Their relationship had always been, to put it mildly, complex. At times they could not bear each other's presence any longer and would separate for a period. Holmes would find a case to leave for, without Watson, or Watson would find a need for a solitary vacation to a better climate for the sake of his aching war wound. Whatever the excuse, they sought freedom and distance from each other time after time. During these intervals, they each lived as lone creatures again, trying to remember life as it had once been and as each of them had formerly planned his own life to be. Eventually, though, whoever had left would realise that he truly belonged at home--their mutual home.

It was an oddly addictive home that they had created for themselves in London: two bachelor quarters, a shared sitting-room, and even those seventeen steps that separated their territory from that of Mrs. Hudson's living quarters downstairs. All of this had somehow become a necessity to them.

They always returned to each other in silence, never acknowledging the true reason why they had parted nor discussing the implications of it. Polite lies and omissions seemed to make it easier to go on together. It would not be for years, for instance, before Holmes revealed to Watson that his occasional residence was actually in London too, with his previously unmentioned brother Mycroft. Silence and withdrawal characterized so much of their life. Lately, too, they had ceased to be intimate in bed together, as if even that closeness was too revealing.

Tonight, they both lingered in the sitting-room, Holmes lounging upon the sofa and Watson standing with one hand upon the mantle, staring into the fire. They had not spoken since dinner.

Holmes finally ventured quietly, with a drink in his hand, "Watson, you are not... satisfied with us, are you? Not entirely comfortable with the state of our relations?"

"No, not entirely," he answered, turning to face Holmes.

Holmes put down his drink, considering slowly, "You haven't been comfortable even when we were closer than this." He met Watson's eyes at last.

Watson exhaled, murmuring softly, "Yes." He shook his head, "It was not that I regretted our intimacy at all. I just... I felt restrained."

Holmes nodded. "You no doubt are not used to secrecy in your romantic affairs. You like to declare your love, be proud and wax poetic about your lady's charms." He glanced down, speaking more softly to himself, "What would you publish of me, I wonder, if you were able to?"

Watson watched Holmes's eyes for a moment and then stepped closer to him, standing by the back of his armchair. He nodded and answered simply, "I could speak more freely."

Holmes sighed, glancing up at Watson. "I too am weary of restraint, of pretence. I am not ashamed of anything I have ever done, nor am I a cowering adherent to the laws and moral codes of Society. It is not in my Bohemian nature to care how my... private business looks to the public."

Watson sat down in his chair, simply nodding and waiting. They both knew all this already, but as Holmes had often said, organising his thoughts aloud and "preaching" to Watson always helped Holmes immensely in analysing a problem.

Holmes continued, swallowing. "And though I am used to secrecy in my cases, Watson," he shook his head, "I am not used to romantic affairs. The very idea held no interest to me for the longest time, was foreign to me before we..." He shrugged, grimacing at the irony, "Indeed, I thought that the impossibility of my domestication in such a role to be the salient obstacle to my ever marrying a woman."

Watson leaned forward, agreeing, "No, clearly you won't be domesticated. I do not want you to be."

"Yet we must deal with our circumstances. Our difficulties." Holmes sighed ruefully, "Sometimes I think that we are not wholly compatible."

"Do you regret that we became lovers?"

"No, but--" he hesitated. Finally, Holmes looked up again and laughed cheerlessly. "You must admit, Watson, that Boswell never crossed this line with crotchety old Johnson."

Watson rose from his chair and came nearer, kneeling before Holmes. "But Boswell did without Johnson for long periods of time, only descending periodically from Edinburgh to visit. And among all the famous men of his day, Johnson was one of many whom Boswell sought out." Watson gazed deeply into Holmes's grey eyes. "I have known you much better, and," he touched Holmes's hand, "I intend--I feel compelled to--keep recording your history as my whole life's work. For as long as I can stay with you."

Holmes blinked, saying nothing for a moment. Then he shook his head. "You flatter me. You make me more than I am." Withdrawing from Watson's touch, Holmes rose and strode over to the mantle, pushing his hands into his dressing-gown pockets and staring at the floor. "I have told you already that I am but an ordinary man after all."

"If you are ordinary," Watson insisted, "then this wretched world might hold some hope after all, to be filled with such 'ordinary' men."

Holmes protested with a shrug, "I am still ordinary when it comes to emotions, pettiness, sins--all the things that matter. I cannot simply will myself to be easier to live with. To be less arrogant, callous, or insufferable. To not have moods, to not be cruel, to always tolerate your nagging about my health. To not feel caught, suffocated..." He exhaled tiredly.

Watson rose to his feet and came over to Holmes. "I know that," he whispered, grasping and stroking Holmes's arms tenderly. "Nor can I stop nagging you and trapping you. Asking for too much and holding you too near to me." As he said this, he wrapped his arms around Holmes's waist and kissed the back of his slender neck. "We have to forgive each other these things."

Holmes turned slightly around, closing his eyes and confessing against Watson's cheek, "I fear that, after too many years together, we might be inclined to kill each other instead of forgive."

Watson kissed Holmes's lips delicately, caressing his face. "Then we'll die just as we loved, at war."

Holmes said nothing, blinking and gazing in Watson's eyes as they stood closely pressed against each other. Holmes returned the kiss slowly and then, in a heartbeat more, they drifted into further amorous kisses and touches. Holmes embraced Watson at last, and they were more passionate than they had been in some time.

Watson sighed, asking quietly as he softly brushed aside part of Holmes's dressing-gown, "Shall we try again?"

Holmes slid his hands up beneath the skirts of Watson's coat. "Once more unto the breach."

Watson nodded, kissing Holmes's throat. "The game's afoot."

With a final kiss, they slipped silently away toward Holmes's bedroom.