Fic for fictionforlife: The Makings Of A Great Romance, Part 2 of 2; NC-17

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Title: All The Makings Of A Great Romance
Recipient: fictionforlife
Author: fleetwood_mouse
Rating: Explicit
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, OMCs
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, sexual content
Summary: Sherlock Holmes lays down his account of the events of The Adventure Of The Empty House, the years leading up to it, and the night that followed.
Notes: This draws heavily on EMPT, though there are a few bits where I play fast and loose with canon. But Watson is widely known to be a somewhat unreliable narrator, and I hope that fictionforlife will forgive me and enjoy this story!


....Continued from Part 1

It is strange—I cannot be certain of my relative position, of my precise trajectory in this quest. Am I moving towards you, or farther away? My journey until now, I feel reasonably sure, has been the latter, my every mission taking me farther from you (and your wife, your happy household), farther from the possibility of your forgiveness, relegated each day to a darker corner of your memory.

When will I meet that halfway point, when will I cross that threshold when my feet will begin to bring me back to you? And how will I know that I have done so—how will I go on if I do not know?

The train rocks my body and my mind begins to drift. I dream of going back to you, of laying myself at your feet and pleading. Enduring your grief and feelings of betrayal and your righteous anger, watching them evaporate as your doctorly concern catches up to your emotions, as you see the sorry state I am in and reach out to steady me, reach for your black bag—as you hook your arms around my waist and bear me to the sickbed.

This is not the first time I have indulged such fantasies, and as it will be another two years before I find my way back to you, nor will it be the last. Only the scenery changes from one dream to the next: where I might find you, how I might approach you, how best to begin my story. The details, however, your warmth, your faith, your touch and forgiveness—these remain constant.

But of all my wildest imaginings, every possible way I might reveal myself, every plea and promise and justification I could offer, it never occurred to me that I would do so as a decrepit and crippled bookseller. It never occurred to me that I might be entirely unprepared to stand before you, that I might have no control of the situation or my own reactions.

I disguise myself and set out for the Adair house to make my own investigations into the matter, and I am drawn immediately toward the sound of a human voice. A plain-clothes detective in poor disguise—his station could not be more obvious were he in full uniform—is standing with his foolish head held high, expounding at the top of his voice and at great length on a number of theories and extrapolations, each more absurd than the last.

A small crowd has gathered before him, and I cannot help but be shocked at the rubbish to which people will listen, the stupidity they will tolerate if it only means they do not have to think for themselves. I scoff at them and am about to turn away when my heart stops—a chord of recognition thrums through my chest and freezes me in place.

You have your back to me, but I would know you anywhere. I could identify you from the curve of your ear, the arch of your neck, the sound of your footsteps in darkness—I know your immediately and with utter certainty, and against all logic, I find myself drawing closer. Step by shaking step I advance, observing the slope of your shoulders beneath your jacket, the glint of your hair even in the low evening light, the cock of your head as you listen. You are quizzical and unconvinced—my heart swells with pride—and when the plain-clothes detective lets fly a particular delirious bit of logic, I see you jut your chin upward in defiant disagreement. I should be prepared, I should be ready to move but my senses are dulled with the brilliance of your nearness, and when you turns away in disgust, you strike against me and knock several books from my arms.

You stoop immediately to recover them, kind soul that you are, apologising all the while as you draw yourself up and return them to me. Your words are kind, but the sensation of it all—your voice, your presence, your eyes on me—is electric and crackling; it is lightning striking a hollow tree, snapping and cracking it down the middle.

I have little recollection of what I said to you. I only know that I lash out in something like anger, anger born of fear and shock and something I cannot name. Your voice echoes in my ears, in my head, muffling all other sound, relentless in the pounding, reflective cacophony off the walls of my skull.

I can derive little meaning from the amorphous, heavy echoes of your words, from the shapes your lips form, but soon enough, your hands are reaching for me and my head is swimming. You are reaching out for me to touch, to heal, and at that thought, my consciousness splinters. I recoil from you as if burned and I flee, barely coherent enough to affect the hobbled, arthritic gait this disguise requires.

I think now, in retrospect, that I should not have been surprised to find you where I did. I know you, my Watson, inside and out, and I ought to have intuited your continued interest in the solving of crimes. I know your virtue and your honour and your sense of justice; I know your vexatious insistence on morality and the good of society, and what’s more, I know your sentimentality, your loyalty, and—though I so ill deserve it—your abiding love for me.

Of course you would maintain an interest in the pursuit of justice. Of course you would follow your instinct for adventure and embroil yourself in the dangers of a murder investigation. Of course you would seek to contribute to the hunt, to honour my memory and my name, to re-live—momentarily—the life we had enjoyed together.

In any case, I move as fast as I can to get myself out of your sight and I lie in wait, hiding from the force of my own emotions just as much as from your eyes. I watch your receding form, and when you are a safe distance away, I begin to track your footsteps, to follow you home to your flat in Kensington.

Your housekeeper is politely puzzled by my appearance, but she allows me inside with no particular protest. I begin to sweat nervously as I climb the stairs and my mind races, tripping over all the imagined scenarios of our reunion, all the ways I might explain myself to you.

The sight of your familiar face before me sets me rambling, stuttering out all manner of foolishness in a dreadful dialect that cannot hide the pained croaking of my voice. Now that I look on you up close, I see that you are too thin, your clothes too shabby, and—despite your air of friendly inquisitiveness—your face is drawn and sports new lines of pain and hardship. You have been alone, I understand then, even more alone than I have, and the thought is abhorrent to me. It will come as no great surprise, therefore, that I end my little speech as fast as I can and reveal myself almost immediately, that I cannot allow you to believe yourself alone for one second more.

It is with pounding heart that I remove my disguise, and as I see the realisation dawn on your face, with the magnetic tug of your voice echoing still in my ears, I felt a wave of emotion overtake me. For a moment, I sway on my feet, sickly certain that I am going to lose consciousness. In fact, I may well have done so if not for the great shock of your beating me to it.

You are slumped in your chair, face pale and mouth slack in unconsciousness. It is with shaking hands that I kneel before you and unfasten your collar-ends. Once, this would not have been such a struggle, would not have felt so much like taking liberties. Once, I was accustomed to viewing you as a natural extension of myself and treating you as such—in hindsight, perhaps too often.

I pour you a glass of brandy from the bottle on the side table, and I fight to steady my hands. My mouth is dry as I press my hand to your warm cheek, cradling you—the bravery this act requires!—cradling you until you are upright enough to drink. I press the glass to your lips, and your mouth twitches. My heart pounds in my chest; my breath catches in my throat to see your lips move, your eyes flutter as consciousness flickered back into your veins.

“My dear Watson.” The words are torn from me like a bandage—something in my chest crumbles and again I fear that I will collapse before you. “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected.”

“Holmes!” you cry, reaching out to touch me. “Is it really you?”

I cannot convey what it is like to hear you speak, to hear your lips form my name once again. The tremor of disbelief in your voice, the hopeful joy you make no effort to conceal. My knees go weak when you grasp me by the shoulders; it is all I can do not to fall against you, to press my face to that broad chest and absorb your warmth, the sound of that heartbeat that had driven me through years of peril and loneliness.

I talk to you, I give you my story as best I can, though my voice is thick and my tongue trips over a thousand different thoughts. My fingertips tingle still in the shape of your shirt buttons—I have undone two already and I could still undo more. I can imagine the warm curl of hair, your bronze muscles beneath white linen, and my fingers twitch, my mouth waters. I want to suck an apology into your skin, leave you marked with my regret and grief and base loneliness, proof of the depth of my devotion.

Your forgiveness is not so easily won as you have written in The Strand, nor am I so blithely able to speak my piece. But you understand, I think, that I have been too long alone, too long in desperate need of your company, too long subsisting on memories and hopes and entirely too little food or rest. I press through nonetheless, I strive to paint the picture to the best of my ability, to make my case to you because it is essential that you understand me—it is paramount that you come to forgive me.

When I arrive at the end of my clumsy account and see you nodding along, see your expressive face open and smiling and engaged, I could weep, I could throw myself into your arms, I could prostrate myself before you and thank you for your mercy.

I do none of these things; I only clasp you by the hands and implore you. "You'll come with me to-night?"

Your smile warms me through and you squeeze my hands. ”When you like and where you like."

I find us a hansom cab and direct the driver on a winding journey meant to obscure our true destination. Even after we alight, I cannot be satisfied until I have led you through a labyrinth of backstreets, of stables and mews at which you gape in wonderment. It is good to walk these streets again, these streets I still know so well—it is even better to do so with you at my side.

The air in the empty house is stale and thick with dust. I hustle you up the stairs and into the room that faces our window at Baker Street. I must admit that in the writing of this tale, I am drawing quite liberally from your written account of the matter. I cannot attest to the details myself because you are the only thing I truly remember of that night, the only thing not eclipsed in cottony, faded greys. Your eyes meeting mine. The warmth of your skin, so close. Your stillness beside me in the dark and silent night.

I cannot seem to stop touching you. My hands on your shoulder, my lips at your ear. My fingertips itch; my inner gravity lurches toward you and I am sure I will drown in the pull of your presence.

I delight in the surprise on your face, resonating visibly through you at the sight of the wax dummy. The praise in your voice, the suffusion of affection and wonderment, the peculiar way your compliments make my blood warm. You are all I see, all I hear, all I need.

There is only one other thing that I can still recall with clarity and that is fear—the moment I realise that I have miscalculated, that Moran is here with us. He has chosen to forego the street below in order to use this empty house as his vantage point. The swing of a door, the sound of muffled footsteps, the rustle of clothing, the dawning awareness that I have led you into danger and stood there all the while boasting of my plans—that you might well be torn from me within hours of my return.

I press you into the darkest corner of the room, cursing my own hubris, and I apply myself to keeping you quiet, keeping you still. Your heartbeat pounds beneath my right hand, your breath tickles through the fingers of my left, and I steel myself and wait. My palms begin to sweat.

As Moran draws near, my every conscious thought grinds to a halt. I watch him settle into position at the window, and underneath my skin, my muscles tense and coil. Your mouth goes slack beneath my hand, and my mind fills in the image of your wide eyes, your familiar, open-faced expression of amazement. Impossible fondness grips at my heart and I know this: you must be protected at all costs.

This is the thought that starts my heart beating again, that sets the blood pounding in my veins. This is the impetus—more than the muffled airgun shot, more than Moran’s moment of distraction—that sends me tumbling clumsily forward, hands outstretched and heart in my mouth.

Moran hits the ground with a grunt of surprise and his rifle clatters to the ground. I count the advantage mine, but only for a foolish moment—he is a hunter and a shikari, instincts and reflexes honed by a lifetime of training—and in an instant, his hands are at my throat and I am struggling for breath against his crushing grip.

“Holmes!”

A flash of movement in my dimming vision! The crack of wood against bone, and oh—a rush of cool air into my lungs as Moran crumples to the ground. I stagger backwards, blinking and clutching at my throat, and watch as you fall upon Moran and wrestle him into submission. My chest burns, my heart pounds, and I am nearly sick with gratitude. It seems impossible that I have should have forgotten this, forgotten what it means to have you at my side.

After a moment of grappling, you struggle upright, wrenching Moran’s hands behind his back, and my eyes meet yours. Your cheeks are flushed, your hair mussed, and every line of your form is tense with excitement and adrenaline, but the bright, desperate sharpness in your eyes is unmistakable—you are filled with the same terrible fear as I.

My heart soars to recognise itself in you. I have not felt such joy, such hope in three years, perhaps longer. It must show—some change must show on my face because your expression changes quite dramatically as you observes me. First, your eyes widen, then your cheeks flush brighter and your eyes narrow before you finally breaks our gaze and look away in shame.

It is then that Inspector Lestrade and his team arrive, reassuring us of our victory with their dramatic and timely entrance, and I suppose that the rest unfolds more or less as you have laid it out: the mad mantra tumbling forth from Moran’s lips, my gloating verbal denouement, Lestrade’s shock at being given the credit for the whole thing. All I know is that in that moment, the timorous peak of adrenaline, the cold core of fear that had seized me is beginning to melt; I have looked in your eyes and seen my affections returned. The paralytic hopelessness of the last three years is dissolving, the calcified cage around my heart giving way to something light and airy and living.

You still seem very shaken, and no wonder. Though overall you are unharmed (I observe that your bottom lip is split; you are also bleeding from a small cut at your hairline), your face has gone pale and you are favouring your bad leg. I imagine that it is the events of the day that see you so overwhelmed. I try to stand close to you, I seek to comfort and encourage with small, inconspicuous touches—your elbows, your shoulders, the tender insides of your wrists—and though my fingers only seem to glance up against your clothing, you respond favourably, soothed and reassured. Your breathing slows, the tension in your muscles dissipates, the wildness in your eyes fades into quiet exhaustion.

When Moran is finally led away in cuffs, I am glad to be able to extract you from the scene, to make our excuses to Scotland Yard and lead you back home. Considering the day you have had, it is unconscionable for me to keep you out any longer. Not that I am entirely selfless; I also have my own motivations—for one, I would do anything to see you again in your accustomed chair at 221B. I want to sit beside you and be there as you come to grips with the events of this long day. What’s more, I want—my pulse races to think it, my stomach clutching high at my chest—I want to take this chance and unravel the threads of truth I glimpsed in your eyes; I want to unravel us both and lay our feelings out plain. I want your hands upon me, I want you to feel my heart pound and my skin flush. I want you to understand, to read on me every twinge of loneliness I have felt these past three years, every moment I have missed you, regretted my callous choice, wished I could return to you.

Mrs Hudson makes a great fuss over our return and will not be persuaded to leave until a fire is roaring in the grate and an extravagant cold supper set out on the table beside a pot of strong tea. Of course, I ignore it all in favour of tending to you. Though the cut at your hairline has stopped bleeding, it has left a mess of blood and it needs seeing to. I badger you into a sitting position on the settee so that I may examine it.

“It is nothing, Holmes,” you tell me, and there is a decided tremor in your voice—exhaustion and something darker and sweeter, something fathoms deep and foundational in its constancy. I tut over your protests and go off to fetch a wet cloth, antiseptic, and bandages. It is curious, this reversal of roles—me tending to you, fussing over you as you try to put me off—and yet there is nothing I would rather do in this moment.

I am almost certain that Mrs Hudson will not bother us again tonight, but to be sure, I lock the door. At the click of the bolt, my intentions strike me and saliva floods my mouth. I swallow and lick my lips, keeping my back carefully to you. I pour us each a glass of brandy and gulp down half of my own almost immediately. Tears spring to my eyes and I fight to stifle the cough burning in my chest. I top off my glass again, but I may not need it—warm courage is already pooling in my stomach and trickling through my veins, loosing my limbs and flushing my cheeks.

I hand you the glass and you take a polite sip before setting it on the side table.

“This is unnecessary,” you tell me again.

I crouch before you and look up into your open face. “It may be so, but it is necessary that you allow me to do it.”

There is little sense in my words, which is why you laugh—and perhaps why you settle back and allow me to kneel between your knees and wipe at the blood on your forehead. I am close enough to feel the heat of your body, and my nostrils are full with your familiar smell—your tobacco, the pomade slicking your hair, the sharp tang of sweat and fear that still lingers on your clothes. I lean in close and breathe deeply, dabbing gently where the blood is still wet, scrubbing more forcefully where it has dried and caked in your blond hair.

You are trying to hold your breath, or trying to suspend the motion of your shoulders and chest, to breathe only through your nose. Presumably, it is meant as a courtesy to me, not to breathe on me while I am so close, but I can read something deeper in the tension of your muscles, the carefully controlled line of your mouth. Your jaw is grimly set, yet your eyes are bright and darting, uncertain where to look.

I focus on the task before me and for now, I allow you privacy. I do not seek out your eyes; I allow you to look where you will—at the ceiling, at the bookshelves, at the flickering fire—but I notice (I cannot help but notice) that your gaze always returns to me, tracing over my shoulders, my throat, flicking abortively over my jaw, my cheeks, my mouth. Once, twice, I see you lick your lips, and I feel warmth coil in my gut, twisting snugly in my groin, and I must shift my position. You freeze for a second and then I observe your Adam’s apple jerking with a telling swallow.

The bleeding has stopped entirely, and I have cleaned the blood from your face and your hair. As I shift to fix my attentions on your spit lip, I allow my fingertips to trail down your cheek, tracing the curve of your cheekbone, the firm line of your jaw. You go stiff beneath my touch and for a moment, you stop breathing entirely.

There is almost no blood around your mouth, but I cannot help myself—I want to touch you everywhere you have been injured, I want to touch you everywhere I can. Especially here.

I swab against the slight discolouration on your chin, at first gently, then more firmly. With bravery that surprises me, I cup his jaw with my free hand, I let my thumb rest at the corner of your mouth. You have begun to breathe again, but your chest twitching, struggling to draw in air, and you are fighting to deny it, fighting to hide your heightened state of emotion and arousal. This, I know, is my moment.

My mouth is very dry. I have to lick my lips before I can speak. “Am I hurting you?”

You blink. Your pulse—already fluttering—picks up with a new desperation beneath my fingers. You do not speak for a long moment, and I wait, letting you feel my nearness, letting my intentions radiate outward so that you might perceive them. Letting you to decide how much to hide from me.

“No…” Your voice shakes, though it is little more than a whisper, and finally, I allow myself to look up, to meet your eyes. Our faces are inches apart and your eyes are very, very dark, the pupils nearly eclipsing the familiar blue of your irises. The colour is high in your cheeks and your lips are full and gently parted.

Once I catch your eyes, I cannot look away. Heat prickles between my thighs, on the back of my neck, and with languid slowness, I draw my thumb gently across your lower lip. Your eyes fall closed and a hoarse breath escapes you. And yet you remain unmoving, still as stone but for the flutter of your golden eyelashes against your cheek. You do not believe me, I realise, you do not trust your senses, your instincts. It is my turn to be brave. I breathe out the tension in my chest and let my forehead rests against yours. You draw in a deep, shaking breath.

“Holmes…” You swallow hard. “You…” And then you kiss me.

Your mouth is a shock against mine and I feel my knees go weak. A vertiginous rush overtakes me and for a moment, I am sure my legs will not hold me, but by some miracle, they do. I am kissing you back, I know I must be kissing you back because you make a small, hungry noise and grip me by the shoulders, crushing me closer, and my brain goes swimmingly, wonderfully useless. All I can hope to do is catalogue this wave of sensations, lips and teeth and tongue and heat, skin and hands and desire.

I rest a hand against your broad chest, feel the pounding of your heart, and my fingers clutch helplessly at your collar. We are both of us skin and bones; we are both of us starved for touch. My fingers are clumsy, fumbling uselessly at the fastenings of your clothes. Yours are sure and experienced, but still they tremble as you work at our buttons—first my waistcoat, my shirt, then your own, turn for turn. You pull me to my feet, pull me close to you, and my skin sings when it is pressed against yours.

You crowd against me—the warmth of your mouth, your limbs that wrap around me, your hands—your hands that seem to be everywhere. I do not know what to do with my own. I want to touch you everywhere, I want to stroke and cup and squeeze, I want to learn each inch of your flesh and leave my fingerprints on it, distinct and indelible, but all I can seem to do is grab at the lapels of your shirt as you kiss me.

When I find the courage to touch you back, I find that I could spend the rest of my life apologising this way. I could spend eternities whispering my guilt into your skin, apologies into the curve of your neck, litanies against your ribs, entreating you with my lips and breath and words until you tremble beneath me.

Your hands tangle in my hair, fingertips gentle against my scalp as you card and smooth in a familiar motion. You tug me back up to kiss me again, mouth sweet and searing, and I recognise your touch: it is what I do in front of a mirror, fixing my hair where it is always unruly—how often you must have seen me dishevelled, how long you must have wanted to do this.

The thought strikes me in the chest and steals my breath—you hear my little gasp and press your face into my neck, urges me off balance and into your lap. You dip your head to mark the skin over my pulse with your lips, your teeth, your tongue, and I feel my arms break out in gooseflesh. Your Christian name tugs at my vocal chords, insistent, a vital temptation, but it is another liberty that I cannot quite bring myself to take. Not, at least, until I begin to move against you, to rock my hips against yours and hear you groan aloud, hear my name tumble boldly from your lips, a breathless crush of consonants. You pull me flush against you, your hands upon my hips, my backside; my legs around your waist. I have been holding your name in my mouth like a bell and when you begin to thrust up against me, I let it fall. You groan and grip me tighter, seal your mouth against my own.

Our rhythm is urgent now, your every movement sparking through me like stars and gunpowder as our pricks slot up together, as your hips grind desperately against me and your fingers knead with devilish intent, spreading the cheeks of my arse apart and pulling me closer, closer. My breath comes in short hiccoughs, my chest heaves with an erratic quickness that I cannot seem to control. Tension builds in my groin and I know that I should give some warning, make some indication before I come off in my trousers like a schoolboy, before I finish without even feeling your hand upon me, the heat of your skin, your mouth.

But I cannot seem to muster the words, I cannot seem to tear my mouth from yours, to stop rocking against you in pursuit of sensation, of friction, of feeling you close and real and wanting. A cry wells in my throat, a spasm takes shape in my hips and, and—

—and your hands are between us, stilling my hips, pushing at my chest, everywhere at once but not where I need them most. Stopping me, commanding me, skimming over my face and neck.

“What do you want?” Your eyes are dark, your hair mussed and your voice low with heat and intent.

How on earth can I know what I want—how, in this moment, am I meant to know anything whatsoever? I cannot speak; I am on fire, inside and out—my skin, my throat and chest, the throbbing length of my prick—and every brush of your hands, every touch intended to calm, to soothe, only serves to ignite me further. I draw in a deep, shaking breath and struggle to form my thoughts into words.

“Please.” That is all I can muster, trembling pitifully and fighting a thousand contrary urges. “Please, John, I—”

That is all the sign you need. With blessed certainty, you press your mouth to mine again, and your hands drop to my waist, undoing my flies, and I groan aloud with relief. When you draw my prick out of my smalls—the kiss of cool air, the warm callouses of your hand—I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. You draw your thumb across the head and smile when I curse and shudder. Dropping a kiss to my temple, you undo your own trousers and rearrange my legs atop your hips, and suddenly, you have us both in hand, all burning heat and silk-sheathed steel. Then, you are moving, thrusting through the circle of your fingers, and my head lolls, a groan spreading through my chest. You suck in a shaky breath—I observe pinpricks of sweat on your hairline, your unbuttoned shirt falling in waves around your torso, your bared collarbone sporting a dark mark in the shape of my mouth—and your head falls forward onto my shoulder.

“Come on, now.”

Your voice is a hot whisper against my skin; your hips rock sweetly against mine and my veins light up with music. My breath comes in heaving gasps and there is a shivering thunderstorm behind my eyes, lighting up with flashes of white and sound.

“Yes, Sherlock, come on—”

I reach my peak with a total implosion of my senses, a burst of sensation so bright as to eclipse all consciousness, and as if from far away, I feel you follow not long after, wet and slick and trembling against me. You cry out hoarsely and even through your own climax, you support me as I slump against you, boneless and insensate and entirely sated.

I press my cheek to your chest and feel your panting breaths grow slower. Your arms tighten around me and I feel your lips against my hair. We lie in silence for a long time, coming slowly back to ourselves, and I listen to your heartbeat dropping off gradually into a calmer, steadier rhythm.

There are words forming in my mouth, gathering beneath my tongue and I do not want to say them. I do not want to break the stillness of this moment, I do not want to introduce a second of unpleasantness to this joyous reunion, but there is something I must say to you and it will not wait, will not be pushed aside.

I take a deep breath and lift my head very slightly. I cannot grasp the courage I need. I purse my lips and exhale and come out with it.

“I am sorry,” I say. “Truly, John, I am.”

Imagine my surprise when you laugh at me, your breath tickling across my scalp. “My dear man,” you say. Your hand strokes up my back, measuring the curve of my ribs. “Never apologise for that again, I beg you.”

You brush the hair from my face and I look up to see your eyes filled with mirth. They soften and darken at the serious look on my face.

“Holmes,” you say. “Sherlock.” You touch my cheek.

I fight the temptation to look away. “You must be very angry with me.” My tone is mild, my voice soft.

You sigh. “I can only…” Your face draws tight with concentration, with emotion. “I am only overjoyed that you are alive. Nothing else could matter in this moment.”

Warmth spreads through me, but this need will not be assuaged; I must press this point. “Perhaps you will be later.”

You laugh again. “Would you like that?” Your eyes are shining, your hands gentle as they cup my jaw. “I cannot imagine feeling any other way.”

You press your lips to mine and kiss me deeply, thoroughly, as if this is the only means you have to make yourself understood. For my part, I am helpless but to respond to your ardour. When you pull away, it is with a lined face and an intensity of expression.

“I saw you,” you say. “No, I—in my mind’s eye, you know, when I read your letter and I looked down at those falls, that terrible, dark chasm… I never dared hope, my dear man, that you would return to me.” You take a deep breath and steady yourself. “And now that you have… not only are you alive, but you return my feelings—which, by the way, is another hope I never dared entertain.” You blink jerkily and your thumb strokes idly my jaw bone. “If it is punishment you want, Sherlock, you will not have it from me. Perhaps Mrs Hudson can be persuaded to scold you—she always seems to enjoy it well enough.”

Now it is my turn to laugh. “Why, she already has! Did I not tell you? I sent her into hysterics when I showed up at her door this afternoon.”

Your face breaks into a smile. “Well then, you will have to tell me all the details later!” you say. “It will surely make an interesting addition to my written account of this matter. I wonder what I shall title it…”

I groan; you laugh at my displeasure. It is astonishing how quickly, how comfortably we are settling into our old patterns. Warm affection coils in my belly.

“Please, John,” I entreat you, “feel free to write whatever you wish—only, I beg you, please leave this out.”

“But why should I? It would make such a pretty tale.” Your tone is light, but I can hear something hidden deep beneath the teasing veneer. “Your trembling hands, your skin like marble, and, oh, your mouth.” You savour this last word like it is the sweetest blasphemy, an idea you proceed to demonstrate with your lips on mine.

When I have my breath back, I lean against your chest and you recline lazily against the arm of the settee.

“Yes, I remember now…” I imitate my thinking posture and you reward me with a smile. “You do so love to romanticise things.”

“Why, Holmes, this has all the makings of a great romance! A sworn enemy, a cliff-side confrontation, years of exile and adventures abroad…” You tick these items off on your fingers. “…culminating, finally, in a triumphant homecoming! True love regained!” You punctuate this with another kiss, muffling my laughter.

You can never tell this tale, of course—you can never allow the slightest hint to seep through the page where it might be perceived. (Note: And that, as you know, is why I am writing this for you, for your eyes only—so that you may know the pleasure of seeing your beloved’s affections laid bare, their deepest devotion put into words and ink. I am writing this so that you will have it, so that you may refer to it whenever you like. I hope that you come back to it when the world feels bleak and full of darkness, when the horrors of your past haunt you and snatch you from sleep, when I have behaved so badly that you must remove yourself from my presence and remind yourself of why it is you tolerate me. I hope you read these words a thousand times, John, and know yourself to be loved and valued and needed in the most essential way. I hope that I prove this to you not only here on these pages but in every day of our life together.)

There may be peril for us outside these rooms, but I find that I care nothing of it. We are men of action, we have always led lives of many dangers, and I see no reason that one more risk—especially one so long desired—should convince us to change our ways.

And in this moment, I have nary a thought to spare for the future. I am back in your presence, in your good graces, and I am lying in your arms. I can think of nothing else but your smile, your warm affection, your body against mine—what we have just done, and when we will be able to do it again.

I give a sigh of contentment and relax against him. Your arms tighten about me and you rest your head against mine.

“I hate to disturb you, Sherlock.” Your voice is soft in my ear. “Especially when you’ve just made yourself so comfortable… but you’ll have to let me clean us up before we make any more mess of the settee.”

The settee has been mostly spared, as have I. Most of the mess is on your clothes, which I suppose you’ve given up for a lost cause. There will be no explaining these stains to Mrs Hudson.

Perhaps I am being unfair, as the discomfort is almost entirely yours, but I cannot help myself. I nuzzle at the corner of your jaw, kiss at your neck, whisper in your ear. “A moment more, my dear man.” You acquiesce, pliant in my embrace, and I tangle my fingers in your hair, twist my neck upward, and kiss you breathless. I am not quite ready to let you go. I do not think I ever shall be.