W receives a letter from Conan Doyle by the afternoon post
H watches with some interest as W reads to himself and looks startled.
"Oh!" W sat up. "Oh my. I don't believe it!"
H is amused "Does your literary agent have momentous tidings to report?"
"Ah, well," clearing his throat, and regaining his composure. "It's just a missive telling me of his dinner meeting last night--the one that he attended on my behalf to inquire whether that American publisher would be interested in a Sherlock Holmes tale. He has contacts, you know, and experience with negotiating--" W half blushed and looked aside to not feel silly under H's scrutiny. "Well, there was interest, and in fact he successfully obtained a firm agreement for Lippincotts to publish a novel of mine."
"That sounds favorable." H leaned forward over the table with a keen glance.
W chose to pretend there was no trace of mockery and sarcasm there. "It's--overwhelming. An unwritten novel of mine already sold, when my first barely found a publisher at all!"
"Commendable progress, indeed," H murmured, still smiling out of the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps your informal agent has found the right market for you after all."
W lay down the letter, sitting back and shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't know what to think, to do. A novel!" He frowned and rose out of his chair, pacing nervously. "I--I suppose I should start writing. I don't have anything. I have only drafted short stories lately. I must find something. I--What shall I write about? There must be something in my notes." began looking through some papers at his desk, muttering to himself.
"My dear Watson!" surprised by W's anxiety.
"The Unknown Worm ... the Paradol Chamber ... the Speckled Band..."
H came up to W and soothingly pressed a hand upon his shoulder. "What of dinner?"
"I could not eat now." He continued rifling through his notes.
H insisted, "There is no rush, my dear fellow. Have you even a deadline, yet?"
"No, but--" exhales. W sat at the desk gloomily, turning to H. "You don't understand the enormity of it, Holmes. That was no idle dinner. That was a table of authors, men descended from great families with breeding and cultivation. Literary men bantering urbanely and negotiating book deals with ease. Oscar Wilde--"
"Wilde? Is he a novelist?" Holmes cocked his head, kneeling beside Watson.
"No, this is his first novel. He's a poet, though; a lecturer and a playwright. Conan Doyle took me to a performance, once. Also," he hesitated for a term, "an advocate of Dress Reform, I believe, and an artistic critic of some note."
"And a publicist," Holmes smiled wryly, recalling a fair number of actresses, including Lily Langtry, whom Wilde had effusively and shamelessly promoted.
Watson continued, "They have just commissioned him to do some artistic, gothic piece. Conan Doyle wrote quite admiringly of his genius, brilliance, and charm. He tells me that Wilde called my writing delightful and promising." sighed and frowned "They shall expect great things of me--inspired work, not 'cheap fiction'."
"My dear Watson!" reaching to soothe him once more. "Lippincotts found your work inspired enough to merit a new instalment, after all. Now calm yourself. Surely the muse will come to you when the time is right?"
"Yes, Holmes. I suppose so. You're being ... amazingly supportive."
H said nothing at first, laughing quietly. "Come, let us be off."
"Off? To where?"
"To a special dinner, of course." chuckles merrily "To celebrate, as you deserve. We have yet time to cancel Mrs. Hudson's repast, in favour of an evening out to Simpson's, if you like?"
looking up with wonder "Do you mean that, Holmes? You don't mind? After all, another 'romanticised' novel about you in the works..."
"No, Watson, I don't mind." shrugging "I was ... uncharitable about your first venture, certainly, but I regret that three years later you should still feel apprehensive of further criticism. This is your avocation, as much as your invaluable assistance to me is. Also, you have the decency to embellish enough of the facts and to publish a case as fiction, so that I have no need to worry of compromising my clients' privacy." H placed a hand over W's. "Certainly I am glad to see you so happy."
W smiled silently, then blinked, glancing away shyly.
rising, and pulling W with him "Come. Leave the fanciful scribblings be for now, my friend."
W glances to his disorderd manuscripts "But should I go now, without...?"
nodding "Mrs. Hudson shall not touch them, I promise."
"No, I mean, I don't even have any idea what I shall write of--"
"Certainly, Watson." smiles "Shall you not at least savour the pleasure of the commission first?"
"Well, I suppose you're right..."
"Yes, yes. Trust me. Give the typewriting machine a rest to-night." draws W away
"Holmes..." pauses doubtfully, then has a realisation. inquires accusingly, "You're just humouring me, aren't you?"
"What?"
"This is simply a diversion so that I won't work upon my novel! You used to do this when I wrote the first tale. It took me years to complete it! How cheap and underhanded of you!"
"Watson, no, I am not doing this."
"But you did it before!"
"Well, yes."
"Aha!"
"No, but I would not perpetrate such a ploy against you now. Really, your head is influenced by the melodramatic plots you read--"
"Oh!" quite insulted. "Admit it, you do not respect my tastes in reading or writing. You still hate Study in Scarlet, don't you?"
with difficulty "Yes, I do." tries to recover quickly, "However, I am no judge of literary skill or fashion these days--"
Watson merely goes off in a huff and slams his bedroom door.
H arranges lunch next day, at Simpson's, to reassure W and make amends. They have a private table together. Wilde, as a surprise, arrives and enters. From afar, he observes their subtle touches, caring, and concern. smiles to himself.
Wilde sits with them. discussion of H's arranging this meeting to cheer Watson, since at the dinner Wilde had expressed some interest in W and H to Conan Doyle. Wilde duly encourages W in writing. is charming and brilliantly witty. offers suggestions, too, and glances.
"Am I too kind?" Wilde laughs and shrugs teasingly, "Perhaps I am flirting, to have an author write me a delicious, indulgent treat. Oh, but I cannot flirt with you, dear Doctor..."
H steers the conversation out of such realms. H also notices the habitual way that his hand lightly touches W's, and withdraws the touch.
After the lunch they part with Wilde on good terms, and H and W return home together. W is relaxed and happy enough to sit smoking comfortably with H near the fire. H ventures to ask W if he detected a certain ... nuance to Wilde's conversation.
"Namely?"
"Well, as delightful and certainly intelligent as his remarks were, he ... made a certain inaccurate assumption about us."
"What do you mean?"
"He..." sits closer, meeting W's eyes, "he clearly believed us to be ... lovers."
W blushes, but doesn't look away. whispers "He--did?"
nods, staying close. "Do you have any idea where he might obtain such a notion?"
W blinks, going over the luncheon conversation more carefully. cautiously touches H's hand "I believe," he lowers his gaze, "we have been more ... intimate lately."
H returns the touch, leaning near enough to make W close his eyes. H mingles his breath with W's. "I believe," he says, caressing W, "you may be right."
W inhales softly, still not opening his eyes. feels uncertain and does not make another move.
H backs up, not intending to rush this shy courtship--this romance--that they had quietly been building together in these past few weeks. "Then perhaps we should be more careful of our actions hereafter? More aware of our touches?"
W nods, but cannot find his voice yet. squeezes H's hand again, examines the fingers...
H speaks gently, "And as for our dispute yesterday evening, may I ask if I am now forgiven for my unfortunate remarks?"
W nods, finally venturing to look up. "Yes."
H has a softened expression on his face. "I am glad. You must know how it grieves me ... to cause you any hurt or harm." holds W's gaze for a moment, then kisses W's hand softly. H rises and turns to go, leaving them at that for now.
Suddenly, W changes his mind and gets up to follow H. catches hold of him, meeting H's eyes with intensity and decision. kisses H.
H is pleased that W seems to enjoy this, and that this is apparently not too soon. he holds and gently guides W deeper into his mouth. they share a most eager, passionate kiss. H sighs softly, hesitating there on the edge of the sitting-room. "We should lock that door if we wish to continue this." caresses W's face.
W turns, then looks back and shakes his head. "I-I wouldn't mind if we were locked behind your door."
"You're certain?"
nods, and so they head back into H's bedroom, locking the door. they stand together and kiss intensely, then progress toward the bed, sitting down. as their passion heightens and their hands pull increasingly to loosen each other's clothes, H asks in W's ear, "How far do you wish to go?"
W meets H's eyes. swallows and whispers softly, "I want to prove Oscar Wilde right." kisses deeply again, embracing tightly.
they entangle, disrobing each other and spreading their kisses all over damp, trembling skin. descended against the mattress in an aching, urgent motion. It was a long, heated afternoon...