission, slamming into him over and over again, without mercy or finesse, until Holmes was reduced to whimpering, when Holmes had annoyed him. He loved when Holmes leaned against his side as they walked home, the only warmth in a cold city. He loved when Holmes rested his head on his shoulder at the opera when the lights were low and no one could see. He loved the passing touches; a squeeze to his shoulder, a brushing of fingers as Holmes accepted a cup of tea, a stroke to the inside of his wrist as he helped Holmes up, the barest touch of lips against the shell of his ear as Holmes whispered something to him. He loved curling up in front of the fireplace with Holmes, burying his face in the crook of Holmes’ neck, smelling warmth and tobacco and home. He even loved the way Holmes fixed his tea, the way his wrist moved when he stirred the milk into it – four counter-clockwise rotations – and the way Holmes seemed to slowly fill even Watson’s bedroom with his clutter as a lot of Watson’s possessions wandered into Holmes’ room.


He loved Holmes, Watson had to realize.


Watson never planned on confronting Holmes with it, though. The risks were too great. Holmes could feel differently, he could suggest that they discontinue their arrangement, or, worse yet, he could laugh at Watson for being a romantic fool. No, Watson never meant to confront Holmes with it. But then Holmes brought that pretty girl home one night, Bridget?, a lovely thing with dark hair and bright eyes, a gorgeous smile and alluring curves. She didn’t look like one of the girls from the street, but she didn’t seem to be rich either. Holmes didn’t explain and Watson didn’t ask. Watson couldn’t deny that she was beautiful and, in another time, another life, a life without Holmes, he would have desired her. And even as it was, he couldn’t quite keep his body from reacting as he imagined what lay beneath the cream-coloured dress; even creamier skin, soft curves and pink nipples, all yielding flesh and smelling of honey and roses, a tantalizing, smooth throat, begging for teeth to sink into it and leave ugly marks on a perfect neck, full red lips, begging to be kissed and bruised, small ears, begging to be told the filthiest things.


Watson started slightly when Holmes pressed a glass of brandy into his hands.


“Didn’t I tell you he would like you, dear?” Holmes slipped an arm around Bridget’s waist, smiling knowingly at Watson as she laughed softly, warmly, as if it was a perfectly normal situation.


And perhaps it was, Watson thought. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps he had long ago forgotten what was proper and right and what was not. Perhaps if he said no now, he could save some of his dignity, his sanity. But he had never said no to anything Holmes had proposed. And he didn’t say no this time, either. Not when Holmes drained his brandy and ushered them into the bedroom. Not when Bridget slipped off her dress and asked him to help her with her corset. Not when she twisted her head to kiss him, lips petal-soft and tasting of cranberries and honey and everything Holmes didn’t taste of. He didn’t say no when Holmes told him to take his waistcoat and shirt off or when he told him to stand in front of the bed, behind Bridget, as Holmes sat on the edge of it. Watson never said no to Holmes.


But he didn’t say yes either.


She was trapped between their bodies, naked while they both still wore their trousers, and something in Holmes’ eyes, a spark, a reflection of something, made Watson bend down to skim his lips over her neck, hands cupping her supple breasts, soft and heavy in his palms. She sighed, a small, delicate sound, and tipped her head back on Watson’s shoulder to give his mouth better access. Holmes shot Watson an inscrutable look before flashing him a wicked smile and leaning forward to kiss Bridget’s stomach, tongue flicking into her navel. She moaned and arched into the touch, her nipples hardening between Watson’s fingers as Holmes blew his breath over her damp skin, watching her shiver and gasp.


As Holmes licked a stripe from her belly button to her sternum, wet tongue briefly touching Watson’s fingers, Watson found himself hating the woman reaching behind herself to fumble with his flies. He grabbed both her wrists – delicate and small and so very fragile, he could break them – in one hand and twisted them behind her back. Her startled gasp quickly transformed into a breathless moan and Watson ignored Holmes’ eyes, dark and burning and fixed on him, as he sank his teeth into her neck. She shuddered and gasped, arching her back and wordlessly asking for more. Holmes yanked one of her legs up, kissing her knee before putting her foot onto his thigh. He bit at the top of her thigh as he skimmed his fingers over her pubic hair, circling her clit and briefly thrusting one finger into her, finding her wet and warm.


She bucked her hips and moaned, toes curling against Holmes’ clothed thigh as he dipped two fingers into her, closing his lips around her clit and sucking hard. Watson almost looked away, but Holmes looked up at him then and something in that gaze made his throat hurt and his breath hitch and wonder what exactly they were doing. He let go of Bridget’s wrists and cupped her breasts again, pinching her hardened nipples and whispering nonsense into her ear. Holmes carefully scraped his teeth over her clit, red and throbbing, and with another flick of his tongue she was contracting around his fingers, throwing her head back and releasing a series of loud groans as her hips jerked and a flood of warm liquid rushed over Holmes’ fingers.


Watson steadied her as her knees threatened to give way beneath her and Holmes gently put her foot back onto the floor, both of them waiting for her to catch her breath.


She opened her eyes and looked at Holmes, her cheeks bright red and a light sheen of sweat covering her neck and upper body. She smiled gently and cleared her throat, “I should probably leave now.”


Both of them frowned and looked uncomfortable, but neither found it in them to disagree with her. She laughed and went to pick up her discarded clothing, dressing silently and remarkably quickly.


“I will show you to the door,” Watson offered, averting his eyes from her and quickly donning his shirt.


She followed him out of the room and down the stairs, kissing his cheek almost chastely and whispering “thank you” as he opened the door for her. On the threshold she paused and turned back to him again.


“You should tell him.”


Before Watson could do so much as gape at her in shock, she nodded curtly and disappeared into the darkness in a rustle of satin.


Watson took a moment to rest his forehead against the cool wood of the front door, taking steadying breaths and trying to make sense of the thoughts in his head, a mess of memories, colours, smells, sounds and Holmes.


When he returned to the sitting room he found Holmes, still only half dressed, emptying a glass of brandy, head tipped back and throat contracting as he swallowed.


Looking back, Watson doesn’t know what it was that made him stay where he was instead of pinning Holmes against the wall. He doesn’t know what it was that kept him from kissing Holmes senseless, taking him right then and there, bent over the arm of the settee. He doesn’t know what it was that made him whisper “I love you” instead.


Holmes stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth working soundlessly, hands shaking. Watson almost turned away, almost ran, almost took it back. But then Holmes’ lips parted in a smile and not just any smile; it was one of those smiles that makes your heart beat faster and your breath hitch. One of those smiles that takes away all of your pain and fear and makes the mistakes you made irrelevant. One of those smiles that makes you smile back.


It didn’t change much between them. They went on as they had before, never feeling the expected awkwardness. Maybe Holmes smiled at Watson more openly, eyes bright and excited. Maybe Watson’s fingers brushed against Holmes’ more often when he handed him a cup of tea. Maybe they laughed more often at some private joke or other. But nothing changed significantly.


Looking back, Watson doesn’t know how or where or when it all started. And sitting in front of the fireplace with Holmes’ head in his lap, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he realizes it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it did.