Watson sat at his desk, scribbling away emendations to the typed manuscript before him. He was preparing stories to be sent off to the Strand, but as usual he confounded the whole point of having a clean, legible typescript by putting his physician's handwriting all over it. He could never stop with his last-minute corrections, not only due to his changing dates and names for discretion's sake, but also to his overall dissatisfaction and anxiety about what Holmes would think of the tales.
So he scrawled away, completely intent on his work and ignoring Holmes's repeated calls from the fireplace.
"Watson!" he said impatiently, finally going up to the desk and banging on it.
"Holmes, please. You'll topple the ink bottle," Watson muttered, catching it to dip his pen in it.
"Watson, I am trying to speak to you," Holmes leaned over the desk. "Watson?" Still he was ignored. Holmes cleared his throat and waved his hand in front of Watson's face.
Watson only shooed Holmes away like a fly, continuing to write. "Please, Holmes, you know I have an important deadline to meet."
Holmes snorted. "Well, it serves you right for taking up the publishers' offer again, Watson. What do you need with a career as an author, in any case? I've told you time and again that these stories of yours are sensational and light entertainment for the masses. They shall never earn you any serious literary reputation. You would do better to attempt writing an instructive scientific monograph, but then again--"
"Holmes!" he growled. He had withstood more than enough of this. When Watson looked up to find a wry smile on Holmes's face, he realised that Holmes had deliberately spoken to offend him and draw his attention away from his writing. With an effort, Watson merely grunted and went back to his scribbles. For now.
Oh yes, one of these days he would definitely make Holmes pay for these constant insults. One day he would stop being diplomatic.
Meanwhile, Holmes tried again. "Watson," he complained, "surely if this were an emergency or one of our cases, you would not ignore me just to work on your sensational fiction?"
"If you disapprove of sensationalism so much," Watson answered, "then why do you read it? --Don't even say that it's because I write it and it's about us. You were reading about sensational crime long before I ever met you. And you still do."
Holmes was surprised by Watson's reply, but regained his composure and cleared his throat with dignity. "It is purely in the interest of scientific inquiry, of course. You know that my being conversant with historical crime is key to my profession, whereas--"
"Whereas I'm also conducting a scientific inquiry," Watson looked up from his writing, on a roll now, "on you. My little stories are documentation of a heretofore unknown disorder--morbid addiction to crime. You thrill in it. You gobble up crime in writing and in your cases, and you have almost clinical symptoms of withdrawal whenever you can't have any; it's certainly not the cocaine. You also have a grandiose delusion that you are the all-powerful solver of all crime. You have an ego the size of the Empire!"
Holmes stood aghast, stunned by Watson's venom.
"Hmm," Watson smiled triumphantly, "I should write that down. The Strand readers will love to hear of this." He started scribbling on the back of one sheet, "An analysis of the diseased mind of a detective--"
"Watson!" Holmes stopped him by grabbing his hands. He tried to wrestle the paper and his pen out of Watson's grasp.
They had a struggle, and Watson rose to his feet to fight back. He was enjoying this venting of his aggression. Even better, he was a pretty good match for Holmes, for the detective's boxing and wrestling skills were not so exceptional when he was swayed by furious emotion. Dispassionate logic gone, Holmes was a mere man after all. Watson had even dropped the pen and paper by now anyway.
They continued to wrangle awkwardly, though they had not come to blows yet. Watson grasped Holmes roughly by the collar, dragging him forward. Holmes's hands came down sharply upon the desk to catch himself. Watson felt distinctly triumphant once more, looking up to wickedly gloat at Holmes.
Their eyes met, their flushed faces within inches of each other. Watson gazed at Holmes, realising that a certain part of his breathlessness and enjoyment was not so much aggression as ... arousal.
He could tell that Holmes detected this realisation as well. Watson swallowed and let go, looking down uncomfortably and backing away from both Holmes and the desk.
Holmes stopped him, taking his hands again. "Watson," he spoke quietly, "you are a brave man. You've braved carnage in Maiwand and crime in London. Surely you can brave this with me as well?"
Watson looked up again, encouraged by the lilt in Holmes's voice. He saw the growing smile upon Holmes's face, and relaxed his anxiety. Watson came forward again, meeting Holmes halfway across the desk. Now a different kind of tension occupied the air between them.
Holmes smiled and blinked, admitting with a low, deep laughter, "You know, I cannot remember now what exactly I had wanted your attention for?"
"Isn't your normal state one of always trying to get my attention?" Watson answered. He was satisfied to draw another soft laugh from Holmes. It was so ... tempting. Seductive. Watson slid nearer and stole a kiss from his lips, then his skin.
Reaching down, Holmes opened up Watson's hands, stroking his fingers inside the palms. Holmes breathed out softly, murmuring through his kiss, "Ah, surely you can brave a small thing like a sin...." His kisses and caresses were slow, warm, and teasing. He was enjoying far too much having control again.
In another mood, Watson would have enjoyed it too, but being already aroused by their struggle and having unspent aggression, he was impatient.
Still the kisses came, lightly and mingled with laughter. Damn Holmes for his cool restraint!
Watson took hold of Holmes forcefully and kissed him intensely. Holmes opened his mouth to him, and Watson explored all the wonderful tastes of Holmes's breath and his tongue. Watson was most ecstatically aroused.
Holmes whispered after the kiss had ended, "We should--"
Watson broke him off with another hungry kiss. He came round to the other side of the desk, not caring what he knocked aside. He backed Holmes up and planted him upon the desk again, only this time Watson was the one leaning forward.
Holmes held himself up by his hands on the desk, sitting with Watson pressing close against him. He dismissed his momentary idea of trying to joke with Watson about toppling the ink bottle, for he had definite evidence that Watson was not in a laughing mood. And Holmes did not have the breath for a joke anyway. He broke the passionate, mustached mouth away from him just long enough for a cautionary word, though. "Mrs. Hudson--"
Watson huffed, looking annoyed. "I didn't think that you were that depraved." He tsked, "If you were going to call out any woman's name instead of mine, it could at least be Irene Adler!"
Holmes surrendered to another kiss. But Watson soon showed that he had not actually misunderstood him. He pulled Holmes down from the desk and then turned, leading them into the privacy of his bedroom, away from any possible interruption.
As Holmes went along with the insistent tug on his sleeve, he had a momentary trepidation of whether he were truly prepared yet to go to Watson's bed. But he reflected that Watson was impatient enough, if he were paused on the way now, to actually take Holmes right there upon the desk.
That sent a shiver down his spine. Watson taking him. Now that was a thought. Holmes followed Watson to the room, thinking as they shut the door behind them, that he might really like this aggressive side of Watson.
Epilogue
In the morning two warm bodies curled up together in the bed, its covers considerably tangled and strewn about them. Their clothes also littered the floor, making Watson's room more untidy than it had ever been since he moved into the flat.
The tranquil silence was broken by a knocking upon the door, accompanied by Mrs. Hudson's inquiring voice. "Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson?"
Holmes stirred and opened his eyes. He turned and sat up. Watson slumbered quite soundly beside him.
"Doctor?" she knocked again.
He yawned with resignation. "What is it, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Mr. Holmes?" her tone conveyed a distinct surprise. "What ... are you doing here?"
Holmes slid out of bed soundlessly, quickly decided that it would be rather too much trouble to fish out his clothes from the disarray in the room, then shrugged on Watson's dressing gown and carefully made his way to the door. "I just came over," he called out, glancing at the clock, "to see if Dr. Watson was all right." He stood at the door and cleared his throat. "There was a rather ... heated incident last night in the sitting-room. Did you happen to notice the state of his desk, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh, yes! Yes, Mr. Holmes. I had wondered a bit about that. His papers all awry, and his ink bottle..."
"Yes, I ... apologise for that, Mrs. Hudson. I was too preoccupied with ... the good doctor's condition afterward, to remember to clean up that mess."
"Oh, yes, I quite understand, Mr. Holmes. Only, I may have to replace the rug, with such a stain!"
"I shall gladly pay for that, Mrs. Hudson, I assure you."
"Of course, sir. That's quite all right and settled. But ... but, what exactly happened?"
Holmes hesitated. "Just an enraged dispute which resulted in his storming directly into his room and not stirring from it since. Quite a departure from his usual good-humoured equilibrium." He changed the subject, "Was there something that you wanted, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh, there is a gentleman here to see Dr. Watson. It's his publisher, I believe, here about some stories that are due."
"I see. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson, and inform him that I shall see him myself in the sitting-room shortly." Holmes cleared his throat. "There's no need," he murmured, "to disturb Dr. Watson just now--after his upset last night."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes." She hurried on her way.
Holmes then returned to the bedside and found Watson still soundly dozing. He scribbled a quick note to leave on the night-stand: "Borrowing your dressing-gown. Wait here for me. --SH"
Peering outside the door, Holmes thereupon cautiously headed to his own bedroom. He dressed rapidly and came out to the sitting-room, finding it still empty. Mrs. Hudson had just lit the fire in the sitting-room, and no doubt was offering refreshment in her own kitchen until the room became sufficiently warmed.
Holmes surveyed the disarray at Watson's desk. Papers lay scattered all over the floor, with a substantially cracked ink bottle among them. Some of the ink had indeed ruined the rug, but an ample amount had also leaked upon several of the sheets. Holmes gathered them up, wearing a considerable smile upon his face.
The publisher looked more than a little vexed when he finally entered. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he shook hands.
"Good morning. Won't you have a seat?"
"Thank you, but no. It's gracious of you to see me, Mr. Holmes, but I really cannot stay. I am pressed for time as it is, and I truly do need to see Dr. Watson. Are you quite certain he is unavailable?"
"Quite certain."
The publisher instantly sank in disappointment onto a chair arm.
"Come, come," Holmes patted his shoulder. "The situation is not so bad as that."
"I'm afraid it is," the fellow sighed gloomily. He shook his head. "I am well aware, sir, that the publication schedules for your friend's serialisations may seem very trivial and even foolish matters to you, Mr. Holmes, but Dr. Watson has missed a very important deadline yesterday--"
"I am quite aware of that, sir," Holmes soothed. "Both he and I would be more than happy to put your anxieties to rest right now, if not for the unfortunate accident last night."
"Accident?" The publisher sat up with concern. "Has something happened to Dr. Watson? I had no idea--"
"No, nothing of that sort, my dear fellow," Holmes patted him again. "In fact," he turned to indicate the retrieved stack of papers upon the desk, "Watson was on the verge of sealing and mailing off the manuscripts to you with the evening post yesterday."
Almost jumping to his feet, the publisher eagerly inspected the pages with delight, relieved that progress had indeed been made since the last time he had given the doctor a time extension.
"However," Holmes interrupted, "then I unfortunately caused the ... incident." He held up the heavily stained sheets. "Ruined, I'm afraid."
"Oh dear," the publisher sat down again, inspecting the papers with wide eyes.
"Some pages wholly illegible," Holmes continued. "You can understand that, when faced with such careless destruction of his work--even just these sheets--Watson simply could not go on."
"Oh yes, yes," the fellow nodded sympathetically. "Devastating."
"It was the final straw, sir. What had before been simply my irksome interruptions and interference in his writing, now had finally gone too far. Watson became ... unhinged. He could have no thought of repairing the damage, trying to rewrite, asking for another extension..." Holmes shrugged. "He ached to have his hands on me!" Holmes kept his straight face remarkably well. "I can tell you that I spent the better part of the night in calming, soothing, and satisfying Watson to the best of my ability. Ordinary apologies were quite wasted upon him, in such a heated mood."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I think I understand. Poor Dr. Watson!" the publisher shook his head. "At the moment that he was almost finished..."
Holmes nodded. "He usually has such tolerant patience, you know."
"Well, it was bound to snap one of these days! No wonder he is afraid to see me." The publisher finally stood up. "Could you please tell Dr. Watson that I am willing to give him another day's extension, but that I shall require to take some of the undamaged papers with me in order to meet some urgent deadlines at this moment? He can send me the rest promptly when he finishes."
Holmes shook hands. "I'm sure that Watson will be most grateful for your generosity, and will be punctual this time." He smiled, "I most certainly shall not interrupt him."
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Gathering up some sheets of the manuscript and neatly tucking them away into an envelope, the publisher turned to leave. "He--and I--certainly do not need any more trials of his nerves just now."
Holmes only smiled and bowed his head as he closed the door after him.
Bringing back the dressing-gown, Holmes returned to Watson's bedroom and found the good doctor sitting expectantly awake in bed.
"Where have you been?" Watson pulled Holmes close for a kiss. He looked with disapproval upon Holmes's change of clothes. "It's too early," he slid his arms around Holmes's waist, "to leave bed."
Holmes returned the kiss. "Yet you shall have to, I'm afraid," he whispered, drawing Watson's hands away.
"Why?" he held on. "Is that ink on your fingers? Have you been at my desk?"
"Yes. You should go there presently as well. The sooner you do, the sooner we may return here and continue." Holmes kissed Watson deeply, stroking his neck. He then whispered, chewing his ear, "I have made a deal with your publisher--"
Watson pulled back. "My publisher!"
"Yes," Holmes touched Watson's lips lightly again. "He was just here about your missed deadline."
Watson's eyes widened even more, as he remembered.
Holmes smiled. "I capably won for you another day to finish your writings, in exchange for those of your papers that survived last night's encounter with a careening inkwell."
"What?" Watson sat up.
"Peace, my dear," Holmes calmed him with a gentle nip. "Not such a disaster that a little of your elegant storytelling and charming imagination cannot mend. My own index books and case notes are at your disposal, if needed for some details." Holmes brushed Watson's still worried face and softly laughed with a teasing sparkle in his eyes. "Now, go inspect your papers and see about the repairs. I shall clean up here and order breakfast."
"But, Holmes, what did you say--"
Holmes pulled Watson out of bed. "Not now, my dear doctor." He coaxed Watson into his dressing-gown, tying it for him. "I will explain afterward, I promise. You must have a full day to complete your task, without distraction," he kissed Watson's fingertips. "The sooner to continue," he repeated, and sent Watson on his way.
Holmes considered that Watson was bound to 'snap' again, once told of the exact deal-making that Holmes had done in the morning. Holmes smiled to himself, determined to be ready and waiting for that moment at the end of the day.