Going to the St. Clairs' guestroom for the night, they dismissed the puzzling case for the moment and looked to the sleeping arrangements. As Holmes had said, the room possessed two beds, as well as a sofa and armchairs in the corner that resembled a sitting-room.
Holmes offered Watson his choice of the beds and inquired if he could lend the doctor some clothing in which to sleep.
"Well, just whatever you aren't using," Watson hesitated, realising how unprepared he had come tonight. So impetuous had Watson been in accepting Holmes's invitation, that he had not even asked his wife, in the note that he had sent home with Isa Whitney, to dispatch an overnight bag to the St. Clairs' address. Watson had surely missed Holmes's company too much, to lose his usual sensibility.
"It's no inconvenience," Holmes responded to Watson's flustered state with surprising sensitivity. "Really, it doesn't matter. I won't be sleeping much tonight, Watson, with this case to solve. I have these night-clothes of my own that I packed, but-- Hmm, the size."
Watson shook his head. "I can manage for the night, Holmes. But about you--"
"No, wait," Holmes insisted. "How about this?" He offered his very own dressing-gown to Watson.
Blinking and forgetting his concern about Holmes's decision not to sleep, Watson accepted with a surprised pleasure. "I-- Splendid! Why, thank you," he said, taking the garment. "This will nicely fit."
"I'm glad," Holmes smiled. After too long a pause, however, he cleared his throat, almost shyly, "I'll ... leave you to change, and go see about borrowing a toothbrush for you."
"Thank you." The door shut behind Holmes, and Watson undressed, neatly folding his clothes and laying them in a chair. As he slipped on the robe, though, he had an odd feeling. He stepped toward the mirror and regarded himself, standing there in Holmes's dressing-gown. Its long, loose drape comfortably if not perfectly enveloped him, but he had a distinct awareness of the slender figure who usually occupied the garment, albeit with more clothing beneath. There seemed to be some kind of possessiveness attached to such an intimate garment. With an uneasy shrug, Watson decided that it must simply be the way one always felt about wearing somebody else's clothes.
"Watson?" Holmes knocked at the door.
"Come in."
Holmes entered, with a toothbrush cheerfully upraised. "Here's just the thing--" Then he stopped, blinking. He stared at Watson as though stunned.
Watson blushed from Holmes's gaze. He abruptly felt the same strangeness of before, plus an intense consciousness of his bare flesh beneath the robe. Watson could have hardly kept his outer garments on for sleeping rather than lounging, but he felt embarrassed nonetheless. "Holmes!" He looked away and tied the robe more tightly about him.
"I'm--I'm sorry, Watson," Holmes turned and shut the door. "You just looked so, so ... different," he finished lamely. "For a moment--" he shook his head and gave up. "I don't know what came over me." Holmes cleared his throat and came forward with the toothbrush, keeping his eyes downcast. He mumbled, "Perhaps we should just hurry and get to bed--" He halted with a gasp and realised that Watson had jumped and turned around too at his words.
"Not we, but you, I mean--" Holmes realised the particular meaning that he was admitting to in this second disastrous beginning.
In an uncomfortable moment they met each other's eyes with an odd awareness of each other.
Holmes dropped the toothbrush by the basin and stepped away. "You will get to bed," he corrected, "and I'll consider more about the case." He backed towards an armchair and sank into it.
"I--yes, bed," Watson tried to speak casually. He went to one of the beds and got between the sheets. He watched as Holmes rose and, instead of getting into his own bed as well, began to gather up some pillows from the armchairs and the sofa. Holmes also strongly avoided approaching the bed beside Watson.
"Won't you sleep tonight?" Watson asked with concern.
Holmes tossed and arranged the cushions upon the floor. "No, I'll be quite fine. I shall consider the case some more, as I said." He finally brought himself to approach the empty bed long enough to retrieve the pillows, but then turned away and quickly added the cushions to his collection on the floor.
"The case?" Watson frowned. "How long?"
"As long as it takes," Holmes shrugged mildly. "You know I cannot rest until I have it all clear in my mind."
"Are you sure it's not--" Watson spoke without thinking. When Holmes turned to him questioningly, he finally completed, "Are you sure it's not ... me?" his face coloured slightly. "I mean, about what--um--happened, just now." He only dug himself deeper, but couldn't halt his words. "I mean, making you dislike the thought of coming near me?" Watson looked down and tried to hide his deepening blush.
"No, no, it's quite all right, Watson. Quite all right," he assured. He even came near and pulled the covers down from Watson's face.
Watson calmed at the touch of Holmes's hand, looking up and blinking silently.
"Quite all right," Holmes said softly again, meeting Watson's eyes for a moment before he let go and turned again. He went back over to his cushions and in an orderly manner gathered his tobacco, pipe, and box of matches together. He stepped out of his shoes and seemed to be preparing for a long night.
"You really won't come to bed?" Watson cleared his throat, "Your bed. It such seems a waste, with two beds and a sofa, that you're on the floor."
"It's nothing," Holmes shook his head. "I shall be perfectly settled and comfortable all night. I'm only going to have a long smoke and mull everything over." He began to undress as he spoke, taking off his coat and waistcoat. Then he stopped, turning around with an awareness of Watson again.
Watson quickly averted his eyes and blushed, just then realising that he'd been staring.
Holmes cleared his throat and spoke as lightly as he could, "It's only fair, after--what happened." He went to the wardrobe and checked inside for the guest clothing for the room. He successfully found a nice, blue dressing-gown within, and then enveloped himself in the large garment. It was not quite his own dressing-gown, but it would do, and he would not be undressing any further anyway. Holmes returned to the cushions and arranged himself upon them, reaching for his pipe pensively.
The ability to suppress his questions still escaped Watson. He still looked at Holmes doubtfully. "Are you certain I won't bother you? You always send me away when you're thinking things out, and not discussing. I--I distract you." He realised how very true that statement was tonight.
"No, no, it's fine," Holmes murmured, frowning a little to himself all the same.
"Really?" Watson watched Holmes attending to his pipe, and strangely having difficulty lighting it. Finally, with decision, Watson rose from the bed and turned to the door. "I'm in the way. I won't put you out--I'll go downstairs to the parlour or somewhere--"
"Good lord, no!" Holmes jumped up and grasped Watson's arm without thinking. He blushed as he let go, stepping back breathlessly. "Can't have you sleeping out in the open, in her house, without any clothes..."
Watson blushed in turn. "If you'll give me a moment, I'll get dressed again." He moved to get his clothes, but Holmes restrained him again.
"No, please. Don't go." He swallowed, then let go again. "You're my guest, even if you're the guest of a guest in this house. I asked you here, and I won't put you out. Stay with me."
"Really?" Watson hesitated again, biting his lip. Frowning, he changed his mind and shook his head. "No, Holmes, it's easier if I go--" he insisted.
"No," Holmes caught hold of him. "No, really!" He looked up at the tensely questioning look in Watson's eyes. "I mean," he frowned at the awkwardness. "Please. It's been a long time since I've had you sleeping just down the hall from me, let alone the same room. Just--just be near me tonight, even if sound asleep. I'd like to hear you snoring."
Watson stepped closer to him, watching Holmes's face and feeling the grasp of his hand. He returned the touch, slowly. He stared down at how their hands intertwined, mingled. With a slow breath, he decided that these moments of tension and embarrassment were actually harmless; what mattered more was that they were old friends, would always be friends, and they missed each other intensely. "All right," he whispered, still staring at their hands.
They remained close and silently touching that way, not facing each other. With a sudden moment of bravery, Watson looked up and kissed Holmes's cheek. In the next instant he let go and scurried around the bed to rapidly climb onto the mattress and pull the covers around him. What sentimental effrontery indeed!
Holmes stood frozen in place and gazed at Watson in a stunned way.
Watson sat there and cleared his throat again. He straightened the covers and tried to gain back some semblance of dignity. "Good-night, Holmes."
"Good-night." Holmes returned to the pillows and the lighting of his pipe. "You--you won't want the window open, will you? I shall be a while."
Watson had not yet lain down. "No, it's fine. I--I miss the enveloping nature of your tobacco smoke." He half blushed at the admission.
Holmes took some time before he returned to lighting his pipe.
Watson watched Holmes fixedly, still without the least interest in lying down. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Do you need a blanket? The other bed has plenty."
Holmes shook his head and spoke huskily, "No, thank you." After a moment, he suggested, "Why--why don't you take them for yourself?"
"Myself?"
"Yes. You've--you've nothing on."
Watson still felt guilty, even as he wrapped himself in the additional covers with embarrassment. "But if you're cold, you'll ... let me know?"
Holmes nodded and struggled once again for his voice. "Do you want the light out?"
"Do you?"
For answer, Holmes got up and turned out the lamp. He felt Watson's eyes on him even in the darkness. "Good-night," he said, returning to the cushions on the floor.
"Good-night." Watson remained sitting up and watching him in the darkness. Watson at last seemed capable of subsiding into silence, and he just sat visually picking out Holmes's silhouette against the blue smoke rising from his pipe. Neither of them was aware of the time at which Watson fell asleep that night, still sitting up.
Holmes spent nearly half of his tobacco lost in straying thoughts of Watson, before he could address himself to the matter at hand. When he did, he saw the answer clearly enough and sprung up from the cushions to retrieve a sponge from the bathroom. When he returned, he became aware again of Watson in the room.
After a difficult moment, Holmes could not help himself. He crawled onto the bed. Watson still sat, or rather slumped, against the headboard; Holmes gently shifted him and laid him down. He lingered, having another moment of great difficulty. There was Watson's weight in his arms, the soft and warm bed, and the feel of the bare skin that he had only glimpsed earlier. Holmes leaned closer, and with a sigh he softly, slowly, kissed Watson's throat. His fingers slid inside the dressing-gown and felt the rise and fall of his chest. The feel of him, the taste and the smell...
Watson woke up at these touches and stirred, rousing foggily out of a dream. As Watson blinked his eyes open, he glimpsed a silhouette abruptly pulling away from him and sitting up. Recognising the shape of the thin, shivering figure, Watson sat up also, asking with concern, "Holmes? Holmes, are you cold?" Reaching for Holmes, he came nearer and attempted to pull the blankets around him.
Holmes did not face him, and instead shrank further away on the bed, still catching his breath and trembling.
Watson stopped Holmes from rising and held onto him, touching his skin. "You're so cold. Stay here. Let me take care of you." He wrapped Holmes in the bedclothes again, whispering at his ear, "Are you all right?"
Holmes did not answer and took a deep breath, trying to pull Watson's grasp off of him but lacking the will to do so.
Watson came closer, leaning upon Holmes's spine and for the moment not noticing this strange reflex that he had for touching Holmes. He stroked Holmes's shoulders and muscles tenderly. In his concern, Watson didn't yet allow himself to question his proximity or the intimacy of his touch. He was simply massaging Holmes, of course, trying to relax and calm him.
Slowly he felt the tremors in Holmes's body fading and the tension releasing from him. An odd, heated silence pervaded that Watson wilfully ignored, like the discomfort that his caresses should cause. Watson turned Holmes around then, caressing his face warmly and feeling the slow rhythm of his pulse. In the flow of his motion, Watson nearly blocked out his awareness of his actions at that moment. But, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, he could now see Holmes clearly enough to read his face, and as their eyes met, they shared another moment of intense awareness and comprehension. The startling clarity of it brought home to them exactly where they were and how closely they embraced.
Old friend indeed, Watson thought, remembering his earlier excuse.
In the next moment, Holmes turned and retreated from Watson again, swiftly rising from the bed.
Within seconds, Watson just as suddenly caught hold of him and pulled Holmes back, thus displaying his bravery once more tonight. "Please!" he clung to Holmes, "Please don't. I want..." Closing his eyes and sighing against Holmes's skin, Watson finally followed through and kissed him then. Tasted Holmes's delicious mouth and turned him back around in his arms. "Holmes," Watson stroked him passionately. He drank in Holmes's warm response.
Holmes reluctantly shifted again to withdraw, insistently pulling Watson's hand from his face.
Watson frowned and began to protest, but then noticed the pained look upon Holmes's face. Watson realised the tight grip that Holmes had on his hand, a grip deeply entwined with Watson's fingers, and most especially, the wedding band on his finger. They both stared at that ring for some time without speaking.
Watson swallowed and put his head upon Holmes's shoulder, closing his eyes tightly. "God help me," he whispered. "God help us both."
By morning, Watson woke alone in the bed, not knowing at first where he was. When he did know, he reached around in the bed searching for his companion. Holmes was not there, though Watson could have sworn he had just heard his voice. Watson sat up then and finally saw Holmes sitting upon the cushions as before, a pipe in his mouth.
Holmes's eyes were closed and looked weary from long and troubled brooding. He rubbed his clenched fist as though he had just struck it upon the nearby chair, and frowned as though he had just been cursing.
When he became aware of Watson's gaze, Holmes calmed and pretended that nothing was wrong. He cleared his throat, "You awake, Watson?"
"Holmes--"
He cut Watson off immediately, continuing to force the casual tone. "Care for a morning drive? It's early yet, but I can quickly fetch the stable boy with the trap, if you'll just dress." Still not waiting for an answer, Holmes got to his feet and opened the window, occupying himself with clearing the room of pipe-smoke. "A morning drive, Watson?" he prompted again, as though desperate. He tossed aside his spent pipe and next returned the cushions to their original locations.
Watson frowned as he watched these movements. Holmes appeared determined to negate everything that had happened last night. Perhaps Holmes was right, and it was for the best. Watson could not think clearly now. With difficulty, he tried to collect his thoughts. "A drive," he finally acknowledged.
"Yes," Holmes smiled at last with some relief. "Yes," he continued, gaining momentum enough not to flounder. He reconstructed more flowingly, almost jauntily, "Game for a morning drive? Good, good. Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps and we shall soon have the trap out." He hurriedly exchanged the dressing gown for his waistcoat and coat, then headed quickly out the door.