A Firm Grasp of the Obvious

Introduction, disclaimers, and whatnot:

I do not own Holmes. However, I've created many secondary characters and added backgrounds to some of the main characters in the Holmes world. So, insomuch as I've created new ideas, consider this my copyright on my original material.

Additionally, I started writing this after watching the 2009 Sherlock Holmes film. I'd written most everything before 2011's Game of Shadows sequel came out. Needless to say, I'd felt like someone had snuck into my account and read what I'd written, the parallels were so close.

For what it's worth, this story is nearly 150 single-spaced pages long on my word processing system. It took just over six years to finish as I was in grad school and working full-time, and I just finished up my boards this last summer. I spent a lot of time researching period recipes, songs, slang, and the like.

As for all the French - I spent a lot of money on French classes several years ago, and don't want to forget everything I learned. Also, it's a send up of the episode of Frasier where he and Niles take a car repair class and get into trouble for passing notes in French. I tried to repeat what was said in English oftentimes to make it easier on you, dear reader.

Last but not least, don't bother with this if: You don't mind reading a short book, you're offended by swearing, booze & drugs, slash, fornication, adultery, gambling, violence, and angsty feelings. My course work was often very dry, so this gave me an outlet to be flowery and whatnot.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you find this enjoyable. And to my bff, if you read this and realise that you know who wrote it, please don't judge. I told you fanfic was my dirty pleasure, I just didn't go into detail at the time!

I think all of us, as Holmes', have had a Watson in our lives. This is dedicated to mine.

CHAPTER 1

"Where the line is to be drawn between the important and the trivial cannot be settled by a formula." -Chief Justice Cardozo, 1921

SUNDAY

It was a week before Dr. John Watson was to marry, and Holmes appeared to be in perhaps the worst mood Watson had ever encountered. "What do you think about dinner tonight, old cock?"

Holmes said nothing, intent on ignoring his friend by pretending to concentrate on an old newspaper.

"Old cock?" Watson dropped his own paper in his lap, concentrating on staring at his roommate in an attempt to get the man to pay attention to him.

Without warning, Holmes snapped shut his newspaper and directed himself toward Watson. "I am no longer your 'old cock,'" he replied sharply.

"Holmes,"

"And you are no longer my mother hen." The two men had been using the particular terms of admiration for one another, with Holmes as "old cock" and Watson as "mother hen", for years at this point in time. Approximately six months into their joint tenancy together, the doctour had tentatively knocked on the detective's chamber door, most certain he would soon be having to find himself a new flat.

"Yes Watson, enter."

"Sherlock... Holmes... I – we have a problem." The man's Adam apple seemed to jog the whole length of his throat.

"And what would that shared dilemma be, Watson?"

The doctor looked at Holmes, his chin practically touching his chest, his eyes slanted toward the man seated in a chair, an anatomy book in his hands.

"May, may I come in?"

"By all means, please suit yourself." Holmes shoved his spare chair from under the small table to invite Watson to accompany him.

Watson scurried over to the empty chair and sat on its edge, his eyes once more redirected towards the detective's face. "Holmes...I, ahem." He angled his neck sideways. "I'm afraid that I just do not have the rent money to give you for Mrs. Hudson this month."

Holmes turned his attention to his room's guest. "Is that so?"

"Yes. It is so."

"Is your monthly stipend such that you are financially unable to contribute your share of half the rent?" Sherlock kept his eyes on Watson, so as to watch the man for any sign of a lie.

"No," Watson shook his head quickly, "it's not that, it's just... well," His hands were held aloft his tweed-covered lap, into frustrated fists. "I, um, have a bit of a problem, and a personal one at that."

"Are you ill?" It was almost as if the man were baiting him with his words. Watson looked at him impatiently. "Surely now, Watson, you and I have become well enough acquainted over these several months such that you can tell me of that which troubles you so. That which, perhaps, has caused you no amount of consternation these past few months."

Watson was sure Holmes knew, that he was just forcing the other man's hand to speak the words aloud, thoroughly embarrassing the war veteran.

"I'm... I have a problem. With money. Actually, with gambling. I have a gambling problem." The words in his last sentence could not escape his mouth fast enough.

Sherlock merely smiled smugly at the man sitting across from him. "I know."

Watson's eyes widened slightly. "Then why the hell didn't you say something before today?"

"It was not my addiction to proclaim, now was it? Of course, now with the predicament you've put us in, it is indeed also my problem; however, I had hoped that you would have been able to cope with both your addiction and your, our problem, yourself." Mrs. Hudson had long since expressed to the borders that they must not be tardy with their rent lest they find themselves in the unpleasant position of having to find new lodging. "What with the structural damage you're doing to my building with all the bullet holes and explosions, if I can't get my money promptly each month I might as well give up all together, isn't that right?" she'd asked them one day a few months back, looking from one man to the other, both with guilty looks on their faces. They hadn't wished to be a burden to their landlady. Instead, Holmes had insisted to Watson that they were indeed doing Mrs. Hudson a favour by letting their rooms from her, so that she didn't have to worry about filling the lodgings with more unsavory characters.

"Well... regardless Holmes, what shall we do? Our monies are due in a mere 15 hours, unless, of course, you should happen to have a few extra quid handy?" he asked, hopefully.

"Indeed, I do not. The McAvoys have not yet paid me for the services I've rendered, and as such, I am just barely able to afford my half of our lodgings myself."

"Bloody hell!" One of Watson's fists landed forcefully on the table. He clenched his jaw and unclenched his fist. Would he have to rejoin Her Majesty's forces to have a roof of sorts over his head?

Sherlock glanced at the book he had set on the table while the two men had been talking. "Don't worry Watson, I shall sacrifice myself for our greater good. Just promise me you'll accompany me to the fight so that I have someone to stitch up my inevitable wounds when I finish up."

"Wait, Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"It's well-known that underground competitive fighting is a rather popular sport in this area. In fact, as a gambler, I'm surprised you're not well-apprised of such yourself." Holmes looked at his pocket watch. "Well then, it's nearly 7 now, so if we are to make it in time for me to eat, digest and be prepared to fight, we must eat now. Let's us go."

Both men had left their Baker Street quarters in search of a quick dinner before heading down into the basement of a rather dank bar, where the aforementioned fight was being held. Holmes had started unbuttoning his shirt, handing his cuff links to Watson, as he told him, "Your job is to hold these, shout my name when it appears that I might be going down, and grab hold of me after I knock the other bloke down so that I can leave the ring and get home as soon as is possible."

"Holmes, I can't. You can't. I mean, I know you're rather spry, but this isn't hopping around some barrels whilst solving a dilemma, this is fighting. Fighting, Holmes!"

"Indeed, I am hoping to yet again surprise you with my physical prowess. Just make sure you bet all but 25 pounds so that we may stop by and procure a rather fine bottle of whiskey on the way home despite tonight's outcome, providing my injuries allow it." Holmes smiled at Watson, stretching and hopping from one foot to another, enjoying the look of bewilderment on his friend's face. Surely, he couldn't be serious?

Watson, with Holmes' white shirt and studded cuff links in hand, placed the bet pursuant to his fighter's wishes. He then pushed his way to the front of the ring, so the he could keep an eye on Holmes and rush in to save him, should the need arise. Holmes came into view as soon as the first veritable bludgeoning ended. Near Watson's side of the ring a rather large, angry, giant of man appeared. To Watson, who feared that his friend would be bloodied to a miserable mass of flesh and bones, the brutish man appeared three times his rather short friend's size. "Dear God, Holmes," Watson whispered aloud, "I sure as hell hope you know what you're doing!"

As the two men entered the makeshift ring, Watson noticed several more spectators placing bids. He guessed they were all on the larger man, the one just recently announced as "Doolihan". He hoped against all that was holy that Sherlock hadn't finally bitten off more than he could proverbially chew. Watson compared the two men and their physiques. He'd seen Holmes shirtless several times before, but he had never before noticed Sherlock's sleek, muscular form, as if he were a well-exercised race horse. Perhaps, if he stayed alive on his feet, he might make it out of this foolhardy game sufficiently intact after all. He was still focused on Sherlock when a man tapped his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Bloke over there says you're his agent. Says you'll collect the winnings and such. S'right?"

"Um, yes, yes, it's true," Watson replied to the grizzled man.

"What's 'is name, then?" the small, beady-eyed man asked.

Sherlock had told Watson to provide a fake name for him, just in case the cops ended up gracing the dingy basement with their presence. Watson took another look at the smaller, scrappy man in the opposite side of the ring. Holmes had been running his hands through his black hair and jerking his neck to stretch out. He reminded Watson of an... "Old Cock," he replied. "His name is Old Cock."

The other man smirked. "Yer old cock's 'bout to be chicken food for ol' Dooly here. Man's knocked down five men straight these past few weeks." Before Watson had a chance to respond, the man had shuffled off. The man entered the middle of the ring and cupped his hands to his mouth to announce the match about to take place.

"Aye, you, listen up! Here, 'n this side we've got Duelin' Dooley Doolihan. Two-hundred, ninety-five pounds of pure bulk. Ain't been defeated in well over a month!" The crowd cheered, he obviously had several men who planned on his performance for their hootch money.

"An over 'ere, in this corner, we've got us an Old Cock. He's what, one-eighty soakin' wet, and a newcomer to our fine establishment. Let's welcome 'em both and see which one gets 'is teeth knocked out!" A fair-sized bolt of laughter swept through the crowd as a bell was wrung.

Watson gripped his cane hard, leaning on it quite heavily as though he were afraid he would faint if left to his own feet for balance. He held his breathe while Sherlock smiled, deftly stepping aside "Dooley's" hard punches. After about five tries, his opponent was becoming quite cross. "Stand still so I can knock that smile off!"

"I'm afraid not, sir." Sherlock stepped to the left of his opponent and offered a well-placed jab in Doolihan's kidney, causing the bigger man to howl in pain.

"You bastard!"

Sherlock maintained his wide grin and was about to make a quip about Doolihan's own parentage when the man swung his arm backward, catching Sherlock across the chest. He stumbled and coughed, before ducking a hook aimed squarely at his face. Once again Holmes made contact, but sadly, he was unable to do much damage. Doolihan straightened, approaching Holmes, wanting to pin him to a corner. He jabbed at his opponent, causing Sherlock to block and attempt to counterattack, however, as this was his maiden match, he was what one might call "a tad unprepared" for the stealthiness of his opponent. Doolihan was not one for theatrics, he kept his fists moving towards Sherlock at all times, making it hard for Holmes to gain the upper-hand, or any hand at all. Coming close to the flimsy wooden ring's wall, Sherlock yelled, startling his opponent enough to duck aside, dodging an uppercut. He clumsily sprinted towards the other side of the ring, where Watson stood, jaw clenched, his face a study in worry. Sherlock made eye contact with his impromptu "agent" and winked.

"SHERLOCK!" Watson bellowed, unable to snap his arm fast enough amongst the crowd to point behind to the fast-approaching fighter.

"Watson, I told you, I'm fi-" Unable to finish his sentence, the detective-cum-boxer found himself shoved up against the ring, pinned still by Doolihan, who had quite strong, albeit pointy shoulders. Before he had a chance to move, he somehow found Doolihan on top of him on the ground, fists repeatedly connecting with his face.

How should one proceed? he thought, trying his best to dodge the blows while bracing himself for their inevitable connection. With his one free hand he made a fist, putting his thumb forward. Glad he hadn't cared to look after his own hygiene properly in a few weeks, Holmes jabbed his thumb with its ragged, overgrown nail sharply between two of Doolihan's ribs. Startled, the bigger man cried out and shifted his weight, giving Holmes the opportunity to release his right leg and slam it up against Doolihan, knocking him off, onto the ground. Realising he shouldn't give up on a good thing, Holmes started kicking at Doolihan – first his stomach, to cause the man to double onto himself, then his back, and then, finally, to seek vengeance for what was definitely a broken nose and a rapidly-closing eye, he allowed the side of his foot to twist in midair such that his heel connected with the man's ear. Permanent hearing loss would definitely make it infinitely harder for "Duelin' Dooley" to regain his top-dog status in this said circle of fighters.

Holmes straightened up after putting some distance between him and the grounded man before the unnamed referee announced that the fight was over. Streams of profanities erupted amongst the audience as Sherlock, feeling as if a team of horses had trampled him, took a bow. He caught himself on a side of the ring to keep from falling, and exhaled in relief as Watson appeared at his side in seconds.

"Come now, old cock, it's time to get you home," Watson said, gently.

"Collect the winnings first." It was the last thing Sherlock said for another good twenty-four hours.

While he wouldn't remember anything for three days later, Sherlock had been attended to by Watson. The doctor even went so far as to get a basin of hot water and some towels in an attempt to clean his patient, who smelled as though he hadn't bathed in a fortnight. Caked dirt, sweat and blood had ruined Sherlock's white shirt. Watson promised to himself that he would procure a new shirt for his friend as soon as Sherlock was fit to be left alone. One might argue with the doctour that, surely, Mrs. Hudson could be counted on to watch the sleeping detective for a few hours, but Watson did not want to risk it. Besides, lord only knew what might come out of his mouth if he found the woman near his bedside. At least, Watson thought, he would lend Sherlock one of his old shirts whose sleeves seemed to have shrank in washing. Besides, the man would probably have it covered in pipe ashes within the better part of a week!

Two days after Mrs. Hudson had received her monies due, Sherlock awoke, cognitive of the world around him. "I dare say," he began slowly, "Watson, you look a wreck. How long have you been here?"

The doctour smiled, content in knowing that the fight had left no permanent damage. "I have been here, Holmes, the entire time, save a few moments here and there to afford myself use of the bathroom."

The detective's hands tentatively raised as he felt his face, wincing from pain. "I'm quite the dancer, then?"

"Indeed."

"But I must have won, otherwise, you and I would be huddled on a street corner, looking like a proper pair of urchins by now."

"Indeed." Watson's voice purred.

Sherlock attempted to sit up a bit, and Watson immediately came to his aid, adjusting pillows to ensure his comfort. "And you," he pointed, "are quite the mother hen, aren't you, Watson?"

"I am a doctour, and as I consider myself your doctour...", he smiled. "Yes Sherlock, I am your mother hen."

From that day forward, the men, when content with one another or showing concern, would refer to themselves as the "old cock" and "mother hen". Sherlock delighted in telling all who inquired that it was by far the best nickname he'd ever received. "Usually, my nicknames involve the words 'bastard' or 'ass' in them," he would tell anyone who asked.

"You are honestly telling me that you would rather sit alone, in your dark room with its stagnant air than accompany your best friend to dinner?"

"I don't recall proclaiming you my best friend," Sherlock sniffed.

"Who else do you think I asked to be my best man, eh?" The detective's eyebrows shot up tempestuously, silently mocking him. "Sherlock! Honestly, I just don't see how a man your age can act with such... impudence! What do you want from me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Do you really want to know?"

"You want me to ask you properly, don't you? Or, would you rather that I command your presence? I'd be much obliged to do either, if it meant doing away with this silly charade." Sherlock said nothing. "Sherlock, my dearest friend, my brother in spirit and in mind, would you please accompany me to dinner tonight? I would very much enjoy your company, and you've always been better at pairing up wines with our meal than I have." His voice was sincere.

"Will she be there?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"She who?"

"The woman you plan on running off with while leaving me to pay all the bills, not that it'd be the first time, mind you."

Watson pinched his lips together to stave off his cheeks reddening, "No." He paused before continuing. "I thought it would be nice if it were just the two of us, in light of how quickly I'm to become a married man."

"Indeed," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Then you'll go? Dinner, at seven, at The Parisian. Wear a clean shirt. Do you still have that shirt I lent you years ago? The one you refuse to return to me?"

"The one you saddled me with when I bloodied my only other decent white shirt, only because it no longer fit you? Yes, I do. I only rarely wear it, mostly on special occasions."

"Well then!" Watson clapped his hands together before rising, "that'll be perfect!"

Unlike the one instance when Sherlock agreed to have dinner with both Watson and his to-be bride, Sherlock did not head off to the restaurant ahead of time. Instead, he and Watson had an unspoken rule that Watson would leave his friend alone for approximately an hour, sometimes longer, to allow Sherlock time to bathe, shave, and dress (which sometimes included chasing down a rogue cuff link), showing up at Sherlock's chambers, hat in his gloved hands, resting his weight on his cane.

The doctor knocked on his roommate's door, "Monsieur Sherlock, je suis arrivé!" He was about to rap spryly once more when the door flew backward out of his reach. Holmes eyed the man in front of him. Not only was he a mere man, Sherlock looked the part of a true gentleman.

"Sherlock! You look..."

"Dashing, debonair, vogue, chic, extra intelligent?" the shorter man smiled upwards. "Now, shall we go?"

Watson had a carriage waiting for them. "While I must admit you look rather dashing, Holmes, you must have some other crisp shirt than that old thing."

"No. On the contrary Watson, if the Queen requested my presence, I would have to rent a proper tuxedo, or borrow one of yours." He smiled.

"And when would you ever need a tuxedo, Holmes?"

"I don't know, quite frankly."

"Perhaps if you ever got married we could get you into one." Watson's reply was meant to be a friendly comment, however he hadn't known the nature of Holmes' life shortly before the two men first met.

Holmes looked out the window, his mood changing within an instant. "I guarantee you, old boy, I will never marry again." While the men used the phrases "old cock" and "mother hen" with one another when they were contented, they conversely used the expression "old boy" when they were annoyed with the other.

"Holmes? Again?"

Holmes laughed in such a way that it was nearly a bark, loud and vicious in nature. "Really? Come now! You cannot pretend to feign ignorance over that whole ordeal. You wonder why I act like a muddled fool when Adler comes around- surely you must know why!"

"Well, because the two of you..."

"The two of us were to be married, you bloody fool! I thought that perhaps if I tried to delve into a life of normalcy that perhaps... Well, it's rather frowned upon in this society to live as a bachelor, you know that as well as I. I never particularly felt amorous towards Irene, but I figured that if I pretended for long enough-" Holmes stopped his yelling when the carriage thrust both men off their seats temporarily. Ah, the joy of unpaved roads.

"Holmes, I'm sorry. I had no clue. In fact, I thought you had honestly loved her."

Watson's companion sniffed. "I did. As a prodigy, as one would care for a younger sister, not as a woman. I thought she was truly interested in the art of my profession- as you are- yet I had been unable to realise the true depravity of her character. While she will always enchant me in the way men like us are enchanted by the macabre, it is more of an attraction to a disaster than it is an attraction to beauty."

"She was your apprentice?" Watson asked incredulously.

"She... had connections, and information regarding a particularly trying case upon which I'd been working. She tried to appeal to me using her beauty, I deterred. She told me that she was between jobs, that she was looking for a situation more friendly to a woman – said she'd attempted to work in a factoury without much luck. She practically begged me to allow her the chance to learn from me. She learned the combination to my safe, she learned to twist my guilt for not returning her purported feelings into extracting a marriage proposal from me, insisted I book the best room in the Grand Hotel- the very same room in which she drugged, unclothed, and tied me up for the chambermaid to find me years later – and when I awaited her dressed in a very expensive tuxedo that she insisted upon me wearing, she cleaned me out. I burned the tuxedo and never looked back."

Watson chewed on his lower lip, his head cocked slightly, taking in Sherlock's story. "How long were you with Adler?"

"I met her in late January, I lost what savings I had in mid December of the same year. Adler doesn't like to spend more than a year on any one conquest unless they're able to provide her six or more digits and the potential of some sort of gem to tuck into her wears."

"I'm sorry," Watson replied softly. It explained so much though. Why he became as confused as a wino when she showed up, flaunting her most recent acquisition, bringing gifts of exotic fruits and nuts, smelling of rare blossoms. It also explained why Sherlock was so reluctant to let him leave. After a bloated moment of silence in which he was alone with his own thoughts, Watson resolved that he would indeed show Sherlock how much their friendship meant, and that his marriage to Mary would not negate their bond.

The men soon arrived at the restaurant, which was not particularly busy for a Sunday night. "Watson, party of two," he told the maître d', "somewhere we can carry on a conversation, please."

They were escorted to a small circular table between a wall, near the roaring fire. Sherlock grinned. "Very nice, Watson."

"I assumed you should want only the best."

"I bet you say that to all your male companions."

"Sherlock!" Watson hushed him as a waiter came forward.

"Would you prefer the wine menu tonight?"

"Actually," Sherlock began, smacking his lips together, "I would prefer to hear what fish and fowl you have on the menu tonight before I browse your wine selection."

"Certainly, sir. We have smoked quail with water chestnuts and asparagus, braised halibut with carrots and potato, and a pecan-encrusted whitefish with broccoli and baby red potatoes. The house recommends a chardonnay with the whitefish, and a sangiovese with the halibut."

"I believe the quail sounds like our best bet. What vintages of pinot noir do you have on hand tonight?"

"We have a Carterhouse '58, a Smithsons '67 and the newest in our collection, a Lords' Brothers '72, sir."

Holmes looked at Watson and grinned widely. "What do you say to a little experiment tonight, John?"

"It sounds delightful, Holmes." Watson returned the smile, enjoying letting Holmes take charge of an otherwise innocuous situation.

Holmes clapped his hands together. "Very well then! Bring us a bottle of the Lords' '72, good sir!"

The two men enjoyed the fire, one another's company, and exquisite fare. "You know, Holmes, I must say, you have never steered me wrong. You always make the most delicious choices."

"But of course I do, dear Watson. Now, bring your glass closer lest you see the bottom of your goblet!" The men were on their second bottle of wine, enjoying their meal with the type of engaging conversation that turns an hour meal into a three hour affair. Their waiter brought out two dark chocolate soufflés and a sampling of the house's new sherry. Perhaps the waiter was days away from embarking on a new career such that he had nothing to lose, but he insisted that the maître d' had wished all tonight's patrons to partake in the house's new libation.

Whatever the reason, the men enjoyed themselves, becoming warmer all the while by the fire. "This is quite delicious!" Watson remarked to the waiter before receiving the check.

"May I?" Sherlock asked.

"Not at all," Watson protested, each word coming out separate and distinct in an attempt to prevent himself from slurring. "I invited you, as my guest, and as such, I shall pay."

Sherlock didn't argue. Instead, after they had settled their bill, Sherlock rose from his chair first, grabbing Watson's overcoat and holding it out so that the war veteran could slide into the sleeves of such easily. Watson's shoulder would sometimes bother him to the point where he would go without a coat if he were in a hurry. "Thank you, old cock," Watson purred, his eyes nearly slits while his lips were spread into a wide smile.

Sherlock stepped back to put on his own coat, regarding his friend. The man's eyes were definitely those of someone who had a bit too much to drink. They were also particularly beautiful, gleaming merrily in the firelight.

"Holmes, what is it?" Watson asked upon realising he was being stared at.

"What? Oh, nothing, mother hen. Let us get you home before you sink into the floor." He grabbed Watson's elbow to guide him towards the door.

After acquiring a carriage home, the men entered the buggy, Watson resting his head on the plush inside of the cabin. "Sherlock."

"Yes Watson?"

"Would you make sure that I don't sleep on the rug tonight? Gladstone likes to sleep atop my head."

Holmes chuckled. "Yes, my dear Watson, I will endeavor to ensure that you arrive into your bed sans canine. And I have something to ask for in return."

"Anything, old cock."

"I have a connection who has promised me tickets to see Trial by Jury tomorrow. I am but one man, yet I have procured two tickets. Perhaps you would care to join me?"

Watson's eyebrow shot up. "Isn't that the one about a broken marriage occurrence?" His words slurred together near the end.

"Why... if memory serves me correctly. However, while I heard that their next collaboration is about the Navy, I haven't yet secured tickets, obviously, so we're stuck with what's currently playing, if that's alright by you?"

"Of course! When should I come?"

Sherlock, slightly inebriated himself, smirked at the inadvertently sexual comment. "You may arrive at six tomorrow so that we may arrive before the show's seven o' clock start, and afterwards, I was thinking we could take in some dinner?" He paused between mentioning the operetta's start time and dinner, testing the waters of Watson's social calendar.

"Yes, yes," Watson waved a gloved hand airily. "That sounds lovely, Holmes. Just lovely. In fact, I don't see why we shouldn't spend every night together, eating and drinking and such." Sherlock eyed the man sitting across from him with caution. Watson was not normally so affected by libations.

"Watson, are you feeling quite right?"

"Why, of course, old cock. Why wouldn't I feel wonderful? I am sitting in a carriage en route to our home, feeling warm from the sherry, full from the quail, and enraptured by my best mate's company."

Sherlock smirked, laughing slightly as the two men stared at one another in silence for the remainder of the ride.

"Up up and away, mother hen. It's time we take our leave from this equine contraption," Sherlock sang as he hopped out of the carriage and held his hand out to allow Watson to brace himself while stepping onto the road.

"Here's our home, with dear Mrs. Hudson, dear Gladstone, and all our worldly possessions," Watson declared.

"Yes, Watson. Now come, let us get you to bed."

The two men ambled up the stairs to their rooms, which Sherlock unlocked with his keyring. "Now, you go lay on the bed, allow me one moment to get out of this nice shirt you so graciously gifted to me, so that I might chance to use it for-" For next Sunday when I watch you make the worst mistake of your life, even worse than agreeing to room with me all those much-too-brief years ago. "Sunday," he finished breathlessly.

"That's when I'm going to marry her," Watson commented, grabbing a previously opened bottle of wine, removing its cork and pouring himself a hearty glass. He had ignored his companion's direction to find his bed and instead sat heavily at the small table which had held the wine and glass, casting his bowler aside and silently raising his glass Sherlock's direction before he downed half of it.

Sherlock had never heard Watson refer to Mary as "her", that was usually his denotation for... her. Sherlock mulled the words over as he set his cufflinks down on a desk before starting to unbutton his shirt, carefully hanging it over a closet door. Turning back to look at Watson, he was quite surprised to see the other man drinking straight from the bottle of merlot he partook in Saturday night while writing. "Watson, are you purposely trying to cause yourself to black out tonight?"

Watson pulled his lips off the bottle such that it produced a slurping noise. Sherlock studied the man's face. His lips were parted, wet and inviting, his eyes dilated and with quite a wild, unfocused look about them, his nostrils flared (much as Sherlock's did when he was excited), even the manner in which he held himself sitting upright was very... sexual. He was almost an animal the way he regarded the world around him. His pheromones must be racing one another to exit his pores. Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear the thought from his mind. "Come, mother hen, let us get you to bed." He walked towards the table when Watson held up a hand.

"Wait, wait! I'm not finished yet!" The bottle of merlot flew to his lips as he sucked down the remainder of the bottle, licking his lips upon completion. He wiggled his eyebrows up and down at Sherlock. "Done now."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his tone somewhere between motherly and amused, "I can see that."

"Then you, my dear Holmes, are a master of the obvious!" He always delighted in the way Sherlock taunted Lestrade on his failure to deduce even elementary facts. Watson's lips broke into a huge smile. "I know! A race. I'll win!" Sherlock was about to counter with the facts of Watson's impaired state and his disfigurement requiring that he indeed use his Pakistan War cane, but he was interrupted by a flurry of tweed and man as Watson flew past him. He stopped at his bed and jumped face first atop it, quickly righting himself so that he could see Sherlock head towards him.

"Why Sherlock, you have your shirt off."

"Excellent deduction, mon ami. Do you remember me stating that I did not want to ruin it tonight? I was afraid that perhaps you might get sick." Sherlock stopped, standing in front of Watson, who had been looking up at him from his seated position. His gaze drifted down towards his eye level, and Sherlock noticed with a reddening of his cheeks that Watson was staring. Directly below his navel, as it were.

Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly, speaking slowly. "Let us get your shirt off, then, so that you don't stain it." Watson had resumed looking up towards his face as Sherlock lowered himself to his knees to begin undoing the other man's shirt collar.

"You're not looking at me, Holmes."

There was a very good reason for that. "I am... thinking."

"Would you like to earn a pee, Sherlock?" Watson made to reach into his pocket to extract some change.

Holmes grabbed the other man's hand to stop him, as he had become quite anxious with the current situation. "You should keep your money, Watson. We both know you'll need it soon." Again, his eyes were diverted, studying a window sill.

"I'll come see you fight still."

"I doubt that. You'll be too busy with doilies and other such sundries. Come now, remove your shoes." He had not yet finished unbuttoning Watson's shirt, however, he felt as though he needed a physical detachment from the man that was his closest companion.

Watson leaned down to slip his shoes off, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. "You are quite nervous tonight, if I were to be the deducing type of gentleman," Watson rambled.

"Indeed. Now," Sherlock replied curtly, moving Watson's shoes under his bed, lest Watson make sick during the night, "finish up with your shirt and I shall hang it up safely for you."

"I need more wine," the doctour remarked breathlessly.

"No. You need a good sleep as I know for a fact that you are to take lunch tomorrow with..."

Watson's hands felt to his lap before fumbling with his shirt's remaining two buttons. "Help me, old cock."

Sherlock bit his lip. This must not progress... He swallowed deeply before leaning forward, gingerly grabbing Watson's shirt. Why must Watson be watching him?! The last button was such that it fell right at his lap. Sherlock cursed himself for having to look down, his hands starting to sweat, trembling ever so slightly. He was finding it difficult to slip the last button through its hole, when Watson spoke.

"You can do it, Holmes. I believe in you!" He reached forward to run his hands through Sherlock's raven hair, laughing and moving forward on the edge of the bed. Sherlock coughed as his hand brushed up against the other man, before quickly pulling the button out its hole, nearly ripping it from the shirt.

"Please hand me your shirt." Sherlock blinked in rapid succession concentrating on a knothole in the wooden floorboards. Watson removed his shirt quickly, thrusting it into Sherlock's outstretched hand. Sherlock looked up, only to see the doctor before him, his skin tanned to a bronze associated with men home from war, whose sun-soaked bodies craved the sun's rays such that those same men would often find excuses to be alone, shirtless, relaxing for hours in silence. Reaching over his right shoulder in a fluid, curved line was the scar that caused his stiffness on cold winter nights. Similar scarring could be found above the man's right pelvis bone. Holmes' left hand reached out to the injured shoulder instinctively, tracing its scar with one finger. He caught himself breathing heavily, deeply, and felt himself looking up at Watson with hooded eyes, as if...

The detective found himself standing upright within an instant. There would have been no good to come from it. Emotions never result in anything remotely good. "Watson, you should sleep," he found himself saying as he crossed the other man's bedroom to set the shirt over a chair back. He turned around, stopping in his tracks as Watson was currently standing, unbuttoning his trousers. Apparently, he's relearned the art of unbuttoning. Watson braced himself on his bed's metal frame as his left hand followed his trousers to the floor.

One man can only endure so much temptation or so much torture before he breaks. Sherlock had been resisting both. "Please, I really must be going." He started walking towards the door to avoid looking at the lean, scarred figure undressing before him. If he were any other sexual deviant of the 1800s he would feel... aroused. "Good night, Watson!" Holmes nearly yelled as he lunged towards the chamber door, nearly slamming it behind him.

How could one's mouth feel parched yet as wet as an ocean at once? How could one's fingers tremble so from a mere nothing? How could one's eyes be forced to advert themselves? How could... one's pants feel so tight? Sherlock stripped himself of his own trousers , letting his shirt tails hang loose against his thighs. Perhaps clearing his mind would help.

After approximately two hours during which Holmes replayed the night's events in his mind, ensuring that Watson would be deep in an alcohol-induced sleep, he grabbed his violin. Quiet staccato notes emerged from the near darkness in which Holmes enveloped himself. A single candle was burning, its wax dripping onto its holder, finding its way onto the table. He would have to scrape that later, perhaps he could use it for a new idea he was forming, which involved a time-lapse sedative. After approximately two hours of a very lively but quiet piccato, Holmes threw himself onto his bed, ripping the sheet over his head, hoping that sleep would soon come.