It was some days later that Watson returned to Baker Street. Holmes sat alone contemplating a letter that he had received from a would-be client and feeling a pang of regret that he could not go call upon Watson and ask him to join him. Things simply could not remain the way they were before. He wondered when he would go return Emile's key. If he would return it. Such was the weakness of the flesh, he supposed, needing comforts and routine.
When Watson entered, Holmes looked up briefly and then remarked listlessly, glancing back to the letter, "The night is warm for this time of year, is it not?"
Watson came nearer, having locked the door. "I know."
"Of course, warm is a relative term, since--"
He took the letter from him and tossed it away. "I said, I know." Watson sat before him and waited for Holmes to meet his eyes questioningly. "I know now, that I love you." He watched for Holmes to react but found nothing there. "I know what that silly Emile meant when he said that you love me. And what you meant when you said it." He reached for Holmes's hand and squeezed it. "I have been such a fool."
Holmes still made every effort to remain impassive, staring at the hand that grasped his. "This is not of any use."
"No," he answered, but held on anyway.
"What do you want, then?"
"What I never realised I wanted."
Holmes did not move, nor speak, as Watson leaned near to him slowly and breathed against his neck, feeling the heat between them, skin to skin. "Oh, I could stay here always," he sighed.
Holmes warned softly, "We shall be caught."
"How did you never get caught with Emile?"
He shrugged. "His place. Precautions."
"You said you had small refuges, all over London," he whispered.
Holmes frowned. "For my disguises--"
"For undressing. Changing. Yourself. Myself." He stole a touch under Holmes's ear, whispering even more softly, "I could be someone else with you. My younger self. My freer self." He kissed Holmes's throat as he swallowed. "Just give me your key."
Holmes gave in. "Will you come with me tonight?"
"Why did you think that I came here now?" He guided Holmes's fingers to the place from which he had removed his wedding ring, and kissed his ear, whispering, "I have all night."
Holmes rose with him and without a word more they departed downstairs to hail a hansom cab. It dropped them off some time later in a neighbourhood that Watson did not know nor see much of, as Holmes hurried them inside and upstairs to the anonymous flat that he had rented there.
They did not even turn up the gaslight, just locking the door behind them and making their way in the darkness to the slight, cramped bed that Holmes kept for his infrequent overnight visits. Watson did not complain, proceeding to hurriedly discard his clothes at the foot of the bed while Holmes did the same. Skulking about in the darkness like this reminded them of late nights they had sometimes spent during Holmes's cases, waiting to trap some guilty criminal.
Tonight they were the guilty criminals. Kissing and falling to the bed with him, Watson groped blindly in the dark for his body, fumbling in an awkward but eager way. He had touched Holmes before in his capacity as a doctor, but as a lover now, he dared to explore the passion that he had once believed he could not feel in another man's naked flesh. Holmes was more than willing to guide him in mastering this new territory, and in return, his fingers examined every nuance of Watson's war wound.
The darkness seemed to lend to their vocal sounds an illicit, urgent quality. How oddly appropriate that Holmes could remain eloquent and expressive even in grunts and sighs. Their pulses raced now and their breaths came quick and shallow, hardly allowing Holmes opportunity to reassure Watson that all was safe between them, as he knew Emile's infidelity well enough to demand protection from him every time.
So they shook the bed with their shifting weight, sliding their bodies against each other for an achingly sensual friction, and Watson savoured the pleasures of having Holmes's lean, strong frame in his arms. Holmes gave him the indulgence of the top position for a time, but once he grew sure of himself, Holmes rolled them over and firmly reclaimed his control of their lovemaking. Watson gladly surrendered, excited rather than afraid of being at Holmes's mercy.
Their ravenous kisses and actions were mingled with taunting bites and squeezes of each other's sensitive little areas--nipples, toes, navels, and tailbones. A moist perspiration slicked their bodies as they heaved and thrashed for ecstasy, often heedlessly in danger of slipping off the bed altogether.
At last with Watson's shudder, then Holmes's, they finished and collapsed, utterly exhausted. After a silence, Watson stirred again and reached for Holmes, who lay sprawled across his abdomen, toward the side of the bed. Holmes sighed and merely blinked at the touch of his hand.
"I thought," Watson confessed breathlessly, "I thought you were going to have me tonight. Penetrate."
Holmes shook his head. "Not so demanding, for your first time."
"We still have more of the night left. Will you enter me?"
"You want me to?"
He nodded.
Holmes met his eyes, not sure if Watson's expectations were wise yet, but he finally said, "Rest, then." Kissing him, he took a breath and sat up in the bed, reaching for his clothes next.
"Where are you going?"
"Don't get up. I shall be back shortly." He caressed Watson's cheek. "Precautions must be taken not only against our being discovered, but also against the pain I might cause you." Holmes kissed his lips again gently. "Wait here for me." Then he rose and dressed efficiently, slipping toward the door quietly and exiting.
He came back in a while, when the clouds outside had parted enough to allow the moonlight to shine through and somewhat pierce the curtained windows. Watson sat up expectantly when Holmes unlocked the door and watched him return to the bed with towels and a parcel he had obtained from the corner chemist.
Putting these items aside for the moment, they kissed warmly in the dim light, and Watson pulled him close, undressing him impatiently. Soon they resumed their tangling embrace, and Holmes led the way once more in consummating their passion.
"I trust you. I want to," Watson replied to Holmes's lingering doubts.
Positioning Watson carefully and making liberal use of the lubricant he had brought, Holmes advanced cautiously and slowly, both to draw out the pleasure of reawakening their senses, and to allow himself time to properly prepare Watson.
Despite all his care in opening him, Watson nevertheless gasped when the moment came and clenched involuntarily as he entered. Reassuring Watson with a fond kiss, Holmes just pressed steadily against his interior muscle, waiting for it to relax. "Give in to me," he exhaled against Watson's neck.
Watson bit his lip and trembled, not sure of what he should do to comply. Before long, though, his body yielded on its own, and he felt Holmes bury himself deep within, overtake him with a power and force that made his body writhe uncontrollably. Oh, and the heat... Holmes showed him exactly what a man's possession could do for him, reducing him quickly to an incoherent moaning and thrusting back against Holmes's rhythmic plunges. How brave a man Watson was this night.
Then they reached the final climactic ecstasy, wrenching Watson's body every which way before Holmes's withdrawal. Whimpering a bit and blinking, he felt shattered once he was hollow and empty once again. It was a small thing then, a lovely courtesy of warm attentions applied to his still flushed groin, to summon his own finish and make him cry Holmes's name again, faintly now. When he could get his mouth working again, he pulled Holmes to him again and kissed him immensely.
Holmes sighed and then lay his head onto Watson's chest, blinking against the curls of his hair and smelling the musky scent of his sweat. Then he whispered something that he had never thought he would say to anyone, "You must... do the same with me, sometime."
Sated and weary, Watson closed his eyes and dozed off before Holmes had finished cleaning them off with the towels. Holmes settled beside him again in the fading moonlight. Morning was but hours away now, and he knew that at dawn he would need to take Watson home. At least for now, reality could wait.
So the morning came, finding them still tangled in the sheets together, with the stained and damp towels nearby on the floor. Holmes tossed these into a hamper and said he would see to them later, as he and Watson hurried to wash themselves and dress. Holmes paused to place the tube of lubricant in a discreet drawer near the bed, for future use.
As they were leaving and locking the door after them, Holmes stopped and pressed his key into the palm of Watson's hand. "Your copy," he said quietly, meeting his eyes.
Pocketing the key, Watson dared to kiss him once more.
Holmes cleared his throat and averted his eyes, then dashed with him down the stairs to the street door.
Watson immediately sought a cab for them in the early daylight, but Holmes insisted that they not share one and reminded him to put his wedding ring back on. Then he packed Watson into a cab and sent him home, bidding him farewell before he turned away to find his own hansom. Back in Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, as ever, did not remark upon Holmes creeping in at such an early hour, his habits being regular in their irregularity.
Holmes first unlocked his desk to retrieve his spare key to the refuge they had visited, then he sat down to his breakfast at the table, where he noticed a frantic telegram sent by yesterday's would-be client, whose appointment he had neglected so unceremoniously that night. With a rueful face, Holmes wondered whether this precarious thing, this love he had succumbed to, might lead him to often neglect the other priorities of his life. Would his downfall be his irrational, all too human heart? Fingering the key that he had just added to his watch-chain, Holmes sighed and decided that he would gladly accept the risk.
In two days, when he had time after solving the case, Holmes visited Emile's villa once more to return his key to that disreputable residence. The Frenchman had an intuitive suspicion of what had changed between Holmes and Watson, and he smiled amicably enough. "You have done something decisive, then! No more English brooding." He teased, "I wonder, though, whether you have any trouble teaching a beginner like your Dr. Watson. Should you need assistance... No? Ah well, you are not as much fun as you used to be, my dear." He drew Holmes nearer by his buttonhole. "Shall I have a kiss goodbye, then, for old times?"
Holmes consented, tasting the smug and insolent mouth a final time. He then extricated himself from Emile's grasp and prepared to leave the den of iniquity that was Emile's drawing-room. At the door, he turned back and spoke calmly, "Goodbye, Emile. You French bastard."
Emile chuckled warmly. "Goodbye, my dear. You English prick."
So they parted on good terms.
Watson returned to Baker Street within days, finding Holmes interviewing a client at the moment. He wordlessly took his accustomed place next to Holmes and could sense Holmes's suppressed excitement to see him again. Once they were alone, Watson kissed him ravenously and sighed, "I shall burn for this, but I cannot let you go."
Moved by his charms, Holmes nevertheless reluctantly insisted that they see to the case first, and Watson agreed, on the condition that they eventually end the night at the refuge which they had already made guilty. They both kept their promises that night, and Watson also insisted on being told the exact address at which they spent their torrid nights, swearing that he would keep it a secret.
So Watson spent another instructive night with him, learning to be less awkward and more creative in satisfying their craving for each other. Not that Holmes complained much of his faults while he learned, for he was glad to love and be loved by the man who meant the most to him in all his life. Yet they must be careful of any bruising that could not be easily explained away to Watson's wife as having resulted from Holmes's case. How delicate and bittersweet it was, to be consigned to stolen moments in dark corners.
The next time that they indulged themselves, Watson made the appointment by stopping in at Baker Street and leaving a sealed note for him on his desktop, where Holmes had previously left his notes about his appointments with Emile. Sealed inside the note was Watson's wedding ring, followed by the words, "Now. Don't fail me tonight."
Holmes pocketed the ring and hurried there, worried that his arrival might be so late that Watson would have given up on him. When he unlocked the door and entered, though, he found Watson waiting there in the darkness, already lying in their bed.
Holmes shut and relocked the door. "You have been waiting long?" his voice was hoarse and thick with desire.
Watson nodded and drew a breath, sitting up. "I was afraid you'd not come tonight. That I'd be a fool here, alone."
Holmes stepped nearer to him slowly. "Telegram me, at Baker Street, and it shall reach me, wherever I am. If I have to pay a hundred tips, to every telegraph office, every messenger boy..."
His words trailed off as he at last stood at the bed and beheld the splendidly virile, inviting form that Watson presented to him now, having drawn the covers back to reveal his naked flesh. Holmes descended upon him eagerly and took him with a groaning delight. Watson yelped at the minimal preparation he was given this time, but withstood the pain until the pleasure overwhelmed it. He also hastened with more practised hands to fully undress Holmes and have the rapturous joy of his body in return. He had begun to learn that he could sometimes make Holmes yelp too, for varied reasons. They behaved so very differently from their daylight selves.
The morning after, they settled together what code words they would use in their telegrams, and Watson accompanied Holmes as he made arrangements at the telegraph offices he frequented in town. Today, at least, Watson could spare some of his day to remain with Holmes a while.
So their illicit affair went on day after day, conducted discreetly to leave no evidence at Baker Street lest a Scotland Yard inspector drop by, or heaven forbid, Watson's wife begin to suspect that he spent too much time visiting Holmes and less time sharing their own bed at home.
In a way, Holmes's Bohemian morals had corrupted Watson into this vice, yet it was equally true that Watson's romanticism had corrupted Holmes, turning his prior use of deviant sex for occasional entertainment into sex as an essential element to his life. An actual need for emotional connection, for feeling that Watson still belonged to him despite his marriage. He indulged now with a ferocity and regularity that far outweighed his previous affair. So they shared a mutual guilt in this wicked thing they had begun.
"Give in to me," Watson hissed.
Holmes drew a ragged breath. "I don't think that I can."
"Please. You cannot deny me now."
Holmes nevertheless pushed away Watson's coaxing embrace, fumbling in the darkness for the door. He opened it and stumbled out, while Watson remained inside the wardrobe, sulking and catching his breath.
Holmes straightened his disordered clothes before his mirror and tried to steady his voice again. "Another time, Watson. You know that my cases must come first."
"I'm jealous of them." Watson stepped down from Holmes's wardrobe at last and came towards him. "More than I was of Emile, I think. If you ever once devoted that much energy to me, spent fifteen hours a day, days at a time..."
Holmes shook his head. "You know you cannot spare that much time from your practice, nor your wife. Best not to get our expectations up." He gasped as Watson slid his arms possessively around his waist and kissed fondly at his neck. "Watson..." He tried to get up the will to push Watson away again.
Watson sighed into his ear, "You don't know what it's like, going constantly unsatisfied. Having to curb my tongue, fight my wandering mind, pretend all the time that she is you..."
Holmes extricated himself from Watson's grasp. "Do you think it's any easier, being alone here?"
Watson conceded his point, but pled, "One kiss, at least?"
He consented, and they kissed one burning, endless kiss. Holmes finally stopped and sucked the edges of Watson's warm lips, whispering, "One o'clock tonight, you wearing nothing but your stethoscope."
He nodded, removing his wedding ring and tucking it into Holmes's waistcoat pocket. "Be on time."
"I could say the same for you." He hurried out the door to resume his case.