acdholmesfest | Fic for fabelschwester: Stuck Underground, H/W, R

Title: Stuck Underground
Recipient: fabelschwester
Author: [redacted]
Rating: R
Characters: Holmes/Watson, male OC (Howard Vincent is indeed a historical figure but I played around with him a bit—okay, a lot).
Warnings: period-typical homophobia
Summary: Accusations and realisations.
Disclaimer: I’m sorry, ACD.

We're dancing free but we're stuck here underground
And everybody trying to figure they way out
Hey, hey, hey, all we ever wanted to say
Was chased erased and then thrown away
And day to day we live in a daze – “Many Moons” by Janelle Monae

On a cool evening in July of ’84, I accompanied Holmes to the baths on Northumberland Avenue. After a trying day at my practice, I was grateful for Holmes’s invitation and could not think of anything more appealing than spending a relaxing evening in my dear friend’s company.

Perhaps the baths were in the zeitgeist, for it seemed all of London’s denizens crowded the warm room. Despite the crowd, we managed to divvy spots for ourselves and I closed my eyes, basking in the soothing air.

Moments or hours later, I am not certain, Holmes’s voice hewed into my meditation. “Do not look now, Watson, but it appears we are now in the presence of the eminent polymath, Sir Charles Edward Howard Vincent."

I opened my eyes and turned, surprised to find Holmes very close, his prominent beak nose a hair breadth’s away from my face. I inched slightly away, unburdening myself from his intimate looming. “Forgive me, Holmes, but I do not know of a Sir Charles Edward Howard Vincent.”

Holmes placed his thin, white hand on my shoulder and leaned in, eyes fixated at a point across the room. “If you would turn the other way you will find a large, grey-haired man with impressive whiskers sitting at the right-hand corner of the room.” I looked where Holmes had indicated and saw the man of interest. Mr. Vincent had profound whiskers, indeed, and gave off the distinct air of a military man, which was evident to me due to his ramrod straight posture and the way he listened with severe, soldierly attention to the words of a cherubic, handsome young gentleman that sat beside him.

“He is a military man, is he not?”

After I had posed the question Holmes regarded me, his eyes brightening and thin lips blooming into a feline-like smile. “Precisely, Watson. You are scintillating.” I preened at Holmes’s praise, sitting taller, feeling rather pleased with myself. Holmes's hand brushed down my arm so that it rested at the crook of my elbow. “It is true Mr. Vincent was Lieutenant-Colonel of the 40th Middlesex Rifle Volunteer Corps, decommissioned in ’78, but he currently presides over the Met’s Criminal Investigation Department. I met him once in ’79.” Holmes leaned even closer yet and I could feel his hot breath on my ear as he continued, which made me shiver. “Our Lestrade is not fond of him but nor is he very fond of Lestrade, I have heard.”

Before I could inquire further on the subject of Lestrade, a loud, booming voice echoed throughout the room. "By Jove, is that Sherlock Holmes?”

I turned to find the immense frame of Mr. Vincent bounding toward us. I had wondered if the man would recognise Holmes from their singular meeting several years ago but quickly realised it was oft very difficult for anyone to forget Sherlock Holmes, no matter how brief one's encounter with him was.

Mr. Vincent presented his beefy hand to Holmes, who in turn gave it a hearty pump.

"Good evening, Mr. Vincent," Holmes said coolly.

"If it isn’t the man who gives my Met its reputation as the premier police force in Europe!” Mr. Vincent announced loudly, causing all gentleman in the room to turn their attentions on us.

"Please, you overstate the truth. I cannot take all the credit," Holmes said modestly.

“Beg pardon,” Mr. Vincent said as he forcefully fit himself in the small space between Holmes and a corpulent stranger who did not at look at all pleased. "And you do not! You give the credit to those less competent than you so they can have their moments in the sun. A rather noble gesture.”

After noticing I was attentive to their conversation, Mr. Vincent’s eyes fell upon me with curiosity. "Ah, forgive me. This is my redoubtable partner and friend, Dr. John Watson," Holmes said, leaning back to put me in better view for Mr. Vincent.

I took on an air of severity and raised my hand in a respectful salute. “Sir.”

"A pleasure, Dr. Watson," Mr. Vincent said, looking pleased. “I have read your accounts of Mr. Holmes's adventures. Quite extraordinary stuff. Reads like fiction! It’s almost… unbelievable!”

I beamed at the praise. “Why thank you.”

Mr. Vincent turned his attention back to Holmes. “Have you the Howard Vincent cup displayed in your home? You must! You simply must!”

"The Howard Vincent cup?" I asked, confounded.

Holmes dismissed my question with an abrupt flick of his wrist.

"It is an award I present to individuals demonstrating creditable detective work for the year, every year," Mr. Vincent explained. “Though it is a shame I cannot give it to myself for all my contributions to our police force. My name is already on it after all!” he said in jest, chuckling, and I laughed along out of politeness.

I now knew why Holmes and Mr. Vincent had met in '79; Holmes had been presented with an award. I clapped a hand on my friend's bony shoulder and smiled. "That's wonderful, Holmes. Well done," I said cheerily, proud of my friend's accomplishment. Holmes elegantly shrugged that shoulder, affecting indifference.

"Isn’t it? I am glad to lend my name to such a prestigious award,” Mr. Vincent boasted, looking across the room with a furrowed brow. “Ah, I'm afraid I should get back to my friend who I have quite rudely abandoned.” He stood quickly, jostling the hapless rotund stranger and Holmes once again.

Holmes looked appalled but, despite himself, said, "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Mr. Vincent bowed his head slightly to us. “Dasvidaniya, gentleman!"

"He seems a fine chap," I commented.

Holmes did not respond and stood, stretching his arms high above his head, causing ribs to protrude from skin, and yawned.

Holmes was a gaunt, slender man by nature--in all the years I’d known him, he had not become any fleshier. On that particular day in July, I remember him looking healthier than usual. It could have been on account of the hot room of the baths that he gained the healthy colour, a pink flush painted across his long legs, pale torso, swan-neck and high cheekbones.

So distracted was I noticing Holmes’s unusual glow, I did not comprehend the question I’d been asked until one moment too long after it was asked. “Watson,” Holmes said and I looked up to find him smirking down at me. “I have asked you if you wish to proceed to the hot room.”

“Certainly. Yes, certainly,” I said hastily and rose from my seat, tightening the towel around my waist.

Since we had been at the baths for a long while and it was approaching a late hour, many men had already left to return home to their wives. The hot room was not terribly congested and we were able to create considerable space for ourselves distanced from the other gentlemen there. I again closed my eyes and soaked in the heat, feeling more relaxed than I could ever remember, when I was startled to a state of tense wakefulness as Holmes placed his hand gently on my back.

"Are you somewhat relaxed, Watson?" Holmes's voice purred. I looked from the corner of my eye to see that Holmes was very close, leaning into me, eyes burning with an intensity often reserved for contemplating mystifying cases.

"I am, indeed. Thank you for asking," I said with increasing trepidation, looked nervously out into the middle distance.

"But not entirely?" Holmes prodded, and I felt his spidery hand skid up my sweat-soaked back, then down again.

"Holmes," I warned, trying to sound stern but instead sounding weak.

"Watson," Holmes rejoined with a mocking lilt. Before I could protest further, Holmes's hand snaked underneath my towel, a slender finger slipping into the heat between my buttocks. Thankfully Holmes was on my left side, obscured from view by others. We had learned to be strategic in these situations.

My eyelids flitted closed as Holmes languorously rubbed at that very sensitive spot and I felt a spike of pleasure shoot through my body. Holmes removed his hand and stroked my hip, my stomach, then sneaked under the front of my towel and brushed his fingertips against my interested member. He grasped it in his hand and I gasped at the touch.

Holmes’s hand withdrew immediately when Mr. Vincent’s boyish friend entered the room. He and I locked eyes. I held my breath as the boy smiled a perplexingly wry, secretive smile at me before turning and heading in the opposite direction. Moments later, Mr. Vincent entered the room, not taking the pains to acknowledge us, and joined his friend.

I felt my heart thudding against my chest and Holmes’s words “He has seen nothing” sounded faraway and surreal.

When I calmed down, I heard Holmes softly humming what I recognised as a Bach piece he played on the violin often enough, though I could not say precisely which one it was nor was I in the proper state of mind to recall it.

Holmes and I neither spoke nor interacted further for the remainder of the evening. I passed my time in stony, guilty silence.

Several weeks later, Holmes and I had a delightful evening imbibing delicious claret. Conversation flowed smoothly as it usually did when Holmes was in the mood to be sociable with me.

We sat side by side on the settee and my hand involuntarily found its way onto Holmes’s thigh. I pulled it away immediately. “My apologies,” I murmured, taking a sip of claret.

“You need not always be so apologetic,” Holmes said, low. He reached out, grabbed my hand and gently replaced it back on his thigh, pressing his own hand atop mine. “It is only us, Watson.”

“Yes, it’s foolish of me. I sometimes forget,” I said honestly, placing my glass aside, watching Holmes’s lips dazedly. I pushed down on Holmes’s thigh for leverage as I leaned in and pressed my lips to his.

The kiss was not our first, but every kiss felt like the first with Holmes; each kiss came with a burst of affection, passion and joy that settled lightly in my chest and remained there for hours. My hand grasped the back of Holmes’s skull and I pulled him closer, meshing our mouths together and deepening the kiss.

At the sound of footsteps climbing our seventeen steps, we tore ourselves apart instantly.
“Mrs. Hudson and a male guest,” Holmes interpreted, uselessly smoothing his perfectly slicked hair back with his hand.

“There is a Mr. Vincent to see you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson announced from behind our closed door.

Holmes and I exchanged an uncertain look as Mr. Vincent entered the room without waiting for invitation, closing the door behind him with brute force and causing our landlady to yelp in surprise. I stood out of courtesy while Holmes remained seated.

“Mr. Vincent, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Holmes said flatly.

Mr. Vincent looked between us with a hard set frown, then puffed out his chest and said, “I have come to tell you that you are barred from working with the Met.”

“I beg your pardon!” I cried. Mr. Vincent did not deign to look at me, continued glaring at Holmes.

Holmes laughed humourlessly. “It is a lucky day for London’s criminal class!”

Mr. Vincent’s moustache twitched as he scowled. “I cannot allow you to pollute the streets with your indelible stench of depravity any longer.”

“How dare you!” I ejaculated hotly, tingling with anger.

“How dare you!” he spat at me. “Sodomy is the true evil scourge of our great empire!* Something must be done!” he pontificated, tossing his head and looking down his nose at us.

Holmes sighed as if the events unfolding before him were all very trying and wearisome. “You have interrupted a pleasant time with my friend and now you are wasting my time. Watson.” Holmes placed the back of his hand against his forehead and looked away dramatically. “Please show Mr. Vincent out.”

“You are done, Holmes,” Mr. Vincent roared. “I will make sure you no longer find work in this city as long as I live!”

“Watson, tell me, why is he still here?” Holmes said icily.

I moved forward to escort Mr. Vincent out while trying to refrain from taking the man by the neck and strangling him, but Mr. Vincent took a step away, whipped around and stomped out of the sitting room and down the stairs.

“Holmes, what are we to do?” I said, anger dissipating and a thick disquietude taking its place.

“We are to do nothing. I believe we should let Mr. Vincent work through his issues himself. Sit down, Watson. Relax,” Holmes implored.

I could not relax. Mr. Vincent was toying with our lives and, more importantly, our reputations and I was not going to be complacent. “But he may make the accusations public! Even if he has no concrete evidence, we may be hounded by journalists. There will be attention on us that we cannot avoid. My dear Holmes, this is extremely discomfiting!” I cried.

“Sometimes I fear you are living in the world of a penny dreadful. Are you really so fearful of Mr. Vincent’s actions? He has nothing whatsoever to base his accusation. Nothing will happen.”

“He is an influential man. He may have other sinister ways of convincing the world we are inverts!”

“Let us see Mr. Vincent’s first plan of attack. Then we shall proceed from there.” Holmes looked at me with a sly smile. “Come, Watson,” he said firmly, patting the empty space beside him. “I wish to continue where we left off.”

I was not quelled in the slightest. “You act so cavalier about this always, Holmes. Always. Are you not ashamed?” I said in a rush of breath.

Holmes looked at me with unusually soft eyes. “I am ashamed of my careless actions at the baths, but I am not ashamed of us. We may be stuck underground, but we are together—and being together is liberating.”

I gave Holmes a beatific smile before joining him on the settee, reaching out to clasp his hand in mine. I was moved by his words. “Holmes, that was beautiful,” I said meaningfully, tears prickling at the back of my eyes. “And you say I wax poetic.”

“Yes, well, I was trying to speak in terms you would understand,” Holmes said, huffing indignantly.

I laughed, then brought his hand to my mouth, lowering my eyes and pressing a kiss to a knuckle. When I looked back up, Holmes was watching me with a fond smile.

We received threatening letters and telegrams from a very persistent Mr. Vincent over the course of the next few days. I was anxious and furious constantly as a result, could barely concentrate on my day to day life. Holmes, however, remained as cool and collected as he always was.

“Why is he so adamant, Holmes?” I asked helplessly one day as Holmes was happily throwing Mr. Vincent’s letters into the crackling fire. “What are his motivations?”

“Perhaps he is bored.”

“Holmes,” I chided. “This is a serious matter!”

Holmes jumped up and looked at me sharply. “It is likely he is so dogmatic in his ideals that he wishes to be a martyr in the name of his particular brand of morality. It isn’t unheard of. I do not know for sure and I do not care. The entire affair is repulsive. I do not wish to expend any more energy thinking about it.” Holmes step-pivoted and retreated purposefully to his room.

I was left to wallow in my fears and despair and I could think of nothing but our destruction.

Holmes turned out to be right. We did not need to worry about Mr. Vincent any longer. The letters stopped and we were notified of his sudden resignation from his position at the Met and his subsequent departure from the country to tour the world.

When he returned to London again a year had gone by; he decided to enter the political sphere. By a landslide, he was elected to Parliament as a Conservative and there he contributed to the establishment of the Labouchere Amendment—a law that intended to allow accused sodomites to more easily be sentenced to death without significant evidence.

In a sad but fascinating turn of events, Mr. Vincent’s dalliance with a twenty year old American coal miner whilst on his world tour caused him to be taken to court under the Amendment.

I could not feel entirely sympathetic for Mr. Vincent’s plight. He had tried to bring us down with him, and had ensured the demise of many men.

“Man is sometimes his own worst enemy, Watson,” Holmes said sagely after hearing the news.

I vowed never to be ashamed of what Holmes and I were from then on. To hide from our love meant running from something beautiful. It meant being something I was not. And that, as I had learned, was dangerous.