Fic for k_e_p: A Study on the Relations Between Consulting Detectives and Doctors: With Observations

[holmesticemods]

Title: A Study on the Relations Between Consulting Detectives and Doctors: With Observations on The Cornish Countryside, Drug Abuse, and Talking about Feelings
Recipient: k_e_p
Author: colebaltblue
Verse: Coules through-and-through (although it absolutely can be enjoyed as an ACD/Canon story)
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson, past Watson/Morstan, mentions of Holmes/Hopkins
Rating: Teen and Up
Word Count: 5,652
Warnings: canon-compliant discussions of drug abuse
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson go on vacation in Cornwall. What follows is madness, murder, and a case of revenge out of darkest Africa. Sherlock Holmes produced a work titled A Study of the Chaldean Roots in the Ancient Cornish Language: With Observations on the Early Tin Trade in West Cornwall from the experience and John Watson wrote The Devil's Foot. Make of that what you will.


Notes: Dear k_e_p (language escapes) my working title for this story was Some Pterosaurs Were Quadrupeds, or This Title Is Unrelated to the Story But was a Cool Fact so I Used it as a Placeholder and I tried very valiantly to work dinosaurs (even though yes, Pterosaurs are NOT dinosaurs) into the story, but I failed. It's my one regret. Otherwise, I thoroughly enjoyed writing this. An enormous please and thank you to my betas. They're the reason this is as good as it is.

Also on AO3: A Study on the Relations Between Consulting Detectives and Doctors: With Observations on The Cornish Countryside, Drug Abuse, and Talking about Feelings




Through my long association with Holmes I have learned two very important things. First, for all his intelligence, he is a very silly man. And second, loving and being loved by a man like Sherlock Holmes is very difficult indeed. It was spring of 1910 and I had left him in Sussex while I returned to London for a visit, hoping to find the motivation to work on some more stories; it had now been over a year since my last publication. I spent my time collecting old notes, agonizing over which cases were suitable for publishing, and learning to miss him again.


The decision to spend the spring in London had been made after a very tiresome winter trapped indoors with Holmes and his habits. The first month apart, I believe we both enjoyed our distance. The second, he answered my letters with telegrams and hastily scribbled notes that were letters in name only. The third month began with a sure sign that the silly man missed me.


Commencing study of linguistics STOP origin of the culdee fascinating STOP as are tin mines


I laughed out loud, reminded of the events that took place in the spring of 1897. I could laugh now, with years of peace and happiness between this spring and that one. In a fit of inspiration I returned to my lodgings and spent the rest of the day scribbling out the tale of the Cornish horror—strangest case I have handled. After booking my return ticket to Sussex, of course.


I had learned long ago his words of affection were in a different language entirely. It was that case, that one in particular, that had changed everything for us.


~


Holmes's miraculous return to life and London in 1894 renewed a friendship that had faltered after my marriage. It wasn't until after I had married that I had realized that being lovers with Holmes had altered our friendship for me. The two were more intertwined than I had realized, and that by severing one, I irrevocably altered the other. If we were to rekindle that part of our relationship now, I wanted an intimate life partner, not simply an outlet for frustrations and physical urges when the mood suited him.


I had attempted, after our marriage, to be a doting husband. Our relationship had been tender and loving, but it had taken me awhile before I realized that was not what Mary had wanted. Mary's heart belong to another as much as mine did. We could not divorce, but I assured her she would not find any objection from me if she wished to start over somewhere else. I only made her promise that she would let me know she was well and happy.


So after Holmes returned, when I wrote to her that I was selling my practice and returning to Baker Street, Mary expressed no surprise.


Domestic life with Mary had awoken something in me. I desired something more than long periods of bachelorhood punctuated by moments of overwhelming excitement. I was content to be Holmes' friend for the rest of our lives, but I did not desire to be an occasional bed partner, no matter how enchanting I found him.


But old habits are difficult to break.


We fell into the routines of our younger years, the easy back and forth of case work, the late nights and whirlwind trips, the intimate friendship. But we were no longer young men - both of us were a decade older than we were when we first met. Holmes and I had been lovers in our early years, although with the casualness of two young, attractive men. I had other lovers, men and women, and I was aware of at least two of his, both male. I had no idea if there were others, nor did I care to know. We came together when it was convenient for both of us, and it meant nothing more.


After his return, I have to admit that I allowed myself to fall into bed with him more than a few times, but each time it drove a wedge between us. After about year; we stopped. Sex between us had never been particularly loving, but early on in our relationship we had enjoyed a certain gentleness that came from great deal of tender feelings. Marriage with Mary had taught me that I enjoyed the gentle intimacy of sharing your body with someone I loved. Even though it had not worked out for Mary and I, I missed that aspect of our marriage a great deal.


I was far from unhappy after Holmes' return, but not being unhappy was not the same as being happy.


The return of others to his bed, in this case the frustratingly likeable and competent Stanley Hopkins, broke my heart, but I bore it.


The return of the cocaine needle broke my heart, but I bore it.


The return of Sherlock Holmes, drug addict, broke my heart, and I could not bear it.


It was only a little at first, but quickly grew out of control. I knew we had reached the point where something must be done when Holmes nearly bungled a case so badly that we would have left the victim to possibly hang for the crime.


We had been awoken in the middle of the night to investigate, and in the chaos of leaving he had forgotten his needle and dose. I thought little of it, dismissing it, not appreciating how dependent he had become on the drug on a daily basis. His mood worsened with every mile that passed on our way to Chislehurst. He was distracted and angry and any attempt to engage him in the case left him sniping at me. It was Hopkins's frustrated exclamation of disgust after asking Holmes for the third time if he had any questions about the alleged robbery that finally did me in. Holmes had remained silent and distracted the whole time, leaving Hopkins and I to both prompt her ladyship for information and to provide comfort in her distress. It wasn't like Hopkins to grow frustrated with Holmes, and with startling clarity I realized that something was very wrong, and had been for quite awhile.


I took my observations down, and checked my notes against Hopkins' before I collected a pacing and distracted Holmes from the front entry.


"We should return to London at once," he said. "Let Hopkins lead with the apprehension of the gang, I have no idea why he called us out."


"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "Was none of that suspicious to you? Nothing, from the broken glass, to the beeswing, to the bell pull?"


He waved me off and pulled at his sleeves.


"It's that damned cocaine. You can't even last a few hours without it any more can you? No wonder Hopkins hasn't been seen around lately and you have been so distracted and irritable. You've been so distracted and determined to return to London you didn't even bother to look about you."


"I'll thank you to mind your own business, Watson," he said, icly.


"That's it," I declared, rising, and pulling him bodily towards the door. The brakes were squealing as we headed into our next stop. "We're returning. I'll get you a dose to get you through, but you will see this case through or I am quite certain that a poor abused woman desperate to escape her cruel tyrant of a husband will end up hanging."


I paused and held his gaze for a moment, expression as stern and serious as he had ever seen it.


"And after that, you and I will be having a discussion."


As we waited on the cold, quiet railway platform in stoney silence, I glanced over the posters advertising holiday excursions on the Great Western Railway. Poldhu sounded quite appealing, distant and isolated from the madness that had become my life.


By the time we finally returned to Baker Street, he was deep in the throes of a vicious withdrawal. I set my mind to do something about what had become of us, and the next morning, I laid out my terms. I would stay, but only if he quit using cocaine.


"And what of Hopkins?" he asked.


"Everything else is negotiable, Holmes," I answered, not pretending I was unaware what he was truly asking.


He stared at me through cold and considering grey eyes. "You would stay here, in Baker Street, no matter who joined me in my bed?"


"I did not say that, I said everything else is negotiable. If you love him, then I am happy for you."


He scoffed.


"Don't, Holmes. Don't pretend you don't feel. That was a fiction invented for the stories. You and I are both more than aware that you have a deep capacity for love and a generous heart."


"Marriage made you soft."


"Marriage made me realize what I want," I replied calmly.


"And what, exactly, is that, Doctor?"


I shook my head at his verbal taunt. "I am sure you deduced it long ago."


"Say it."


I set down my teacup and regarded him from across the table.


"I want a life, with you, with or without the cases. But I am not willing to pay the price of your cocaine habit in order to have it."


He looked shocked for a brief moment. I wondered if I had perhaps not been as easy to read as I had always thought I was.


"I will take you any way I can have you, but I will not do so if it means you continue to abuse your body in that way." I nodded to his needle, empty of his morning dose already and left out in readiness for another one. "You must be done with cocaine, once and for all." I rose from the table and left Baker Street for the day.


I returned that night to see the needle gone and Holmes retired to his room.


At first I had such high hopes for Holmes. In the past, he had stopped or curtailed his habit for extended periods, but that time it was mere weeks before he relapsed into use again.


"This case, Watson," he said around a deep wracking cough. "I need to think."


"You can't think because of the abuse you inflict upon your body. You are sick because of what you are doing to yourself. Cocaine will only make it worse."


"You know nothing, Watson." He spat the words at me.


"I know enough to know that the solution to this case is staring you right in the face, but you are too drugged to see it." I sighed, defeated. "You'll die from this one of these days. And this time you won't come back to me."


I packed a bag, and departed for my club.


The next day I visited an old friend of mine, a doctor who specialized in working with men who wished to be done once and for all with the drugs that ruled their lives. I returned to Baker Street, Dr. Moore Agar in tow.


Holmes was manic, flying about the sitting room, newspapers flung all about and notebooks balanced precipitously on whatever available surface there was. He stopped dead when Dr. Agar followed me into the sitting room.


"What's this?" he asked.


"I have engaged him for a consultation."


"I do not require a consultation."


"You do, and you will. This is not sustainable. If you wish to end your dependence on this vile substance you will have your consultation with Dr. Agar."


"Or what?"


I gave Holmes a narrow-eyed look. Dr. Agar was a very old friend and I had no desire to be anything but perfectly clear with Holmes.


"Or you and I are done. We are done with both our professional and our personal considerations."


Dr. Agar considered us both.


"John, perhaps it would be best if you spent a few more nights away. I will be able to advise you best after I have had time to consult with Mr. Holmes here and he has been through the worst of his symptoms."


The next day, I received a telegram asking me to make arrangements for a two-week rest cure at a remote location not tied to any of Holmes's cases. Remembering the posters that had grabbed my attention on the platform not that long ago, I purchased tickets immediately for Poldhu on the Cornish coast. The bay was remote and wild and the town sleepy and simple. No case to distract him, just a chance to rest and for both of us to decide on our future.


When I returned to Baker Street the day after that, Holmes and Dr. Agar were seated in the sitting room together.


"In order for this rest cure to be successful, Mr. Holmes must work hard to clear his mind of the thoughts that drive him to his drug," Dr. Agar said, seriously. "He must choose to move forward without cocaine, and sometimes that choice must be made every day. A rest will help this process." He smiled at me, softly.


"Thank you, Moore," I said, seriously.


He took his leave.


"We depart this afternoon," I said to Holmes.


"To somewhere sufficiently dull, I assume?" His tone was tired, but wry.


"Cornwall."


"Good lord, John, it is supposed to be a rest cure, not a prison sentence."


I smiled at him and was heartened to the see the corner of his lip twitch.


~


Poldhu was exactly as I imagined it would be, sleepy, dull, wild, and simple. We settled into our cottage, quietly situated at the end of a lane. I sought the seclusion as much for the privacy during Holmes's recovery habit as an optimistic hope that we would want it for more personal reasons. The cottage's caretaker ran a small inn at the top of the lane and seemed delighted to let the cottage to off-season visitors and even more delighted that the visitors were famous. Our presence certainly led to what I suspected was a very unusually crowded sitting room for tea at the main inn.


I autographed a few magazines and gamely answered questions about the cases we investigated. Holmes bore it was a thin tolerance, but enjoyed the exclamations about his cleverness even if he did tease me mercilessly once we were alone.


We took twice daily hikes along the bay, slow and gentle to accommodate his weakened physical condition. He called it gloomy and I replied that it was romantic. He quoted a tragic love story, and I told him it was beautiful. We began to find our easy rhythm once more.


During one of our ambling walks returning from tea with the local vicar, he set his arm in mine as we walked. At first, I suspected nothing, as it wasn't unusual for him to take my arm from time to time. But when his long fingers wrapped around my forearm and squeezed with meaning, I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He smirked.


I let it be until we were back in the small front room of our cottage. He crowded me against the door as he slipped his coat off, his intentions more than clear.


"You may be feeling better, but I hardly think-" I began.


"Oh ridiculous!"


I quelled him with a look of my own, stern and serious. He just chuckled at me and tapped his long fingers against his lips. He considered my body up and down as he might a client fresh in our sitting room in Baker Street. Apparently he believed I merely needed convincing. The man, damn him, was not wrong. His particular sort of seduction had always been my undoing, time and time again.


I needed a moment to think. The day had been warm, but it was cooling and I set about closing the windows and arranging a fire in the grate. But I knew we would end up in bed together, it was merely an issue of how long I would torture us both by resisting.


Over the next few hours I was treated to a torturous assault on my mind as well as my body. Holmes applied himself wholeheartedly to his efforts and I was not disappointed. He sent his long fingers dancing against my skin and caught my eyes offering me smiles that could only be described as sultry. He engaged me, laughed at my jokes, humored my storytelling, and teased me about our cases. By the time supper was over I was undone. I was able to slow him long enough to set a fire in the bedroom. The storm pounding against the windows seemed to complement his determined, wild mood.


"You are a very maddening man," I whispered into his mouth as he made quick work of our clothes.


"You enjoy it," he replied, smugly.


I bit at his shoulder and he gasped. "So do you," I said.


"Yes," he moaned. I smiled and grasped at his lean hips, arranging him just so - he was pliant and willing.


We were not as young as we once were, but we certainly kept ourselves well occupied for quite awhile before falling into an exhausted and contented sleep. The wind rattled the windows, but the fire and the heat of our bodies kept the cold at bay.


The next morning, we enjoyed the brisk sea air together on a bluff overlooking the bay. The atmosphere here was doing him wonders and his complexion was brightening by what seemed to be the hour. Last night had brought a sort of easiness to our interactions, although, as if we had declared a truce and decided to move forward. I was still unsure as to what the future held for us in that regard, and unsure if it was wise to pursue it while he was still recovering, but I had a hard time telling him no.


As we returned from the morning walk, we were greeted at the door of our cottage by two no-longer taciturn Cornishmen. Holmes brightened and demanded details over my strenuous objections and despite the lingering deep cough that was plaguing his body.


Nevertheless, I couldn't help but enjoy the gleam in his eye that was put there by a puzzle to solve and not the mania brought on by his cocaine. "This is an exceptional case," he said, pleading.


I sighed deeply. "Very well, but no undue exertion-"


"Certainly not!"


I gave him a look, both of us aware that we had different feelings about what exactly 'undue exertion' was but offered a quiet, "thank you." He grinned like a schoolboy up to some mischief. I had very little room to talk, having put him through plenty of "undue exertion" last night.


Holmes's questioning of Roundhay's fire surprised me, and I looked Holmes over carefully. I was certain he remembered last night's weather and cold - he had even complained very loudly when I abandoned him to tend to the fire and returned with frigid toes. The resulting tussle had led to further exertions and my assertions that the spring storm had addled his brain.


Holmes caught my eye and smiled, but I was troubled. It was not like him to forget such a detail in the least. I was distracted by it and frowned at him. He turned away and headed out the door.


I was further concerned when he tripped over the watering can. I stepped close to steady him. "You're not yourself at all," I said under my breath, concerned about his exertions and second guessing the wisdom of conducting such activities.


"Really, Doctor?" he responded with a quick brush of his hand and the expression he gets when he's waiting for me to catch up.


Good lord he would be the death of me.


We left the Tregennis household and headed back to our cottage. Holmes seemed distracted and I was happy to stop when he suggested it. We settled into the chairs by the front windows to update each other on what we had discovered during our separate interviews. Despite his lingering cough, I enjoyed his focused manner and the familiar pace of the discussion on the case as we tossed observations back and forth. It was a comforting pattern as we both added what we had observed, sharing our insights in the hope that the combined knowledge would lead to a, well, lead, in the case.


"I like the way you got an impression of his boots," I complimented. "Once I realized…"


"Took you long enough! I wasn't flattered you thought I was so far gone that I was falling over things."


"Holmes."


"Really Watson, my sleep last night was sound and restful, what I got of it at least. I am hardly taxed."


I rolled my eyes and returned to the subject at hand. "Were there any signs of this mysterious figure outside the window?"


We continued our discussion for a moment more before I noticed a figure approaching and realized why Holmes had requested we stop and rest.


Holmes, who was quite skilled at leading suspects and clients alike to revealing exactly the information he needed, met Sterndale's initial hostility with careful questioning patience.


"Fascinating," Holmes exclaimed after Sterndale left, criticising us for wasting his time.


"He was damnably rude!"


"Shall we go?" he asked, standing and extending a hand to me and pulling me up with surprising strength. "Wait for me at the cottage!"


"Whatever you say…" I said to his retreating back as he strode off down the path, as strong and athletic as ever. I was beginning to suspect that a week or two of rest and relaxation was not what he needed after all. But I was also reluctant to believe that carnal relations and an interesting case were truly a cure.


By the time I made it back to the cottage I had worked up a good sweat from the sun, and I decided to be simply lazy and enjoy a mid-morning bath. I heated and ran the water and settled into the tub. Holmes arrived back at the cottage shortly after I had settled in and spent a few moments informing me of how he had followed Sterndale. He stood in the doorway and let his gaze wander over my his gaze wander over my body while he spoke before leaving me to finish my bath alone.


Given his enthusiasm of the night before, I had half expected him to offer to join me, and was relieved that he didn't. I was still a bit unsettled at the ease at which we had both fell back into that familiar dance. One night did not solve years of trouble in that regard and although I did not regret our intimacy last night, I did regret not insisting we speak about it first.


For my sake, I would need to speak to Holmes about the future of our physical relationship. I could only continue on with him in that regard if we could find a place of intimate companionship again and grow it into love. Giving in to his seductions on other terms would only break my heart, quite possibly for the final time. I could spend the rest of my life with him if we were nothing but friends, but I could not share my body with him unless we both were committed to each other and no other. I needed the words spoken aloud.


The clatter of a speeding carriage broke my reverie. I sat up and looked out the window, shocked to see a two-in-hand careening nearly out of control. I lept from my bath, grabbing for my robe and bellowing for Holmes.


It was years of practice at being interrupted at whatever I was doing with demands of "now, Watson!" that allowed me to meet the Vicar at the door, nearly presentable, if still a bit damp. Holmes's excitement at investigating an untouched room led me to believe that he had the solution already and was merely thrilled with the opportunity to confirm and prove it. I grabbed my notebook and we headed back to the Vicarage.


After our investigation at the Vicarage and my expedition to the village, I met Holmes back at the cottage. I couldn't help but be excited and was heartened to see that his eyes were bright with focus. He looked almost healthy, and I preened under his praise as we discussed the lamp and he led me to the conclusion of the case.


"The air at the Tregennises'!" I exclaimed.


"Exactly right, Doctor!" he said. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine. I grinned at him in response and he squeezed my hand before sitting back and handing me the paper with the crystals of the drug he had found. His face turned solemn and he considered them carefully. I was unsettled at the sudden shift in mood.


Then, I understood with startling clarity - he meant to take the drugs himself. After everything. But I could see no way out, not when I thought about it.


"There is one final test," he said, carefully.


"Yes, there is," I agreed with a quiet reluctance.


He stood and set about arranging the room in precaution of the drug's effect. His lips were pressed tight and his eyes pinched with concern.


He stopped and turned to look at me.


"Unless of course, like a sensible man, you'll have nothing to do with this?"


The man was insane if he thought-- "If I say no, you'll do it alone, won't you?" I asked.


His lips set in a grim line. "It's necessary."


"Then we'll see it out together," I promised.


"I thought I knew my Watson," he said, staring at me, seriously.


"Yours," I murmured in response.


"Not now, Watson," he said. "Let us see this through, shall we? If you will refill the lamp…"


"Yes, certainly," I said, snapping out of the moment.


He lept to his feet, clapping his hands and whirling about.


"And at the slightest sign!" I interrupted him.


"Oh at least-"


"At the slightest sign!"


"With the window and door open we should have ample warning," he said, waving away my concerns. I crossed my arms in determination as I took my indicated seat and affirmed my readiness.


The effects of the drug were instantaneous.


I felt the terror wash over me, then despair and pain like I hadn't felt since the fever in India. Holmes's insane laughter broke through my terror and despair and I lept for him, wrenching my fingers open against the pain and then closed around his arms. Every instinct in my body screamed against me, but the sight of Holmes's face face rigid in fear and pain overrode everything and I dragged his body stiff and resisting as I fought my own mind and body every step of the way to the door. I held in the overwhelming desire to scream out every hurt, imagined and real, until I was dead, and dragged us both, step by excruciating step out of the house. My mind had no idea what was real and what wasn't, one moment I was in India, bullets flying, heat oppressive, blood everywhere, the next I was struggling down an unending hallway to a door I felt like I would never reach, then I was back in the bowels of the hospital ship on my way to London, out of my mind with typhoid, then back again. My only constant was the feel of Holmes in my arms and the unwavering determination to get out of this hell we were both trapped in.


I stumbled into the too-bright sun and collapsed on the ground with Holmes cradled against me. I gulped air, desperate for the drugs to break their hold, praying I hadn't gone mad. I was back in a hotel room in London, the day before I had met Holmes, staring at my service revolver, only this time I pulled the trigger and when I did, it was somehow Holmes who was dead. I looked down at Holmes, his face contorted in horror and pain and wondered if I had made it in time, or if he had already descended into complete madness.


Then, I heard the rushing of the water over a tremendous waterfall.


I screamed his name.


I was outside, his body clutched to mine and realized it wasn't water I heard, but my own desperate gasps for air.


My name on his lips was the sweetest sound I had ever heard. He clutched at me. His eyes found mine, wide with fear, but clear and sane.


"You pulled me out," he said. "You pulled me out," he repeated. "I owe you," he began, "I owe you my thanks-"


"No, no, no." I brushed his hair back from his forehead.


"-And an apology." He shook his head at me, his eyes wide in shock. "It was an unjustifiable experiment. Even for oneself, but for a friend… I really am, I really, I am, I am very sorry."


I pressed my face to his, "you know that it's my greatest joy and privilege to help you." I stroked my thumbs along his cheeks.


His hand raised and pressed against my cheek. I could see tears gather at the corners of his eyes. He made a quip about madness and I smiled at him.


We sat there a moment more before he declared himself recovered enough for a short walk and we set off for Sterndale's.


"I have always known your heart to be overly generous, Watson," he began. "But I never thought myself worthy of it." He held up his hand to forestall my protest.


"I took it for granted that you cared for me, but I failed to realize that I had fallen in love until you had declared your intentions to marry Miss Morstan. And then I realized my fatal mistake. Your heart was large enough for both of us, but my jealous nature would never be content to share."


I took his hand and placed it in the crook of my elbow, laying my fingers over his and drawing him close to me. He smiled sadly.


"I fear I was still trying to punish you, even after I returned and demanded you come back to me. It wasn't fair of me, Watson. The fact that you have not given up on me yet? Well, it's far more than I deserve."


I tried to stop, but he tugged us on.


"I almost cannot believe that you would still be willing, after all we have been through, to try yet again to love me, but thank goodness for that goddamned heart of yours."


I chuckled.


"I would kiss you if I could," I said.


"You're mad," he replied with a smile.


"You are the mad one, Sherlock Holmes, and I love you for it."


He stopped and I turned to face him.


"Truly, John?"


"Until death do us part," I vowed to him, serious and solemn.


HIs face broken into a radiant smile and my breath caught in my chest. He was beautiful.


"All the days of my life," he replied.


"Well," I said, breaking the heavy moment, and turning back down the lane, "I must say, I can't wait to get you back home to enjoy the rest of what comes after vows like that."


He laughed, bright and loud.


~


After solving the Tregennis murders, Holmes spent the rest of his holiday immersed in the study of Chaldean roots of the Cornish branch of the Celtic language. I spent mine distracting him as often as possible from it. At one rather memorable point, I had promised him that I would consider his finishing the manuscript an abject failure to perform my duties as a newly committed partner and that I would do everything in my power to ensure it didn't happen. I had been quite creative in my distractions. And very successful. His manuscript remained unfinished.


I didn't give my story the ending it deserved, but instead jotted down some drivel about Holmes never loving a woman in a rush to finish it. It was quite true: the man had never loved a woman, save, perhaps his mother. But the bit about what he would do if the person he loved met such an end, of that I had no doubt. That bit was for him to read and tease me over. I dropped the manuscript at my editor the very next morning, and headed straight to the station after.


I looked forward to him seeing it, eventually. He would read his favorite bits of my stories aloud, in a dramatic voice with expansive gestures and exaggerated expressions and I would attempt not to laugh. Then he would take me to bed and thoroughly ravish me. It was a game we had played for years to both of our delight.


I dashed off a telegram to him before catching the train back home.


Dismiss the matter STOP returning to study of Chaldean roots inadvisable STOP Celtic tongue study needed elsewhere


He met me at the door of our little cottage, so similar to the one we had shared in Cornwall. His expression was bright with a mixture of delight and outrage at my little provocation. I didn't even have time to set down my case and take off my coat before he was on me.


"Did you finish your manuscript?" I asked, tearing my mouth away from his. He chased it back down, fingers twisting in my shirtfront.


I attempted to pull away again. "Because I finished mine."


"Watson, by God, so help me, if you do not-"


I quit resisting and let him drag me back to our bedroom.

Comments

[rabidsamfan.livejournal.com]

Oh, nicely done!

[dryadinthegrove]

Wonderfully written! Makes me wonder what Hopkins thought of Watson, though - jealous? Or well shot of the matter?

[gardnerhill.livejournal.com]

Brilliantly done - you've written a masterful addition to Coules' gorgeous DEVI adaptation!

I love the dynamic in this - the casual fuckbuddies who are more terrified of admitting love for each other than of the penalties for Victorian sodomy. There is all sorts of nakedness.