Within twenty-four hours of receiving the telegram, he was in Paris. Watson immediately dashed to the hotel and inquired about Holmes. His arrival was expected, and the hotel manager himself courteously came to meet him and handle everything. The manager behaved most graciously, pardoning the good doctor's broken French and helpfully escorting him up to the detective's rooms.
"You'll pardon the mess, sir," he said, as he bowed at the bedroom door. "Monsieur can tolerate very little disturbance now, and our maids must accommodate him." He bowed again and left.
Watson hardly heard him, standing in the dim room and staring with grave concern at the figure in the bed.
"--Collapsed," the message had read, after its cheerful beginning that merely praised "M. Holmes's great triumph, of which he would surely inform you himself, if not for his condition." It was as tactless and clumsy a way to put it, as any. "Prostrated with fatigue. Request your presence at his hotel." An address and several signatures of French police inspectors closed the little note, and so abruptly threw Watson's life into turmoil.
Watson stepped nearer now, his hands shaking a little as he clutched the medical bag that he had brought with him. As he reached the bed, his feet came upon an ankle-deep pile of crumpled telegrams. A glance told him that they were congratulations from sundry quarters of the international political and legal scene. Watson crunched through them and set down his bag on the nightstand as he sat upon the bed and gazed more closely at the heavily sleeping detective.
His friend's features were pallid, skeletal, and haggard; he had indeed worked himself to utter exhaustion. It was a wonder that he had only fainted at the conclusion of his case, and not suffered some more serious reaction that might have resulted in his hospitalisation now, or perhaps something much worse still...
Watson found it harder than ever not to tremble, and he swallowed, reaching to touch Holmes and feel the steady rhythm of his pulse. He closed his eyes and finally felt more assured. But more guilty, too. Why had he not been here for him? How often had Holmes told him, "It is always useful to me having an associate on whom I can thoroughly rely"? Otherwise, Holmes had to work around the inconvenience of always having to explain or justify to the police any little task that Holmes asked of them, or any bending of the law that Holmes felt necessary to take. Trust had to be built, ridicule endured, and confidence assured by innumerable parlour-trick displays of his deductive skill. It was a constant drain on his time and energy whenever Holmes had to "break in" a new police inspector. Watson afforded him a freedom that few others who knew them could see or understand so well.
So why had the faithful ally left Holmes to expend himself and work so fiercely alone these past three months? It was the same reason that, even now, Watson could not pull himself together enough to examine Holmes and practically see to his recovery; it was the reason why, in all irrationality, he had to sit and just cling to his presence.
Watson bit his lip and blinked back his tears in self-mockery. What a damned fool he was. He shook his head. Wise move, doctor! Falling in love with him--him, of all people, of all men! He who neither gave nor accepted emotion easily, who found heart-related matters only useful as possible motives for crime. Moreover, Holmes had time after time starved himself during a case, "turned off" his need for sleep, conducted experiments upon himself, chemical or otherwise, and proved repeatedly willing to place his mind above his body, let alone his heart. Cool, logical Holmes, who would find Watson's feelings ridiculous rather than disturbing.
Watson leaned near to him and breathed in his presence for comfort. It had been hard enough to talk himself into leaving Holmes, to try dealing with his emotions alone, without the certain knowledge of just how Holmes would react if he knew. It had been excruciating just fumbling through that conversation in which he'd told Holmes vaguely that he needed a little holiday. All that time without him, the image of Holmes's laughter and his patronising plagued him. "My dear Watson, there, there. We'll have you cured of this hero-worship soon enough."
Hearing that voice in his head even now made Watson feel lonely and cold. He shivered and swallowed, then took a breath and pulled back, watching Holmes sleep. Holmes's nearness and his warmth awakened the familiar ache Watson had felt for so long. He could not let go, and he longed for a stolen caress to soothe him. Slowly, Watson closed his eyes and kissed him.
Holmes awoke gradually. He blinked and stirred, raising his fingers towards the hands that grasped his face. The doctor pulled away with a startled reaction. He blushed breathlessly and began to rise, but Holmes stopped him with a weak but insistent tug of his sleeve. "Watson?" he spoke, gazing at him with a raised eyebrow.
Watson shut his eyes and tried to brace himself against hearing the condescending words that he knew would come.
Holmes still gazed at Watson in silent wonder. Finally he smiled and murmured, "Have you come like the prince to Briar Rose, in the old tale, to wake me with a kiss?" His fingers slid along Watson's arms, caressing him.
Watson braved opening his eyes, still fearful of what he might see.
Holmes continued stroking him, plucking at his sleeve to pull Watson nearer. His grey eyes were only searching and tenderly amused, not mocking. When he gathered what the hesitation in Watson's face meant, he gave a hearty laugh. "Do you know how long I've thought my God-fearing, law-abiding, knightly gentleman would never look at me as more than a companion?"
A thousand questions leapt to Watson, but he could get none of them out then.
Tired as he was, Holmes managed to pluck Watson nearer and kiss him. Watson let go of his last fears and returned the kiss whole-heartedly.
"Mmm," came the detective's only resistance. "B-breathe," he managed.
The doctor consequently let go and plunged his kisses to Holmes's neck instead.
Holmes laughed faintly at the tickling of Watson's moustache, and realised that he possessed a day's stubble himself. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and pleasantly fell asleep.
When Holmes woke again, Watson had unpacked his luggage and ordered some tea for them. He brought the tray over to a table that he had cleared near the bed. The smell of tea and cakes was deliciously enticing.
"Is tea, all right?" Watson poured for Holmes. "I don't know about French tea." He eyed the odd little sandwiches and pastries doubtfully.
"Fine, thank you."
Watson bit into something cream-filled and crumbly, which practically fell apart in his hands. He reached for his handkerchief and wiped his fingers while Holmes laughed at him.
Holmes pulled him nearer and smiled. He licked Watson's mouth and whiskers, eliciting a different kind of blush from Watson. Holmes lay his head on Watson's shoulder and sighed. "How was your holiday?"
"Too long," he murmured. He caressed Holmes and brightened. "And you? Tell me about this case, and your 'great triumph' that all Europe is ringing with?"
They laughed and spent the rest of the day discussing the case. When Holmes wearily fell asleep again, Watson put the tray outside and then locked the door. He lay in bed beside Holmes, just absorbing himself in watching him and hearing his breathing. Soon he too fell asleep.
They woke together in the morning. Watson kissed Holmes's stubble. "You need a shave."
Holmes smiled and yawned. "What about you?"
Watson helped Holmes out of bed and they attended to their washing and grooming at the basin.
"What do you want for breakfast?" Watson inquired.
Holmes considered. "French cuisine is all right, but I could certainly go for a plate of Mrs. Hudson's bangers and mash just now."
Watson smiled. "So could I."
Holmes wrote down a menu off the top of his head and sent Watson down with it. When he returned, he brought back a copy of the Times from London.
"Clever, my boy!" Holmes took the paper and scanned it happily. "We shall have to skip everything about me, of course."
Watson sat beside him and kissed him. "I've also asked the manager to get us two tickets for London, leaving tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? So soon?" Holmes sighed.
"Why not?"
"I haven't shown you a thing of Paris, my dear Watson."
"We can come back and see it any time. Right now I think you need some mothering from Mrs. Hudson and a good deal of her reviving cooking. We both should return."
"Ah, but I had hoped that we would in time have strolled the streets of Paris ... the way we strolled the streets of London."
Watson caressed Holmes's hand and met his eyes. "We will. Someday." He smiled and murmured softly, "We'll walk through Paris the way we did London ... watching everything and anything. Hearing you deduce about some person passing by, or expound some vaulted philosophy..."
They were kissing when they heard room service arrive with breakfast. Watson answered the knock and brought the tray in. They talked and pored over the Times together for the first time in ages, devouring the meal and each other's company.
They had fine wine and toasted England over a luncheon chosen by the hotel manager, who had responded well to Watson's tip for obtaining the tickets. They wondered about some of his choices, though.
"Do you think--he knows?"
"Perhaps." Holmes shrugged, "They may be general tokens of congratulations to me, or enthusiasm now that I have finally chosen to regularly sample some of his establishment's culinary delights. But--perhaps." He smiled. "You didn't even ask to have the sofa made up as a bed, Watson. But don't worry, he hasn't thrown us out, after all. The French often feel differently about these things."
So they merrily enjoyed their champagne, strawberries, and other delights without worry.
Watson asked him that day, stroking his hair, "Why didn't you say anything before? Why didn't we ever know?"
"Well, my dear Watson, you have never been very good at prevaricating. I had sensed your discomfort in my presence for some time, but I drew the wrong conclusion." He smiled. "I am fallible, as you know. I assumed that you sensed my especial regard for you, and wished to distance yourself from me. Then you announced your holiday and left me. There seemed no point in telling you something that you already seemed to know. Something you did not want to know."
"I wish I had known," he kissed Holmes's neck, "and never left." Holmes's fingers slipped around Watson, and they sank onto the bed, caressing each other in silence. As Holmes yawned and closed his eyes again, Watson said finally, with all the bravery he could muster, "I love you."
Holmes kissed Watson's fingertips and whispered it back.
That evening after dinner, Holmes asked him to open the window.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. You should see Paris at night."
Watson rose and gazed out at the city lights. The sound of music from some concert hall drifted up to them.
Holmes lay on his side. "I do not like it so much as the London fog, but it has its charms to some. There were nights I imagined how you would describe such a scene in one of your narratives."
Watson turned. "I thought you found my writing sensational."
"Yes, I was a bit hard on you, my dear Watson. I apologise. Your novel had its merits, but I detested that you permitted Doyle to attach that Mormon manuscript to it. And now that the copyright's sold, you shall never be able to detach it. But what you've shown me of your other tales--the stories--they've stayed with me. I remembered them for your voice. Your funny, tender, emotional voice. I remembered them when I couldn't have you."
Watson came back to the bed and embraced Holmes. They kissed and touched again under the covers.
Holmes whispered with a warm intensity, "Make love to me."
"You don't have the strength yet."
"Please. It's our last night in Paris."
"When did you become such a romantic, Holmes?"
"When I lost you. When you returned. When you woke me with that kiss."
They slowly explored each other from head to toe. Watson learned then that Holmes could become as exceptionally responsive and finely tuned to satiating his body as much as his mind or his heart.
Afterward, Watson sighed against Holmes's skin and listened to his heartbeat. He voiced what Holmes's tired eyes spoke. "I love you."
Holmes swallowed breathlessly and closed his eyes as he felt Watson's soft kiss good-night. No, he didn't have the strength just yet.