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It was with some trepidation that I stepped out of the carriage in front of Baker Street. I had been away for some days on a visit to an old school friend, and as I had received no word from Holmes during that time, I was not at all sure what kind of welcome I would receive.
Mrs Hudson greeted me at the door in and took my hat and coat. She assured me I could call for tea whenever I wanted any and I thanked her. She was a dear woman, and probably one of the longest suffering in London.
"How is he?" I asked, pitching my voice low in case it carried up the stairs.
"I'm not sure Dr. Watson, he hasn't come out of his room all week. Some days he made such an awful noise, worse than usual you understand, but other days it's been quiet as the grave in there. I've been leaving meals by the door for him, but they mostly go untouched, although he seems to drink the coffee. He ate some toast this morning."
I sighed. "Will you bring tea for us both if I ring?"
"Of course Doctor."
"Thank you." I said as she left me and I steeled myself for the worse.
I went up the steps slowly, easing my weight onto the leg that had been wounded by a Jezail bullet some years prior. I knew Holmes could hear me coming. If he were in a reasonable mood it would give him enough warning of my arrival not to be startled if he were in the middle of a complex chemical experiment. If he was in an unreasonable mood it would at least alert him to my presence.
"Holmes?" I said softly as I opened the door. He was not dressed and in a chair by the fire, nor was he at his chemical table. There was still a chance that he was sleeping so I entered as quietly as I could, as he was always displeased when I woke him coming in.
There was no answer. The sitting room was dark smelled of gunpowder and chemicals. I started toward the windows to open the shades, trying to navigate between piles of papers in the dim room without falling over.
"Watson." His voice sounded strange and rough.
"Holmes?" I tried to locate him in the darkened room, but I couldn't see him anywhere. "Holmes? Are you in your bedroom?"
"No."
"Holmes, where the devil--" I started to say when a movement under the chemical table caught me. "Holmes, why are you under the table?"
"It's quite pleasant under the table. I beg that you will not disturb me." He said, and I wondered if her were drunk or simply being ridiculous.
"Holmes, come out from under the table."
"Tut tut, Watson. I am conducting an important investigation underneath the table."
"Holmes. You are being ridiculous." I used my threatening tone of voice, the one that never actually works on him.
"Watson. If you are going to persist in bothering me while I am working I will have to ask you to leave." I loath his ability to sound completely sober when he is drunk. I had edged closer to the chemical table and could smell the cloying scent of the alcohol, and I saw the glint of a hypodermic in the clutter of papers on the floor. Showing Holmes quite how I felt about that would do neither of us any good, so I decided to ignore it for the time being.
"Ah. Well then, if you want I can wire my friend and see if he'd like me to go back to the country. We were having quite a pleasant time and I did wish I could have extended my vi--"
He cut me off quite effectively by launching himself at me and wrapping himself around my body, nearly knocking me over. I'd been bluffing of course, and Holmes knew it, but his attention was heartwarming to say the least. I don't think I'd realized quite how much I'd missed him until then and I felt myself blushing foolishly while the rest of my blood rushed quite further down.
"So I shouldn't send that wire then?" I asked when I'd gotten some breath back. I'm sure I had a stupid grin on my face.
He let go of me abruptly and stalked off back toward the chemistry table. I followed, exasperated, as quickly as I could through the clutter of the room and caught him by the sleeve of his dressing gown.
"Oh for the love of-- Holmes. Stop it. You are being quite irrational." I said as I pulled him back toward me. He was in one of his foul unpredictable moods and I was not going to let him continue.
"Watson, unhand me this instant."
"I will not." I gripped his arm and yanked him toward me forcibly, pulling him so hard that I nearly stumbled myself.
He whirled to face me, catching me around the waist in one swift movement so I didn't fall over a particularly large pile of newspapers.
"Thank you," I said a little breathlessly when I'd regained my balance. "I'm alright now."
He didn't relinquish his grasp on my waist even after I tried to pull away from him so I stood there dumbly for a moment, trying to decide whether to say something else. He was always damnably hard to read, and triply so in situations like this. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, something darkly sweet like rum or brandy, mixed in with the shag tobacco and the sharp smell that meant he hadn't bathed in several days. It might have been unpleasant, but it was so familiar it gave me a sense of well being.
"Well Watson. You are home at last." He said after a long pause. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the statement.
"Holmes, are you quite well?"
"Now that you mention it, old boy, I have been feeling quite odd of late. I believe it has something to do with the absence of my physician."
I rolled my eyes at him affectionately. "And now that he's returned?"
"I should say that things are looking less dire than I previously anticipated." Holmes' mouth quirked in a half smile. I knew it was an apology.
"Oh, come here." I said as I pulled him close and kissed him. He had given up being impossible for the moment and I resolved to take the advantage while it lasted.
He tasted of whatever he'd been drinking, dark rum possibly, and shag, and a hint of coffee. I had one hand at the small of his back and the other cupped around his head and I held him like it had been months since I'd seen him last, instead of days.
Sherlock Holmes does not like to be led, nor does he like to be second in anything. It did not surprise me when he was tugged me into his bedroom and pushed me down onto his bed after only a moment or two after I began kissing him. His long delicate fingers undid my buttons rapidly and pushed my waistcoat and shirt out of the way, brushing the soft hair on my chest. I shivered.
I murmured something encouraging at him and he bent his dark head to nip at my throat, kissing sloppily down my chest until he the met the woolen resistance of my trouser front. I threaded my fingers into his hair as he nosed along the tweed of my trousers, mouthing my erection through the fabric.
"My dear -- oh Lord -- Holmes, wouldn't it be easier if you just took them off?" I gasped at him.
He lifted his head to grin at me and answered by moving away all together and undressing with astonishing rapidity, revealing pale skin and lean muscles. I could tell he hadn't been eating properly, but I decided there would be plenty of time to admonish him later.
If I thought he would undress me in the same fashion my hope was a vain one, because he resumed his maddening treatment of my erection until I was quite desperate for release. I tried several times to undo the trousers myself but he kept swatting my hands away.
"Holmes, please." I said after some minutes, pulling him up toward my face to kiss him.
"Please?" He said, smirking at me, his lips swollen red and glistening. "Come come, my dear Watson, I am thoroughly at a loss. What are you asking for?"
I glared at him. "Honestly, you are the most maddening creature I have ever encountered. I have half a mind to send that wire after all."
"Is that so?" He asked, looking innocently at me as he finally --finally-- started to undo my trousers. "And what, my dear Watson, would that accomplish?" He pulled them all the way off with a flourish as he said it because the man is nothing if not an exhibitionist.
I had no actual answer and he knew it, and thankfully he decided to forestall my stumbling explanation by taking my prick deep into his mouth and humming. I stifled a shout by thrusting a fist into my own mouth and biting down while gripping the bedding hard with my other hand.
I'm afraid I lost the ability to form conscious thoughts for several moments after that because the world had narrowed to the warm wetness of his mouth.
When I came back to myself it was because he'd stopped what he was doing and moved his way back up my body to kiss me soundly, and because he'd slicked his fingers at some point and eased my thighs apart.
He swept his tongue into my mouth as he entered me, pressing a finger deep inside until I felt white sparks behind my eyes. I think I cried out then, because he pressed a finger to my lips and begged me to hush (for god's sake man do you want Nanny to hear?) but he was working into me with two fingers now and I could not stop the sounds I was making.
When he drew his fingers out I whimpered and he tried to kiss me gently, but I bit his lip in return, tasting salt as I drew blood. He made a soft grunting noise and pressed a hand against my mouth, guiding himself into me and muffling my shout when he drove deep in one swift thrust.
"You will not leave me again." He growled into my ear, bending low to bite my neck. "You cannot leave me again. I could not --" he broke off and rested his forehead against mine, and I felt something warm and wet splash my cheek. Whether it was salt sweat or salt tears I do not know, and I am not sure I wish to. It may have been an hour or only the stretch of a heartbeat when he spoke again, I have no way of knowing.
"I could not bear it." He said brokenly, and it was an apology and an affirmation, and I was completely undone. I moaned against his hand as I came hard against his stomach, shuddering beneath him as he moved within me.
I spent a moment floating, wrapped and filled and perfectly content before I felt him shaking and his own orgasm shot deep inside me. He collapsed on my chest with his face buried in my neck. I put my arms around him and kissed the top of his head.
"I won't leave you again." I muttered as I fell asleep.
"Holmes? What is this?" It was some hours later and Holmes was laying half across my chest as I absentmindedly played with his left hand. On the underside of his wrist were several letters drawn in what I took to be dark blue ink. They were done in what was quite obviously his handwriting, but the letters were raised and slightly red around the edges. I thought he had drawn on himself with ink and perhaps pressed into the skin a little too hard, but when I touched the area with a fingertip he flinched slightly.
Holmes wouldn't look at me, and there was high color on his cheeks.
"Holmes," I tried again "Why do you have JHW on your wrist?"
"They're initials." He still wouldn't look at me, and had started twisting the bedsheets into knots.
"I realize that Holmes. Why do you have my initials on your wrist?"
"-missed you." He mumbled so low I barely caught the words.
I did not know what to say for a moment. Holmes so rarely makes any overt sign of affection that I'm afraid I cherish even the slightest affirmation. It is romantic of me I know, but it does persist.
However, romanticism is one of Holmes' least favorite things, after regular meals and nagging him about his morocco case. Telling him how much I appreciated the gesture would not do me any favors.
"Holmes? Is that... permanent?"
"That is usually the point of a tattoo." He snapped, snatching his hand back from me and throwing his legs over the side of the bed.
I was laughing now, hurt feelings be damned. "Holmes come back to bed."
He crossed his arms and stayed where he was, the long lean muscles of his back tense. He was pouting, the damn fool.
"Was it painful?" I asked conicillatorily.
"No. I couldn't feel anything anyway."
"Oh Holmes, come here." I drew him back into bed with me and kissed his spot of ink lightly. "Stop being foolish."
He turned his face to me, lip swollen from where I'd bitten it and hair falling down over his eyes. He looked a thoroughly debauched rogue, and fluttered his eyelashes at me.
"Foolish? Why my dear fellow, I am quite offended." He affected a shocked and grieved air.
He was only trying to get sympathy then. I thumped him with a pillow and he rolled me over and pushed my hands above my head in revenge.
"Yield." He said, kissing me.
"Never." Yielding always required me to do something for him, and it was usually humiliating.
"Yield."
"No."
"Yield!"
"What do I have to do if I yield?"
I yielded, because when it comes to Holmes, that is what I always do. I ended up with SH tattooed on my left wrist, to match his JHW. He made me write the initials in ink myself, something about the symmetry of the different handwriting appealed to him, but he did the marking. Our cuffs cover them when we're in respectable company, and they work to Holmes' advantage when he has to pretend he is a sailor or laborer as long as he remembers the name of the sweetheart he's supposed to have. He does not, as a rule, remember the name of the sweetheart, but feigned drunkenness works wonders in such circles. I think he likes that he has marked me in such an indelible way and I must admit the permanency of the gesture kindles my romantic nature.
I have not yet, nor will I ever, willingly leave him alone again.