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holmesticeTitle: In a Family Way
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blighted_garden
Author:mistyzeo
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson, Mrs Hudson, OCs
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of depression
Summary: After the events of The Empty House, Holmes invites Watson to move back into 221 Baker Street. Watson does so, and brings along his two-year-old-daughter.
I crowdsourced my beta job, so many thanks are due totripleransom who took up the mantle and offered many valuable suggestions. \o/
"I shall only be gone a few hours," Watson said, once more for good measure, halfway out the sitting room door. There was a cab waiting for him in the street to answer the urgent summons of a patient. Said patient had relocated herself to her family estate in Richmond that would take the poor man some time to get to, especially at this time in the evening. But she had wired that afternoon begging him to come, and he, devoted physician, was off.
Maggie and I looked at him from our relative positions on the carpet and the settee, and then looked at one another.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because," I told her, "ladies with ailments are not to be ignored."
"Holmes," Watson said warningly. He was clutching his hat very tightly in his hands.
"Yes, yes, I know." I waved him off. "We're going to have a grand time, Watson, do get on." What I didn't say, since we both knew it and relied heavily on the truth of it, was that Mrs Hudson had promised to pop in from time to time, approximately once every half hour, to check on our progress. If the furniture was intact and the flat was not on fire, I would consider the evening a success.
"Bed at eight," he said, and shut the door.
It was a quarter past six. God, what was I going to do with her?
"Holmes," Maggie said, in a perfect imitation of her father, pitched up the register. "Holmes, look." She was holding out her doll to me, the one with the porcelain head and arms, real blonde hair, and a red silk dress. The doll stared at me with empty eyes.
"What's the matter?" I had never made a study of children. My encounters with them, as an adult, had been brief and generally unpleasant. The boy who tortured his dog came to mind, reminiscent of an abusive father. Then there was the boy who had been presumed abducted by his German instructor. Children got into trouble, in my experience, and were hopeless at getting themselves out of it. It worried me a great deal that Maggie might be the same way.
"She's sick," Maggie said. "She has a cough."
"If she's sick, she must be put to bed," I replied. Maggie got up from the carpet and came over to me, entirely silent in her stockings. Her dress was rumpled. She clambered up onto the settee beside me and leaned against my leg. The doll was laid along my thigh.
"She doesn't want to go to bed."
"She looks very tired, Maggie," I said slowly. Was I playing pretend? Only for this girl. "You're going to have to be firm with her. If she wants to get well again."
"I'm the doctor," Maggie said proudly. "Charlotte, you must go to bed." The doll didn't seem to disagree, but Maggie began to pet her hair. "Hush now, don't cry. I'm going to give you some tea and then you will sleep."
I found a tea cup abandoned on the side table and offered it to her. She gave me a look, head tilted sideways, skepticism writ clear on her face.
"It's empty," she said.
"W— yes," I said. "I don't want you to spill anything."
"It's empty."
"All right, but we haven't got any tea." I got up and poured a splash of water from the pitcher into the bottom of the cup. As I handed it to her, I remembered Watson's efforts. "What do you say?"
"Thank you," she said, and poured the water on the doll's face. At least I had avoided a tea incident, I thought.
Maggie entered into a series of negotiations with the doll and I, feeling dismissed, went to find the evening paper.
Supper came with Mrs Hudson's first check-in, the food for Maggie's benefit and the visit for mine. Mrs Hudson plunked the girl into her chair and sat me down beside her.
"Even if you're not eating, Mr Holmes," she said, "you cannot leave her on her own; she will make a terrific mess."
"She'll do that regardless," I said, thinking of the lengths Watson went to to keep his own shirtfront intact.
Finely sliced chicken was the highlight of the meal, accompanied by a spoonful of pease and a single small baked potato. Mrs Hudson cut open the potato and deposited a pat of butter into the middle of it, while I tucked a napkin into the neck of Maggie's dress. Maggie had brought the doll to the table, her hair still damp from her soaking.
"You'll have to put that away," I said, reaching for it.
"No!" Maggie shrieked, snatching it out of my grasp and clutching it to her.
"Now, darling," Mrs Hudson began, and Maggie began to wail, her face turning abruptly pink and fat tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
"Wait," I said, as if that would help, "wait, Maggie, please." What would Watson do? I'd heard him scold her about the toys before, hadn't I? Supper was not a place for such things, even I knew that. But I hadn't the heart to take the doll away. "What if she sits at your side?" I asked, trying not to raise my voice over her extravagant sobs.
Maggie stopped, blinking at me. Her face was damp all the way down to her collar.
"She can't eat supper lying on the table," I said, holding out my hands in surrender. "She needs to sit in her seat, just like you."
"I'll just be downstairs," Mrs Hudson whispered in my ear, but before I could turn and beg her not to go, she had vanished. Damn the woman.
I spent the meal regaling Maggie with stories of some of my cases, and she spent it occupied with mashing pease everywhere. I managed to keep them out of her hair, and mostly off her dress, but the tablecloth was a lost cause. For dessert we were afforded a single lemon biscuit for her, and a cup of coffee for me, which we both consumed with relish.
Afterwards, she convinced me to play Horse and Buggy, in which I naturally played the horse. The state of my hands and knees was probably appalling, but she giggled so much and with such shameless joy that I hardly noticed. She clung to my shirt collar and shrieked, kicking her heels into my ribs, and when I reared up she screamed at the top of her voice. I caught her behind my back with both hands on her bum and Mrs Hudson winked at me from the doorway.
Maggie was rubbing her eyes with her tiny fists by a quarter to eight, but she resolutely refused to go to bed. "No!" was a phrase I thought I'd gotten used to hearing from her, but it had never been directed at me with such ferocity.
"Just the nightgown," I pleaded, kneeling on the floor in the nursery. She had allowed me to help her take her dress off, and now was determined to remain naked. I didn't exactly blame her. Even shirtsleeves felt too warm up here, especially after an evening spent crawling around the flat. "Just the nightgown and drawers."
"I want daddy," she said, crouching to wrap her arms around her knees and put her face in her hands.
"I know," I said, "I do too, desperately, for so many bloody reasons, but he's coming back tonight and I promised him I'd have you asleep on time."
"No," Maggie said again. She glared at me between her fingers. "I don't want to. I want daddy."
"What if we wait for him?" I suggested. Reasoning with her seemed to be more effective than flat-out demands. "Put on the nightgown for me and we'll go back downstairs to wait. I'll read to you, and Watson— that is, daddy will be home before you know it."
She frowned, considering the possibility that it might be a trick, and then stood up and held her arms over her head. I wrestled her into the nightgown and bloomers, insisted that she try and use the pot before we went back downstairs and then, my many missions accomplished, conceded to choose a book from her shelf and take it back to the sitting room.
Maggie climbed straight into my lap in the armchair with her little sharp knees and elbows, and settled down against my chest to help me read. She was warm in a way I had not expected, all the furnace-like heat of a body compacted down into a tiny package less than three feet tall. Her curly hair tickled my chin, so I smoothed it down and found I couldn't stop petting it. She snuggled against me, sucking her fingers, and turned the pages for me as I read aloud, usually before I was finished with the page.
"The moon has a face like the clock in the hall," I read, "She shines on thieves on the garden wall."
"What's funny?" Maggie asked, peering up at me as I laughed.
"If only it were that simple," I said. "Do you know your daddy helps me catch thieves?"
She nodded. "You stop bad men."
"Well, I often get to them after they've done bad things," I admitted. "But I do try."
Maggie tapped the book, bored of my self-reflection.
"Sorry," I said. "On streets and fields and harbour quays…"
She fell asleep by the time I had reached, "The rain is raining all around, It falls on field and tree, It rains on the umbrellas here, And on the ships at sea."
"Trite," I muttered, and realized she had gone quiet. She was breathing regularly, snuffling against my dressing gown, and still sucking determinedly on those fingers. I dared not disturb her. It was now nearly nine o'clock, and the thought of getting her up again and put to bed made me tremble. Besides, I had promised her we would sit and wait for Watson to come home. He might not be impressed that I hadn't managed to get her actually into her bed for the night, but I decided to leave that task to him. He was much better at it.
I put the book down beside the chair and found my palm drawn to the curve of Maggie's back where she was snuggled against me. Watson had been speaking the truth: she really was an incredible creature. So much spirit contained in such a little body. She had none of the cares and concerns I remembered having as a child, she only needed to know that her daddy loved her and that was enough. It coloured every single one of her actions, even her naughty ones. And I was certainly growing on her. Three months ago she'd never have let me feed her pease or cuddle her in my arms. Three months ago, I wouldn't trust myself to handle her. Things had certainly changed.
+++
I opened my eyes to find Watson standing beside his chair, his hat in his hands, looking at us with his head cocked to one side, a faint smile on his face. In the light of the lamp I had left burning, I could see the gleam of tears in his eyes. I started, terrified that something was wrong, but he quickly brushed them away and came over. It was late, and the exhaustion written in the lines on his face was outshone by the happiness there.
"Was she good?" he asked in a whisper. He smelled of the city, smoke and fog, and like himself, cedar and sandalwood.
"A nightmare," I said, smiling. "She takes after you. What time is it?"
"Nearly midnight. Shall I help you with that?" He reached for Maggie, and I eased her off of my shoulder. My arm was asleep down to my fingertips, but I helped him lift her. She blinked once and closed her eyes again, pressing her face into his neck. He put his hat down on the side table as he passed it, and I closed my eyes to listen to him move about above. I was warm in my chair, lightly chilled where the girl had rested, and I dozed a little while longer.
Then Watson was back, taking off his coat and looking at me surreptitiously. I shook myself awake and stood up, groaning with the stretch of my arms and legs, the crackle of my spine.
"Thank you," he said.
"Not at all," I replied. "She may not be my offspring, but she's as much my family as you are."
He stared at me, his face soft in the gas light. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"
I shrugged, slipping my hands into my trouser pockets. I felt unguarded like this, being found asleep with Maggie in my arms, my affection for her showing. She was half her father, and anything that was part of him I loved. "Do what?"
"Damn you," Watson breathed, sounding irritated and fond at the same time. He took three steps to cross the room and took my face in his hands before I could react. Then he was kissing me, his mouth warm and soft against mine, his moustache tickling my lip. I found a grip on his waistcoat and took hold, drawing him to me. I couldn't let him get away this time. I had to convince him to stay and let me prove myself to him.
"Please," I said, against his lips, "please." It unmanned me to say it, but I knew he had to hear it.
"Yes," he replied, sliding his fingers into my hair and kissing me again. "Yes, Holmes, yes."
I wrapped my arms around him in a powerful embrace and felt myself lost in his affection. He had control of the kiss, teasing me, tempting me with little flickers of his tongue. My hands roamed up and down his back, and he curled an arm around my waist. My heart swelled. Our bodies fit together so neatly, as if made that way. He had his head tilted back slightly, his chin tipped up, and he pulled me down to meet him, opening me up. Arousal flooded my body, heating my cheeks and sending blood pounding between my legs. I was hard for him, already aching, and could feel the press of his own desire against my thigh.
His fingers were in my hair, disarranging it. His fingertips against my scalp sent sensation racing across my skin, and I clung to him, moaning. Then I found the buttons of his waistcoat, and was determined to be rid of them. They came undone easily and he shrugged it off his shoulders without parting himself from our kiss, his teeth scraping my lower lip. With the change of grip, he was able to skim my dressing gown down my arms and pull my shirt tails from my trousers. Then his hands were on my bare skin, and I pulled away with a sharp gasp.
Watson stopped, his palms on my waist, staring up at me. I licked my lips.
"Come to bed with me," I said. "For tonight. We can— we can talk about it in the morning."
"I'm not certain that's wise," Watson replied, "but I will come."
I locked the bedroom door behind us. Watson had begun to strip with a kind of clinical efficiency, so I crossed the room to stop him. Instead, I took my time divesting him of his shirt and vest, as well as my own, pressing kisses all the while to the revealed curve of his shoulder and neck. He curled his fingers in my hair and sighed as I did so, his exhalation soft and warm against my cheek.
I sank to my knees and was presented with the distorted placket of his trousers, stretched over the evidence of his desire.
“Holmes,” he said softly, touching my face, “you don’t--”
“I want to do this,” I said, glancing up, “very, very badly.”
He bit his lip and nodded permission.
I fumbled open the buttons of his trousers and pulled them down, to be faced with his undeniable masculinity. He smelled of salt and earth, and he tasted so much sweeter. He filled my senses with warmth and wanting, heady desire and bitter promise. I took more than I could manage and coughed, but soon we had found a slow, slick rhythm that made my heart race and my face heat. Watson murmured and moaned, air hissing between his teeth.
He stopped me suddenly, pulling away with a curse. I stared up at him, panting, my lips numb.
“I’m sorry,” said he, “I was-- that is, it’s been rather a long time since I... well, I didn’t want it to be over so soon.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood up. When he tried to explain further, I kissed him, and he did not recoil from the taste of himself. Instead, he clutched at me, pressing his naked body against my half-clothed one, and I shook with need.
We finished undressing ourselves with barely a word, and I took him by the hips to lead him to my bed. I had to let go to lie back upon it, but a gesture had him crawling to meet me, kneeling between my spread thighs and holding himself up above me. I reached up to kiss him again.
“God, you’re magnificent,” he whispered against my mouth. His blue eyes were fathomless, dark and intent.
“Hush,” I said, embarrassed. He was the one worthy of admiration. He was strong and brave and kind, and I was the fool in love with him.
He kissed me and said, “Never. You know how I love to sing your praises.”
I snorted. “I wonder what your public would think,” I said.
“They’re your public, Holmes,” he replied, “and I’d never tell. This is for me alone.”
“God, yes.”
He lowered his hips, bringing us into perfect alignment, and I clung to him. He was still wet from my mouth. I tightened my knees about his hips and we began to move together, like the ocean, the swell and sway of the waves the model for our coupling. Watson bit back his sounds of pleasure, his throat tight, but I coaxed them from him and was awash in his joy. He was sweating, the powerful muscles of his back slick under my hands. The weight of his body atop me was an anchor, even as I felt myself lost in the pleasure, the satisfaction, the reward. Everything in me was beginning to tighten, to sharpen, and I slid a hand between us to speed him along.
He said, “Oh!” in my ear, and I felt him swell. With a gasp and a shudder, he spilled himself upon my belly. I bit down hard on his shoulder and followed, lit up inside and out. He groaned softly, his forehead finding a resting place on my clavicle.
I wiped my hand on the bed clothes and, not caring for the mess, hugged him to me. He relaxed, plastered against my body from hip to sternum, and kissed my chest where he could reach. I closed my eyes, suddenly overcome. I was trembling, and I knew he could feel it.
“Holmes,” he said, lifting his head to look at me. I turned my face away, ashamed. This was the danger of sex: the emotion that erased reason, stole dignity. I was swamped with joy and terror, unable to process either just then.
Watson cupped my face and kissed it dry, and then kissed my mouth until I breathed easier and could bear to let him go.
“I’m afraid if I stay here,” he whispered, “I will not hear her when she wakes.” He swallowed. “But I very much want to stay.”
“I want you to,” I replied. “We will be up before she is.”
“I doubt that,” he said wryly, smiling, “but I think I will risk it.”
He rolled to the side, and after we had wiped ourselves clean I pulled the blanket over us. He was like a furnace beside me. I turned onto my hip and he pressed up behind me, his arm over my middle, his nose against the nape of my neck. I squeezed his hand where it lay on my belly, and he kissed my spine.
Feeling him breathing against my skin, infinitely better than listening to it across the room, I fell asleep.
+++
We were secure in our affair for three blissful days, until one morning as Mrs Hudson laid out breakfast, Maggie announced, "My daddy loves Holmes."
Watson and I, standing far apart from one another occupied with entirely innocent pursuits, froze on the spot. Shock was like a cold fist in my stomach. My heart raced. I imagined I didn't care about the opinions of outsiders— I was an eccentric and I always had been— but Mrs Hudson was certainly not an outsider. She could put us to the street if she had half a mind, no matter what she'd let me get away with in the past.
"Yes, he does," Mrs Hudson said, with barely a pause. "And they both love you, isn't that nice? You're a very lucky girl, Miss Maggie, and don't you forget it."
"I won't," Maggie said.
I turned to look at Mrs Hudson, and she only gave me a placid smile. "Breakfast is ready, Mr Holmes," she said, "if you'll be eating today."
"Thank you," I murmured, barely able to hear myself over the rushing in my ears. Watson, by the window, was regaining the colour in his pallid face.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Mrs Hudson said, and departed quietly.
Watson and I glanced at each other and then away, suddenly uncertain. I fiddled with the papers on the mantle, and he went to sit by his daughter.
“Maggie, darling,” he said, “do you remember when we talked about things that are private, and things that are public?”
She nodded. She looked like she’d much rather be talking about eating than talking about privacy, but it had to be done. This was what he’d been afraid of. I stayed where I was, my head down, listening.
“Holmes and daddy aren’t like daddy and mummy,” Watson went on, choosing his words carefully. “We have a friendship that is private, and someday soon I hope you’ll understand what it means, but for now I need you to keep that in mind.”
“Why?” she asked. There was a point of pain in my chest, behind my breastbone. I heard Watson sigh.
“Because you’re right,” he said, “I do love Holmes, but not everyone thinks that’s as grand as I think it is.”
The pain eased a bit, and I was able to look at him. He was holding Maggie’s hand in his and she was peering earnestly into his face.
"Why?" she asked again.
"I don't know," Watson said sadly. "I think they're wrong. But the fact of the matter is that it's private, and it's something we keep to ourselves, do you understand?"
Frowning, she nodded again.
Watson asked, "Are you hungry?" to change the subject, and the matter was dropped.
That night, I said, "I think it's grand," into his hair as we lay tangled together in my bed, sweaty and exhausted.
"Hm?"
"That you love me."
He smiled and spread his palm across my bare chest. "Yes?"
"Yes." I kissed his forehead. "And I do, as well. Love you. Madly, in fact."
+++
A week later, an constable from the Yard turned up on our doorstep. There had been a murder in Islington in suspicious circumstances, and Lestrade had sent the man 'round to fetch us. Watson had Maggie on his hip and they were discussing the pigeons on the roof at Camden House across the way. The constable lowered his voice in his description for the sake of Maggie's ears, but Watson caught most of what was said.
"I can't go," he said when the constable had been sent for a cab, straightening Maggie's dress out. "You know I can't. I'm not taking her to a fresh crime scene."
"I know," I said woefully. "Your notes are always invaluable, but I think for a while we can do without a published account."
He sighed. "Go, and come straight back and tell me all about it."
I risked a peck on the cheek before I went, for both of them, and hurried after the constable.
The scene of the murder was a grisly one, and I was immediately glad Watson's common sense was intact. A workhouse foreman lay dead in a pool of blood so wide I wondered if there was any left inside his body at all. His only wound was a puncture to his neck, half an inch across. This was no place for a child.
A week or two after the conclusion of that, Watson was invited to attend a medical conference in town. Though he was not an actively practicing physician, and claimed he had nothing to add to the conversation of modern practices, I could tell he itched to go. So I arranged a outing for Maggie and myself, complete with picnic to take to the park for a few hours of exploring, and sent Watson on his way. He returned energetic and grateful, physically demonstrative, and after he had concluding showing his gratitude for what I had done— which was hardly anything, in my opinion, and certainly nothing I wouldn't do for him again— he said, "She's splendid, she is, but sometimes an afternoon away does wonders for my sanity."
"I shall strive to supply them as often as necessary," I said, dragging contentedly on my cigarette.
He kissed my shoulder. "And I shall be grateful at least as often as that."
Then came the matter of the White Slipper, which called us once again out of the city. It was not so gruesome as the murder in the workhouse, so we packed up twice as much as we normally would and took Maggie with us. She could not have been more pleased by riding in a train, and was constantly pointing out the windows, showing us the farm animals and the little towns we passed. Watson walked with her around the grounds of the manor house we had been summoned to, while I poked around inside. Over supper at the inn, I went over all I had noticed, and Watson, as ever, was my conductor of light. We had the case solved by the following afternoon, but we stayed in the village another night all the same.
By the time Maggie's third birthday arrived, I couldn't imagine life without her. She was learning to read, and I provided her with old sensationalist literature to pore over in her study. Watson had regained much of his former vitality, aided by the twin duties of keeping both Maggie and myself hale and healthy, and slept more and more often in my bed. Sometimes I was even allowed to sleep with him in his, but Watson blushed at the thought of Maggie being so nearby, and so it was not very frequent.
And I, who had never considered myself a family man, played the part of second father very well, if I may be permitted to say so. The look on Watson's face whenever he caught myself and Maggie together often cracked my heart in two, but a single kiss from either of them would mend it straight away.
+++
Recipient:
blighted_gardenAuthor:
mistyzeoCharacters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson, Mrs Hudson, OCs
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of depression
Summary: After the events of The Empty House, Holmes invites Watson to move back into 221 Baker Street. Watson does so, and brings along his two-year-old-daughter.
I crowdsourced my beta job, so many thanks are due to
tripleransom who took up the mantle and offered many valuable suggestions. \o/"I shall only be gone a few hours," Watson said, once more for good measure, halfway out the sitting room door. There was a cab waiting for him in the street to answer the urgent summons of a patient. Said patient had relocated herself to her family estate in Richmond that would take the poor man some time to get to, especially at this time in the evening. But she had wired that afternoon begging him to come, and he, devoted physician, was off.
Maggie and I looked at him from our relative positions on the carpet and the settee, and then looked at one another.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because," I told her, "ladies with ailments are not to be ignored."
"Holmes," Watson said warningly. He was clutching his hat very tightly in his hands.
"Yes, yes, I know." I waved him off. "We're going to have a grand time, Watson, do get on." What I didn't say, since we both knew it and relied heavily on the truth of it, was that Mrs Hudson had promised to pop in from time to time, approximately once every half hour, to check on our progress. If the furniture was intact and the flat was not on fire, I would consider the evening a success.
"Bed at eight," he said, and shut the door.
It was a quarter past six. God, what was I going to do with her?
"Holmes," Maggie said, in a perfect imitation of her father, pitched up the register. "Holmes, look." She was holding out her doll to me, the one with the porcelain head and arms, real blonde hair, and a red silk dress. The doll stared at me with empty eyes.
"What's the matter?" I had never made a study of children. My encounters with them, as an adult, had been brief and generally unpleasant. The boy who tortured his dog came to mind, reminiscent of an abusive father. Then there was the boy who had been presumed abducted by his German instructor. Children got into trouble, in my experience, and were hopeless at getting themselves out of it. It worried me a great deal that Maggie might be the same way.
"She's sick," Maggie said. "She has a cough."
"If she's sick, she must be put to bed," I replied. Maggie got up from the carpet and came over to me, entirely silent in her stockings. Her dress was rumpled. She clambered up onto the settee beside me and leaned against my leg. The doll was laid along my thigh.
"She doesn't want to go to bed."
"She looks very tired, Maggie," I said slowly. Was I playing pretend? Only for this girl. "You're going to have to be firm with her. If she wants to get well again."
"I'm the doctor," Maggie said proudly. "Charlotte, you must go to bed." The doll didn't seem to disagree, but Maggie began to pet her hair. "Hush now, don't cry. I'm going to give you some tea and then you will sleep."
I found a tea cup abandoned on the side table and offered it to her. She gave me a look, head tilted sideways, skepticism writ clear on her face.
"It's empty," she said.
"W— yes," I said. "I don't want you to spill anything."
"It's empty."
"All right, but we haven't got any tea." I got up and poured a splash of water from the pitcher into the bottom of the cup. As I handed it to her, I remembered Watson's efforts. "What do you say?"
"Thank you," she said, and poured the water on the doll's face. At least I had avoided a tea incident, I thought.
Maggie entered into a series of negotiations with the doll and I, feeling dismissed, went to find the evening paper.
Supper came with Mrs Hudson's first check-in, the food for Maggie's benefit and the visit for mine. Mrs Hudson plunked the girl into her chair and sat me down beside her.
"Even if you're not eating, Mr Holmes," she said, "you cannot leave her on her own; she will make a terrific mess."
"She'll do that regardless," I said, thinking of the lengths Watson went to to keep his own shirtfront intact.
Finely sliced chicken was the highlight of the meal, accompanied by a spoonful of pease and a single small baked potato. Mrs Hudson cut open the potato and deposited a pat of butter into the middle of it, while I tucked a napkin into the neck of Maggie's dress. Maggie had brought the doll to the table, her hair still damp from her soaking.
"You'll have to put that away," I said, reaching for it.
"No!" Maggie shrieked, snatching it out of my grasp and clutching it to her.
"Now, darling," Mrs Hudson began, and Maggie began to wail, her face turning abruptly pink and fat tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
"Wait," I said, as if that would help, "wait, Maggie, please." What would Watson do? I'd heard him scold her about the toys before, hadn't I? Supper was not a place for such things, even I knew that. But I hadn't the heart to take the doll away. "What if she sits at your side?" I asked, trying not to raise my voice over her extravagant sobs.
Maggie stopped, blinking at me. Her face was damp all the way down to her collar.
"She can't eat supper lying on the table," I said, holding out my hands in surrender. "She needs to sit in her seat, just like you."
"I'll just be downstairs," Mrs Hudson whispered in my ear, but before I could turn and beg her not to go, she had vanished. Damn the woman.
I spent the meal regaling Maggie with stories of some of my cases, and she spent it occupied with mashing pease everywhere. I managed to keep them out of her hair, and mostly off her dress, but the tablecloth was a lost cause. For dessert we were afforded a single lemon biscuit for her, and a cup of coffee for me, which we both consumed with relish.
Afterwards, she convinced me to play Horse and Buggy, in which I naturally played the horse. The state of my hands and knees was probably appalling, but she giggled so much and with such shameless joy that I hardly noticed. She clung to my shirt collar and shrieked, kicking her heels into my ribs, and when I reared up she screamed at the top of her voice. I caught her behind my back with both hands on her bum and Mrs Hudson winked at me from the doorway.
Maggie was rubbing her eyes with her tiny fists by a quarter to eight, but she resolutely refused to go to bed. "No!" was a phrase I thought I'd gotten used to hearing from her, but it had never been directed at me with such ferocity.
"Just the nightgown," I pleaded, kneeling on the floor in the nursery. She had allowed me to help her take her dress off, and now was determined to remain naked. I didn't exactly blame her. Even shirtsleeves felt too warm up here, especially after an evening spent crawling around the flat. "Just the nightgown and drawers."
"I want daddy," she said, crouching to wrap her arms around her knees and put her face in her hands.
"I know," I said, "I do too, desperately, for so many bloody reasons, but he's coming back tonight and I promised him I'd have you asleep on time."
"No," Maggie said again. She glared at me between her fingers. "I don't want to. I want daddy."
"What if we wait for him?" I suggested. Reasoning with her seemed to be more effective than flat-out demands. "Put on the nightgown for me and we'll go back downstairs to wait. I'll read to you, and Watson— that is, daddy will be home before you know it."
She frowned, considering the possibility that it might be a trick, and then stood up and held her arms over her head. I wrestled her into the nightgown and bloomers, insisted that she try and use the pot before we went back downstairs and then, my many missions accomplished, conceded to choose a book from her shelf and take it back to the sitting room.
Maggie climbed straight into my lap in the armchair with her little sharp knees and elbows, and settled down against my chest to help me read. She was warm in a way I had not expected, all the furnace-like heat of a body compacted down into a tiny package less than three feet tall. Her curly hair tickled my chin, so I smoothed it down and found I couldn't stop petting it. She snuggled against me, sucking her fingers, and turned the pages for me as I read aloud, usually before I was finished with the page.
"The moon has a face like the clock in the hall," I read, "She shines on thieves on the garden wall."
"What's funny?" Maggie asked, peering up at me as I laughed.
"If only it were that simple," I said. "Do you know your daddy helps me catch thieves?"
She nodded. "You stop bad men."
"Well, I often get to them after they've done bad things," I admitted. "But I do try."
Maggie tapped the book, bored of my self-reflection.
"Sorry," I said. "On streets and fields and harbour quays…"
She fell asleep by the time I had reached, "The rain is raining all around, It falls on field and tree, It rains on the umbrellas here, And on the ships at sea."
"Trite," I muttered, and realized she had gone quiet. She was breathing regularly, snuffling against my dressing gown, and still sucking determinedly on those fingers. I dared not disturb her. It was now nearly nine o'clock, and the thought of getting her up again and put to bed made me tremble. Besides, I had promised her we would sit and wait for Watson to come home. He might not be impressed that I hadn't managed to get her actually into her bed for the night, but I decided to leave that task to him. He was much better at it.
I put the book down beside the chair and found my palm drawn to the curve of Maggie's back where she was snuggled against me. Watson had been speaking the truth: she really was an incredible creature. So much spirit contained in such a little body. She had none of the cares and concerns I remembered having as a child, she only needed to know that her daddy loved her and that was enough. It coloured every single one of her actions, even her naughty ones. And I was certainly growing on her. Three months ago she'd never have let me feed her pease or cuddle her in my arms. Three months ago, I wouldn't trust myself to handle her. Things had certainly changed.
I opened my eyes to find Watson standing beside his chair, his hat in his hands, looking at us with his head cocked to one side, a faint smile on his face. In the light of the lamp I had left burning, I could see the gleam of tears in his eyes. I started, terrified that something was wrong, but he quickly brushed them away and came over. It was late, and the exhaustion written in the lines on his face was outshone by the happiness there.
"Was she good?" he asked in a whisper. He smelled of the city, smoke and fog, and like himself, cedar and sandalwood.
"A nightmare," I said, smiling. "She takes after you. What time is it?"
"Nearly midnight. Shall I help you with that?" He reached for Maggie, and I eased her off of my shoulder. My arm was asleep down to my fingertips, but I helped him lift her. She blinked once and closed her eyes again, pressing her face into his neck. He put his hat down on the side table as he passed it, and I closed my eyes to listen to him move about above. I was warm in my chair, lightly chilled where the girl had rested, and I dozed a little while longer.
Then Watson was back, taking off his coat and looking at me surreptitiously. I shook myself awake and stood up, groaning with the stretch of my arms and legs, the crackle of my spine.
"Thank you," he said.
"Not at all," I replied. "She may not be my offspring, but she's as much my family as you are."
He stared at me, his face soft in the gas light. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"
I shrugged, slipping my hands into my trouser pockets. I felt unguarded like this, being found asleep with Maggie in my arms, my affection for her showing. She was half her father, and anything that was part of him I loved. "Do what?"
"Damn you," Watson breathed, sounding irritated and fond at the same time. He took three steps to cross the room and took my face in his hands before I could react. Then he was kissing me, his mouth warm and soft against mine, his moustache tickling my lip. I found a grip on his waistcoat and took hold, drawing him to me. I couldn't let him get away this time. I had to convince him to stay and let me prove myself to him.
"Please," I said, against his lips, "please." It unmanned me to say it, but I knew he had to hear it.
"Yes," he replied, sliding his fingers into my hair and kissing me again. "Yes, Holmes, yes."
I wrapped my arms around him in a powerful embrace and felt myself lost in his affection. He had control of the kiss, teasing me, tempting me with little flickers of his tongue. My hands roamed up and down his back, and he curled an arm around my waist. My heart swelled. Our bodies fit together so neatly, as if made that way. He had his head tilted back slightly, his chin tipped up, and he pulled me down to meet him, opening me up. Arousal flooded my body, heating my cheeks and sending blood pounding between my legs. I was hard for him, already aching, and could feel the press of his own desire against my thigh.
His fingers were in my hair, disarranging it. His fingertips against my scalp sent sensation racing across my skin, and I clung to him, moaning. Then I found the buttons of his waistcoat, and was determined to be rid of them. They came undone easily and he shrugged it off his shoulders without parting himself from our kiss, his teeth scraping my lower lip. With the change of grip, he was able to skim my dressing gown down my arms and pull my shirt tails from my trousers. Then his hands were on my bare skin, and I pulled away with a sharp gasp.
Watson stopped, his palms on my waist, staring up at me. I licked my lips.
"Come to bed with me," I said. "For tonight. We can— we can talk about it in the morning."
"I'm not certain that's wise," Watson replied, "but I will come."
I locked the bedroom door behind us. Watson had begun to strip with a kind of clinical efficiency, so I crossed the room to stop him. Instead, I took my time divesting him of his shirt and vest, as well as my own, pressing kisses all the while to the revealed curve of his shoulder and neck. He curled his fingers in my hair and sighed as I did so, his exhalation soft and warm against my cheek.
I sank to my knees and was presented with the distorted placket of his trousers, stretched over the evidence of his desire.
“Holmes,” he said softly, touching my face, “you don’t--”
“I want to do this,” I said, glancing up, “very, very badly.”
He bit his lip and nodded permission.
I fumbled open the buttons of his trousers and pulled them down, to be faced with his undeniable masculinity. He smelled of salt and earth, and he tasted so much sweeter. He filled my senses with warmth and wanting, heady desire and bitter promise. I took more than I could manage and coughed, but soon we had found a slow, slick rhythm that made my heart race and my face heat. Watson murmured and moaned, air hissing between his teeth.
He stopped me suddenly, pulling away with a curse. I stared up at him, panting, my lips numb.
“I’m sorry,” said he, “I was-- that is, it’s been rather a long time since I... well, I didn’t want it to be over so soon.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood up. When he tried to explain further, I kissed him, and he did not recoil from the taste of himself. Instead, he clutched at me, pressing his naked body against my half-clothed one, and I shook with need.
We finished undressing ourselves with barely a word, and I took him by the hips to lead him to my bed. I had to let go to lie back upon it, but a gesture had him crawling to meet me, kneeling between my spread thighs and holding himself up above me. I reached up to kiss him again.
“God, you’re magnificent,” he whispered against my mouth. His blue eyes were fathomless, dark and intent.
“Hush,” I said, embarrassed. He was the one worthy of admiration. He was strong and brave and kind, and I was the fool in love with him.
He kissed me and said, “Never. You know how I love to sing your praises.”
I snorted. “I wonder what your public would think,” I said.
“They’re your public, Holmes,” he replied, “and I’d never tell. This is for me alone.”
“God, yes.”
He lowered his hips, bringing us into perfect alignment, and I clung to him. He was still wet from my mouth. I tightened my knees about his hips and we began to move together, like the ocean, the swell and sway of the waves the model for our coupling. Watson bit back his sounds of pleasure, his throat tight, but I coaxed them from him and was awash in his joy. He was sweating, the powerful muscles of his back slick under my hands. The weight of his body atop me was an anchor, even as I felt myself lost in the pleasure, the satisfaction, the reward. Everything in me was beginning to tighten, to sharpen, and I slid a hand between us to speed him along.
He said, “Oh!” in my ear, and I felt him swell. With a gasp and a shudder, he spilled himself upon my belly. I bit down hard on his shoulder and followed, lit up inside and out. He groaned softly, his forehead finding a resting place on my clavicle.
I wiped my hand on the bed clothes and, not caring for the mess, hugged him to me. He relaxed, plastered against my body from hip to sternum, and kissed my chest where he could reach. I closed my eyes, suddenly overcome. I was trembling, and I knew he could feel it.
“Holmes,” he said, lifting his head to look at me. I turned my face away, ashamed. This was the danger of sex: the emotion that erased reason, stole dignity. I was swamped with joy and terror, unable to process either just then.
Watson cupped my face and kissed it dry, and then kissed my mouth until I breathed easier and could bear to let him go.
“I’m afraid if I stay here,” he whispered, “I will not hear her when she wakes.” He swallowed. “But I very much want to stay.”
“I want you to,” I replied. “We will be up before she is.”
“I doubt that,” he said wryly, smiling, “but I think I will risk it.”
He rolled to the side, and after we had wiped ourselves clean I pulled the blanket over us. He was like a furnace beside me. I turned onto my hip and he pressed up behind me, his arm over my middle, his nose against the nape of my neck. I squeezed his hand where it lay on my belly, and he kissed my spine.
Feeling him breathing against my skin, infinitely better than listening to it across the room, I fell asleep.
We were secure in our affair for three blissful days, until one morning as Mrs Hudson laid out breakfast, Maggie announced, "My daddy loves Holmes."
Watson and I, standing far apart from one another occupied with entirely innocent pursuits, froze on the spot. Shock was like a cold fist in my stomach. My heart raced. I imagined I didn't care about the opinions of outsiders— I was an eccentric and I always had been— but Mrs Hudson was certainly not an outsider. She could put us to the street if she had half a mind, no matter what she'd let me get away with in the past.
"Yes, he does," Mrs Hudson said, with barely a pause. "And they both love you, isn't that nice? You're a very lucky girl, Miss Maggie, and don't you forget it."
"I won't," Maggie said.
I turned to look at Mrs Hudson, and she only gave me a placid smile. "Breakfast is ready, Mr Holmes," she said, "if you'll be eating today."
"Thank you," I murmured, barely able to hear myself over the rushing in my ears. Watson, by the window, was regaining the colour in his pallid face.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Mrs Hudson said, and departed quietly.
Watson and I glanced at each other and then away, suddenly uncertain. I fiddled with the papers on the mantle, and he went to sit by his daughter.
“Maggie, darling,” he said, “do you remember when we talked about things that are private, and things that are public?”
She nodded. She looked like she’d much rather be talking about eating than talking about privacy, but it had to be done. This was what he’d been afraid of. I stayed where I was, my head down, listening.
“Holmes and daddy aren’t like daddy and mummy,” Watson went on, choosing his words carefully. “We have a friendship that is private, and someday soon I hope you’ll understand what it means, but for now I need you to keep that in mind.”
“Why?” she asked. There was a point of pain in my chest, behind my breastbone. I heard Watson sigh.
“Because you’re right,” he said, “I do love Holmes, but not everyone thinks that’s as grand as I think it is.”
The pain eased a bit, and I was able to look at him. He was holding Maggie’s hand in his and she was peering earnestly into his face.
"Why?" she asked again.
"I don't know," Watson said sadly. "I think they're wrong. But the fact of the matter is that it's private, and it's something we keep to ourselves, do you understand?"
Frowning, she nodded again.
Watson asked, "Are you hungry?" to change the subject, and the matter was dropped.
That night, I said, "I think it's grand," into his hair as we lay tangled together in my bed, sweaty and exhausted.
"Hm?"
"That you love me."
He smiled and spread his palm across my bare chest. "Yes?"
"Yes." I kissed his forehead. "And I do, as well. Love you. Madly, in fact."
A week later, an constable from the Yard turned up on our doorstep. There had been a murder in Islington in suspicious circumstances, and Lestrade had sent the man 'round to fetch us. Watson had Maggie on his hip and they were discussing the pigeons on the roof at Camden House across the way. The constable lowered his voice in his description for the sake of Maggie's ears, but Watson caught most of what was said.
"I can't go," he said when the constable had been sent for a cab, straightening Maggie's dress out. "You know I can't. I'm not taking her to a fresh crime scene."
"I know," I said woefully. "Your notes are always invaluable, but I think for a while we can do without a published account."
He sighed. "Go, and come straight back and tell me all about it."
I risked a peck on the cheek before I went, for both of them, and hurried after the constable.
The scene of the murder was a grisly one, and I was immediately glad Watson's common sense was intact. A workhouse foreman lay dead in a pool of blood so wide I wondered if there was any left inside his body at all. His only wound was a puncture to his neck, half an inch across. This was no place for a child.
A week or two after the conclusion of that, Watson was invited to attend a medical conference in town. Though he was not an actively practicing physician, and claimed he had nothing to add to the conversation of modern practices, I could tell he itched to go. So I arranged a outing for Maggie and myself, complete with picnic to take to the park for a few hours of exploring, and sent Watson on his way. He returned energetic and grateful, physically demonstrative, and after he had concluding showing his gratitude for what I had done— which was hardly anything, in my opinion, and certainly nothing I wouldn't do for him again— he said, "She's splendid, she is, but sometimes an afternoon away does wonders for my sanity."
"I shall strive to supply them as often as necessary," I said, dragging contentedly on my cigarette.
He kissed my shoulder. "And I shall be grateful at least as often as that."
Then came the matter of the White Slipper, which called us once again out of the city. It was not so gruesome as the murder in the workhouse, so we packed up twice as much as we normally would and took Maggie with us. She could not have been more pleased by riding in a train, and was constantly pointing out the windows, showing us the farm animals and the little towns we passed. Watson walked with her around the grounds of the manor house we had been summoned to, while I poked around inside. Over supper at the inn, I went over all I had noticed, and Watson, as ever, was my conductor of light. We had the case solved by the following afternoon, but we stayed in the village another night all the same.
By the time Maggie's third birthday arrived, I couldn't imagine life without her. She was learning to read, and I provided her with old sensationalist literature to pore over in her study. Watson had regained much of his former vitality, aided by the twin duties of keeping both Maggie and myself hale and healthy, and slept more and more often in my bed. Sometimes I was even allowed to sleep with him in his, but Watson blushed at the thought of Maggie being so nearby, and so it was not very frequent.
And I, who had never considered myself a family man, played the part of second father very well, if I may be permitted to say so. The look on Watson's face whenever he caught myself and Maggie together often cracked my heart in two, but a single kiss from either of them would mend it straight away.
