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He was sure he had gone mad. There was no other explanation. The madness which had been threatening to crush him since that day on the falls had finally come. There had simply been a three year delay.
Watson smiled as he fainted. At least the madness had sent a kind messenger.
He woke with brandy tingling on his lips and his collar ends undone, and with a well remembered hand pressed firm against the pulse point in his neck.
"Tell me I have not gone mad." he said, when he could speak. He gripped Holmes' arm and his voice was a plea.
"My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies." Holmes answered, and took Watson's other hand and pressed it to his lips. "I had no idea you would be so affected."
"No idea..." Watson's voice trailed off as he tried to make sense of what he saw.
"Please," he tried again. "Please tell me I am not mad."
"No, my very dear fellow, you are not mad." Holmes' grey eyes were wet and he was smiling in an odd way that was only nearly a real smile.
"But Holmes, how ever did you climb out of that awful abyss?"
"Wait a moment, Watson, are you sure that you are fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock."
"I am all right, Holmes. I can hardly believe my eyes. I thought that I had gone mad at last. I was relieved." Watson whispered.
"Watson, my dear fellow." Holmes said, and gripped his hands tight.
Watson would write later that they had a calm conversation, that Holmes had nonchalantly lit a cigarette, that they had spoken of Holmes' flight after Reichenbach calmly and Watson was duly amazed, just as Watson always was. Watson would write it all so, because he was Holmes' faithful Boswell, and he wrote the story the way it was not. The way it had to be written.
He did not write that he woke to find himself in bed with his collar ends undone and the brandy on his lips, nor that Holmes had kissed the breath from him with his entire body pressing long and lean against him. He did not write of the way Holmes undressed him, slowly at first, testing the limits of boundaries that had been tumbled long ago, or of the way Watson had nearly ripped the buttons off the seedy frock coat Holmes still wore and tossed it across the room. He wanted to, but he did not write it. He knew that he would never write it, could never write it, so he concentrated on the feel of Holmes’ hands brushing up against his face, memorizing him, learning all of the new lines and grooves. Three years is a long time to stave off madness.
He concentrated on remapping the pale skin that hovered above him, warm and smooth as silk and just as he remembered. He ran his fingers past the ridges Holmes’ bones made in his too thin flesh and made a mental note to take Holmes out to dinner at the first opportunity. He thought then that he had come out of madness to the other side, and it was just like sanity, and maybe it didn't matter if he went mad if it meant Holmes was here.
The first touch of Holmes' lips on his skin was a paroxysm of joy, surging through him and burning his fears of madness, or the maybe last vestiges of his sanity, away. It dispelled all at once the dull ache that had settled in Watson’s chest, slightly above his heart, the moment he knew he’d been caught in Moriarty’s trap. He cried out, unable to quiet himself, but the house was empty save for them, and there was no longer any reason to fear.
Watson could feel the smile on Holmes’ lips as he arched into the touch of his fingers on thighs and hips. When he tried, though his hands were shaking, to touch and pleasure in return, he received only a "tut, tut, Watson" in admonition.
The look in Holmes' eye meant he would not allow argument on the subject.
Instead, he let himself be pleasured, let Holmes worship his skin with careful caresses, kissing all the places that would make Watson weep with pleasure. Holmes moved slowly, reverently, and it was an apology and a promise. Holmes would not be hurried, though Watson moved his hips impatiently and pleaded to be taken. Holmes caressed the aches from his shoulders and spent long minutes tracing the shell of his ear with the very tip of his tongue. He was beyond speech now, beyond anything but 'Holmes' and 'yes' and 'please' and they tumbled from his lips like an offering.
Holmes pressed soft kisses down his chest, their fingers entwined and Watson feared to let him go lest he disappear. He moaned when Holmes finally took him in his mouth, clever tongue circling around the head briefly before Holmes swallowed him down smoothly. Watson was so far gone that he simply cried out in a mixture of broken syllables and it was only a heartbeat or two before he was coming and Holmes was swallowing him down.
Holmes' fingers were tight in his, holding him, anchoring him while he spent himself shuddering and gasping. When he felt Holmes move and let go of his fingers and leave the bed he wondered if this dream would fade like the others.
But then Holmes' hand was in his hair and against his cheek and he leaned into it and kissed the palm. He heard Holmes chuckle very softly and felt Holmes tap his nose fondly and run a fingertip across his mustache.
Holmes' hands were running down his chest again, teasing him gently, toying with a nipple and bringing his tired body back from the brink of sleep. He could feel himself growing hard again and sighed, reaching up to cup Holmes' cheek and feeling his lips curled into a smile.
He sighed and kept his eyes closed as Holmes leaned across him, fumbling in the nightstand, and Watson wondered how he knew.
It was only a moment before Watson felt slick fingers opening him, moving gently, carefully, searching until he found just the right- there. Watson bucked and cried out and Holmes’ other hand was firm against his stomach. There were soft kisses on his thighs and he sighed and moved his hands to brush against Holmes, trying again to touch and pleasure in return.
Holmes laughed, and it was one of his rare true laughs, and Watson felt his heart leap and knew that he had not gone mad.
"Just a moment Watson." Then Holmes' hands were on his thighs and he could feel Holmes' cock pressed against him and he moaned and whispered "please".
The tears started when Holmes entered him and Watson could do nothing to stop them. Holmes stilled abruptly and Watson heard the anxiety sharp in his voice.
"Watson, my dear fellow, am I hurting you?"
It was all he could do to shake his head and gasp out "No, Holmes please don't stop." He reached up to tug Holmes close and kiss him and he could taste his tears on Holmes' lips.
After long moments he gasped, feeling Holmes release inside him with a heady rush. When he opened his eyes he saw Holmes’ face, relaxed and beautiful and the way it looked when it haunted his dreams. It was that look that sent him tumbling over the precipice, feeling his own release come hot and poignant and vital with Holmes’s face in front of his eyes and Holmes body covering his own.
He drifted for minutes or possibly years, before coming to himself again and finding Holmes had disposed of the mess in his fastidious way and was carefully drawing the blankets over them, kissing him gently on the brow.
"Sleep now, Watson, my dear fellow." And Watson did as he was bid, as he always did, and slept.