The tension had been building for some time now. They had found it more and more difficult to be alone in the same room without staring at one another or becoming breathless. To say nothing of the drying room of the Turkish baths!
Watson had gone so far as to move out of Baker Street once more, hoping to dispel the close atmosphere. Their desire only increased, and at those times that they did visit one another again, they couldn't keep their hands off each other. Mrs. Hudson had nearly walked in on them sitting far, far too close together.
And now? Now they were fed up with denying themselves. They were here in Watson's rooms in Queen Anne Street. Almost from the moment that Holmes came in his front door, Watson had seized him and smothered him in kisses, barely locking the door behind him. He pulled Holmes into his bedroom and pushed him flat onto the mattress. Then in a heated tumble, their roaming fingers began frantically disrobing each other.
Watson kissed his mouth again deeply. He opened his eyes and blinked against the skin of Holmes's cheek. "Holmes..." he sighed.
He wasn't afraid anymore, Watson realised. He had been, at first. When the desires had begun, he had tried to suppress them, to reason himself out of them. Watson had told himself that his distraught heart had merely confused the two people whom he most loved, Mary and Holmes.
Watson had lost Holmes first, in 1891. The trauma of losing his dearest friend to the sinister Moriarty had haunted him through the writing of each of the short stories with which he had memorialised Holmes in The Strand. Watson's only comfort had been his wife, and then she too had left him, dying in childbirth after he had published the last of the stories about Holmes. To think that their child, a blessed and long-awaited embodiment of their love, should prove to be the death of both itself and Mary! And so Watson had been utterly alone for long, lonely months.
When Holmes had come back in April 1894, it had been like a miracle, like a true resurrection. Watson had fainted from the shock and the relief of seeing him alive. Then he had clung to Holmes, moving back into Baker Street and giving up his practice readily.
He resumed his place by Holmes's side on new, invigorating cases. Watson felt young again, and the significance of everything they had done before had deepened with the absence. They spent endless hours together, almost shyly renewing their old friendship in countless little details. Their talks and evening walks together became more quiet, long, and intimate. The increased honesty and decreased reticence of Holmes about his past, his family, and his mistakes amazed Watson. Holmes had been more open with him, sharing, and kind, wanting to make up for the suffering he'd put Watson through for three years. The detective laughed casually and easily more and more often, revealing his human side to an equally happy Watson.
When Watson had learned that the Dr. Verner who had purchased his practice had been merely acting as an agent for Holmes, he had wanted to kiss Holmes ... literally.
That had been the start of it. Again and again, the thought of kissing Holmes, even touching him, returned to Watson. Most especially when Holmes began touching him more often. He sat nearer to Watson, whether in hansoms or first-class train cars. In Baker Street, Holmes played long serenades for him on his violin, woke Watson in the mornings in his bed even when he had no reason to, and looked more deeply more often into his eyes....
Watson had tried to convince himself that he was imagining all of it, that Holmes's behaviours and attitudes had not changed. Watson told himself that the absence of Mary, and his own resolve not to take another wife, plagued him with odd desires, ridiculous preoccupations. Watson had argued and argued with himself. When Holmes had first kissed him, though, nothing more could be argued. Watson found himself responding with a passion that surprised even Holmes. Watson could not remember ever being so aroused by a kiss.
The difficulty, unfortunately, was getting any further than a kiss. Scotland Yard inspectors strode in and out of the Baker Street rooms all the time. Mrs. Hudson or one of the servants hovered nearby daily. Someone would catch them. They couldn't find anywhere or anytime to be alone, save for first-class train cars. But they hardly wanted to settle for anything so tawdry. It seemed, inevitably, that they simply weren't meant to be, simply couldn't be.
Yet resolving to remain just friends, and accomplishing it, were two different things...
Watson kissed Holmes, urgently and breathlessly. They were half out of their clothes, tumbling under the covers. Holmes leaned into Watson's neck, teasing him with a most nimble tongue. They fumbled together, trying to explore every inch of each other and to figure out every nuance of their mutual desire.
Holmes was beneath again, striving to wriggle Watson out of his shirt. A sharp knock came at the door, and they both looked up in alarm.
The door swiftly threw open, and a sharp voice spoke, "Aha!"
Sharp gasps quickly followed.
"M-Mycroft! What--what are you...? How--?"
"Shush, Sherlock!" Mycroft stood frowning in the doorway. "If you cannot form a complete sentence, kindly do not torture the Queen's English in the attempt."
Watson blinked and still gasped. He had slid away from Holmes and further into the covers, his eyes barely peeking over at Mycroft, who turned and shut the door behind him. Mycroft's junior brother meanwhile lay pale and motionless in the bed, still trying to grasp what on earth could have made Jupiter stray from his orbit at all, let alone stray here.
Mycroft found a chair in the corner and sat in it. He cleared his throat, glaring at Watson. "If you have the audacity to seduce my brother, Dr. Watson, you could at least sit up--the both of you could sit up--and have a discussion with me."
They hesitatingly sat up and looked at him, still clutching the covers in shock.
Mycroft spoke calmly. "I followed you here, Sherlock, because I have previously deduced the purpose of your rendezvous. Consequently, I prepared myself with a surreptitiously obtained key with which to open the front door, knowing that the doctor would be too ... engrossed to answer the door. Fortunately, I have caught you both in time--that is, before events had become a little too ... intimate." At last, Mycroft's face bore a trace of embarrassment at the scene upon which he had intruded. He turned his eyes away from the numerous discarded articles of clothing in the vicinity of the bed.
Then he cleared his throat again and hardened his glance at Watson. "How dare you, sir?" he began. "How dare you ruin my brother's reputation and his profession with your thoughtless hedonism? Do you realise the subtle rumours going about London about your relationship with my brother?"
"Mycroft--!"
He waved away his brother's interjection. "If one of the Scotland Yard inspectors," he continued to Watson, "were to ever force himself to believe these rumours, and to seek corroborative evidence, the result would be the scandalous downfall of Sherlock's illustrious career--a career which you celebrate so touchingly in your chronicles."
Watson shrank away, looking ashamed and unhappy.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock repeated and returned his brother's glare. "Stop it! He knows that perfectly well. How dare you be so cruel?"
"If I am not cruel, the both of you will be ruined by your impulsive behaviour. I am ashamed of you, Sherlock. Where did all your rationality go?"
"Probably the same place as your mercy," he retorted. He turned and reached for Watson, who had now buried himself fully under the covers, shivering. He touched Watson's shoulder tenderly. "Watson..."
"Come now," Mycroft interrupted. "I haven't time for the bruising of feelings. I came here to demand a drastic change of both of you."
"If you order me to stop seeing him--"
"On the contrary--"
"--you might as well call in the bobby down the street right now!"
"On the contrary!" he repeated. "I am perfectly aware that I cannot order you to give him up. You are your own adult, Sherlock, and your choice of mate is hardly up to me. I only ask," Mycroft leaned forward, "I only ask that you go about it with a little more sense. I demand that you take the same care and discretion in your ... bedroom arrangements, as you do in your other illegal activities. You can no more let yourselves be arrested for this, as you could let yourselves be arrested for all the burglaries or unlawful entries which you have committed in the course of your profession. Do I make myself clear?"
Sherlock stared at him, his eyes wide and blinking. Watson stirred under the covers, hesitatingly peeking forth.
"Ah, you are listening again?" Mycroft turned. "Dr. Watson, you will write and publish an announcement of your marriage."
"Marriage?"
"Don't interrupt, Sherlock. Doctor, you will invent a marriage, and you will publish a story speaking of it. The public shall hear that you are no longer living with my brother, that you are NOT sleeping with him, and that you are lovingly devoted to a charming flower of English womanhood, as you were devoted to your late wife. Can you fabricate this tale, Doctor, and moreover, can you sustain the farce in any further tales you publish?"
Watson blinked and swallowed. "I suppose--"
"You do not suppose, Doctor. You do. In this endeavour, success is imperative. You must lie, and lie well. I'm certain my brother can help you if you have any trouble."
"Mycroft," that brother stammered, "are you--are you seriously proposing, condoning--?"
"I am merely not fighting what, by all indications, is inevitable," Mycroft shrugged. "Now, as for you, Sherlock, you will aid the good doctor in every way possible, and give him a nominal 'wife' to present to any friends and acquaintances for whom such introductions would be necessary. You will control your eye contact with Dr. Watson in public and not give any client, or even a Turkish bath attendant, practicable fodder for rumour. You shall be chaste friends for as much of each day as possible."
By now Watson had fully sat up again, staring at Mycroft with the same amazement that Sherlock did. Neither could quite think of what to say.
Mycroft softened his expression. "Really, Dr. Watson ... the explanation you seek is simple enough. Knowing that my brother, like myself, is incapable of physical attraction to someone who does not also mentally satisfy, I was certain that his regard for you was a profound and unique one. --Indeed, a rather natural one, I might say, considering your long-standing partnership and affection. The trust, camaraderie, and respect that my brother feels for you is evident in his every word and deed. I have read the signs of his falling in love with you for so long that I would be a fool to attempt thwarting his relations with you now. That my brother finds in you something of great esteem and worth that I myself have as yet to find in anyone ... is cause enough to allow your relations to take their natural course."
Mycroft rose then, clearing his throat. "I shall lock your door behind me, Dr. Watson." With the faintest trace of a blush, he walked out and shut the door.
They looked at each other in astonished silence.
Watson asked, "Did that--did that just really happen?"
"By all appearances," Holmes answered quietly, "yes."
"Then it looks like I must start planning a wedding tomorrow."
Holmes laughed, pouncing onto him with another kiss. "You can start with the honeymoon tonight," he whispered.