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holmesticeTitle: In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine)
Recipient: magnetic_pole
Author:a_different_equation
Beta Reader:scfrankles
Verse: Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Warnings: Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction; Period-Typical Homophobia
Additional Tags: London; Slice of Life; Character Study; Angst; Hurt and Comfort; POV John Watson; Pining; First Kiss
Word account: ca. 3,000 words
Summary: There are several aspects to Watson’s personality. When the good doctor and the loyal friend are not enough to keep Holmes from craving his seven-percent-solution, Captain John Watson reappears and orders an outing to London's Hyde Park.
“Holmes, we are going out.” Distraction is in order. Mrs Hudson cooking his favourite dishes and providing him with the newest scientific articles only works so long. “Some fresh air will do you good, old boy. Us both good! Grab your coat and hat. It is decided!”
“Oh, it is decided, the doctor says. And if I refuse… what will the doctor do then? Pray tell.” Holmes sneers, putting up a facade of false bravado and mockery that I can detect the slurring tone behind.
As if the dark eyes, the hair in disarray and the nightshirt still worn into the evening hours, are all not revealing enough on their own. Yes, my Holmes has not even put proper outerwear on and abandoned shaving two days ago. It is an alarming as well as scandalous sight.
“I will find a way…” I simply say. I let a bit of my military voice from the army days blend in; subconsciously (or not) I stand up a bit straighter.
Also on AO3: In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine)
In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine)
There are days when the craving for his seven-percent-solution is so strong that I fear even a man like my Holmes cannot win this battle one more time.
Holmes had abandoned the habit for good during the case I later published under the title “The Devil's Foot”. However from time to time, demons cling to him, shadows hover above him, and ghosts whisper seductively.
When they reappear, and I have become an expert at spotting it, I have to be Holmes’ own seduction and sedative.
Of course, I would never utter it in such a base and crude way!
My Holmes would be scandalized.
Holmes might be well accustomed to the ways of the criminal classes and familiar with the shadier parts of London but when we encounter people of a certain trade… let us say: there is a difference between professional and private interest, and close the case.
My Holmes is above such things; while being a mature being with mental faculties that surpass those of most men, he is quite the innocent in that regard. I would be a poor friend - “the dearest in the world”, as he had said once, and oh, how I cherish that memory - if I mocked him for it.
As for my part: let us say that I have been in the army, and leave it at that.
My Holmes has been in the grip of a dark mood since the weekend. I cannot estimate how long he can endure it (or Mrs Hudson, or our maids, and let alone our sitting room which is in a state… dear heavens!). Constantly, he is pacing, destroying things, muttering to himself.
“Holmes, my dear man, calm yourself!”
“Calm! Oh, Watson, how I envy you. You and all the other men wandering this earth. Simply breathing, barely existing. What is your life? An endless…”
His formerly precise gestures, resembling the finest of Shakespearean actors, are turned into a second-rate performance. When he is not a coiled cobra ready to attack, he is in a weak state, fragile, like a young kitten.
Oh, what I would do to soften his distress, to ease his pain, to hold him close until the storm has passed - and then some more. Because I am only a man, and I am not above it all. How I would love to be his shelter; his comfort; his safe haven; more so even than 221B and his beloved London, the melting pot of our nation, and my Holmes’ second beating heart.
“Holmes, we are going out.” Distraction is in order. Mrs Hudson cooking his favourite dishes and providing him with the newest scientific articles only works so long. “Some fresh air will do you good, old boy. Us both good! Grab your coat and hat. It is decided!”
“Oh, it is decided, the doctor says. And if I refuse… what will the doctor do then? Pray tell.” Holmes sneers, putting up a facade of false bravado and mockery that I can detect the slurring tone behind.
As if the dark eyes, the hair in disarray and the nightshirt still worn into the evening hours, are all not revealing enough on their own. Yes, my Holmes has not even put proper outerwear on and abandoned shaving two days ago. It is an alarming as well as scandalous sight.
“I will find a way…” I simply say. I let a bit of my military voice from the army days blend in; subconsciously (or not) I stand up a bit straighter.
My Holmes reacts.
It is my last resort - apart from Mycroft, who to my relief I have never had to use in all the time we have shared rooms at 221B - when the good doctor and the ever loyal friend have tried and failed.
It is not that I am not all these personas incorporated when I - dare I say it - order Holmes around, but it is more… it is more. I do not overdo it, of course not, but when all other attempts have failed?
Now, I can witness Holmes going to his room, leaving the door ajar, and making himself as presentable as possible in his current state.
When we meet at the door, I comment: “Good”.
It is uttered warmly, yet a bit briskly still. It is not a “good boy”; it simply is. Holmes’ cheeks getting a lovely flush of pink is a welcome sight after all the paleness. And this is all. I know that there can be more but as I have said before: my Holmes is not such a man, and I am not such a man most of the time either.
Today, Holmes is too agitated to endure the buzzling parts of the city; the streets that are still cramped with people and carriages; full of noise and smell. On any other day, he would relish it but when he is in such a state? Instead of a distraction, it would cause him to be in an even fooler mood; snappish and rude; all distress; all of it would overpower his poor mind. Furthermore, people might recognize Holmes, and what an outcry there might be!
On other occasions, we have visited the ever turning tides of the River Thames, or have been on an hop-on-hop-off tour, our own invention, which means the constant visit of one performance after another - thank God, London has so many venues to offer - and one eccentric soul blends into the ocean of art, and if not, it is a good sign that Holmes is capable to criticise again.
I am aware too of the medically approved effects of a visit to a Turkish bath which could also soothe the nerves but I cannot stomach Holmes away from me - and if only for one minute - on such days.
Today, we make our way to Hyde Park.
It seems like the perfect spot for us as it is like an alternative universe to our life. As if there is one version of our life that is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in 221B, and here, during such times, another one, similar on the surface but all different below. It is all dark; twisted; wicked and strange; our world tipped on the axes. If such a word exist I would call it “neverwhere”.
Here, former honourable soldiers offer a “bit of scarlet” and the posh boys love their “Oxford Fashion”, and we blend in. It could have been us - but it did not happened; our life turned a different path when I met Sherlock Holmes on that fateful January day.
Most nights, the police looks the other way, and if today had been different, we would have known about a raid beforehand; and if it had failed, we would have Mycroft as our last resort to bail us out and apparently there is a recluse villa in France as Holmes had let slip into a conversation once when the abominable Law passed too.
We are not lucky but we are fortunate, and most days we are grateful.
There are the ever watchful eyes of the Irregulars who are never far to warn us but they would never betray us.
On other paths, only their shadows visible, women and men of all ages are on their way home, or heading towards their secret rendezvous, or looking forward to their joyous outings with friends or colleagues. If we were not in our own bubble, on our own way, I could point out a silhouette or another to Holmes and he would tell their life story. The working class knows to go to 221B when they seek help or that their employer get their case closed thanks to the Great Sherlock Holmes - in full confidence and if necessary without payment.
The public loves my stories in "The Strand Magazine". They are always altered, and who knows if one day the true story will be told? The lines between poetry and truth blur more and more; and will it matter anyway? We lived, we… loved, and that is what mattered to us.
And the truly addicted, the poor, wretched souls? The one hovering behind and under the bushes, or in the area around the gate, waiting for their next fix? If they have one clear minute, they only feel despair and loneliness, and maybe think what we all feel deep down: how lucky we are, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
Here, walking slowly arm in arm to not exhaust Holmes, we find distraction in moderation. A little sanctuary for men like us.
“Are you putting your writing skills to use, Watson? I will not say 'good' as your last publication in The Strand proved again that you have not abandoned your fanciful style. The suspect’s hair…”
“How do you do it, Holmes, how do you know once again what I have been thinking?”
“Oh, that is easy, Watson. You have been uttering trivia aloud, adding my knowledge about you being my biographer, and me being a detective who makes our living with deducing and observing people, and I might be so bold to say that I have got to know you quite well over the years, old boy, … it is child’s play. How you can still be surprised by it, that is the more obvious question.”
“How can one not be in awe of a man like you?” I reply without thinking.
I will not take it back as it is true; even though I am normally better at hiding my admiration. When I see his cheeks turn pink in the nascent moonlight, I know that he will never get as accustomed to my ways as I will to his.
It is certainly the park painted in all shades of grey, and the relief that Holmes seems to do better with every step - that makes me continue: “Holmes, do you know the story of Cherry?”
Holmes looks up. I can see his piqued interest as well his suspicion. “Please, tell me it is not some tedious story you have picked up from Mrs Hudson or the maids. If it is one of your women, spare me the details.”
“Holmes,” I warn him, only half-joking. Holmes always shows a certain reaction when women cross our way - The Woman the honourable exception. It is not the behaviour of a gentleman, even though Holmes is one and can act like one if he pleases. However, he is often simply unwilling. Moreover, I have spotted a change in his reaction since our earlier days of cohabitation. On any other man other than Holmes, I would call his attitude nowadays jealousy.
I am aware of the fact that society would consider it impossible that two men could feel more towards each other but it is possible. I know that the law only sees perversion; at best - oh, and what a perverse twist of words! - it is the satisfying of urges. However, I know that it is more than that, or that it can be, and oh, it would be for me, but it is not and that is all fine. Holmes is a peculiar man but he is mine, at least, he is in my mind, and that is the one place - so far - the law cannot reach. Therefore, I scold him with “Holmes” and address him with “Holmes” and praise him with “Holmes”, but in my mind he is “my Holmes” (and there is no place for a woman, not in my life, my bed, let alone my heart.)
I smile at him warmly, hoping that the pauses in my speech are not too revealing. Holmes might not be too perceptive when he is craving his seven-percent-solution, but Sherlock Holmes remains the second cleverest man in London. Then, I rush to carry on: “Cherry is a dog.” Oh, and now I have him because my Holmes has a soft spot for those. “In fact, it was a Maltese terrier that loved Hyde Park so much that her owners could barely bring her home after their outings. Cherry barked at every tree as if she would welcome them and inquire about their well-being personally. Cherry would jump alongside the birds, chase along with the other dogs, and stand still at the memorial as if to give silent salute to the fallen. Oh, and Cherry loved to indulge in baths in the fountain on hot summer days - much to the dismay of the owner but to the delight of the children whose favourite she was.”
“Lovely tale but to what purpose do you tell me this?”
Ah, it would be far to easy to distract my Holmes with idle chatter. “She is buried here.”
I beg your pardon?”
“Cherry is the first pet that was buried in Hyde Park.”
“A pet.”
“A dog, Holmes. You, of all people, know about the difference. Should I remind you of good old Toby?”
The blush appears again.
“I even heard that cats are buried here as well. Do not scoff, Holmes. It is a Pet Cemetery. You cannot dictate to people what they have as a pet. And you, of all people, know what people can call a pet.”
“You are not my pet!”
I am taken aback. Holmes almost shouted. I have to check if someone witnessed it but all is clear. Unclear to me is Holmes’ reaction. Certainly his cravings put things in his mind, foreign for him, and even stranger for the common mind but… “What? Who? ... Holmes… I… I do not understand…”
He is off. He frightens me.
“You are not my pet. No matter what people say, what Moriarty saw, what Mycroft implied. They are wrong. Wrong, do you hear me, Watson. You are loved but not as a pet. You are a man, and you will not die, and if you have to, you will be buried by my side - propriety be damned.”
What is happening? I feel out of sorts, wits, everything. However, my priority is Holmes. Who seems to be on the edge of breaking down.
It is not a conscious decision.
I know if someone would see us, report on us, we can lose everything, but better to lose freedom than my Holmes in this moment. We are way off the regular path; hidden from sight; I had led us subconsciously (or not) here from the beginning.
...
I put my arms around him.
For a second, my Holmes is turned into a pillar of salt.
I feel his heart beating alongside mine in a frightening gallop. His breathing has escalated during his rambling speech. I cannot make soothing sounds - even if I wished to - as Holmes is a man and not a boy, and he would be scolding me even in this state.
After a short inner battle, I press him closer to me, while hoping against hope that he will not lash out or worse, surprisingly, the opposite occurs: he lets himself loose. Even more so when I start - hesitant and careful - to rub the tense muscles of his back. I am on constant alert, more on the man in my arms than at our surroundings. Dangerous, I know, but what should I do?
In the end, I am simply a man.
He is my life. I wished to murmur “it is all right, all is right, old boy,” but it is not to be done. If I could form the words, I should not say it.
It is what dare not speak its name - therefore, I remain silent.
And even when Holmes got a sense, a glimpse of my depth of my feelings tonight, and I have once again witnessed the loyalty and a beating heart, one that holds affection, emotion, and maybe, indeed, sentiment, potentially even for me, so it will still remain unspoken.
For now, at least.
Hopefully, in future, I can add “holding Holmes in my arms” to the list when the days are dark, the storm is rising and the wind is howling, bringing with them ghosts, shadows and demons. Then, hopefully, my Holmes will find shelter, comfort, a safe haven, forever in my arms.
“Yes, John.”
His voice is raspy, a bit unsure, but there is determination to be found behind. He should not call me by my first name but there are so many things we should not do, and we do it anyway, in our professional as well as our private life. What is one thing more on the list? In particular, when it feels right, when it does no harm, the opposite in fact? We are our own men, we are each other’s fate. We simply are, and now, in twilight, we call each other by our names.
“You know again what I have been thinking, do you not, Holmes?”
“Of course, John. I am Sherlock Holmes. What kind of detective would I be if I could not read a stranger’s mind, let alone yours…”
There is already a hint of teasing and humour in his voice; still hesitant; after all, it is an undiscovered country but it feels familiar already.
Before we make our way home to 221B Baker Street, I am so bold and press a chaste kiss to his hairline.
He is still wrapped securely in my arms, so it is easy to do so at this moment. My Holmes is a taller man than myself - if he were standing upright, I would have need to stand on tip-toes or something similar. Of course, I know that I should not think or do such things, or ponder on how to repeat it under better conditions, or imagine how a kiss to his forehead, cheek or - heaven! - mouth would be like, but what should I say? I am simply a man. It is not proper…
“I do not care for proper…” He interrupts my rambling thoughts and silences me with a kiss himself.
Later, in the confinement of our rooms, he admits to me - again with a lovely pink on his cheeks - that in his mind, he calls me “his John”.
THE END
Notes:
Thank you magnetic_pole for the excellent prompt: London, slice of life & character study --- I could not have asked for better. I hope that you are going to like "In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine)"!
All information about London's Hyde Park are accurate, including Cherry the dog. You can read about London’s Hyde Park here (Lee Jackson: Dictionary of Victorian London) and here (Wikipedia), and about its Pet Cemetery (Helen Soteriou: Inside Hyde Park’s secret pet cemetery. In: The Telegraph) and here ( Andrew Day: Hyde Park Pet Cemetery. In: Historic UK).
The title ("In darkness, I call your name (and you mine)") is a remix of André Aciman/Ivory Merchant's quote ("Call me by your name and I will call you by mine") and The Bible ("In darkness, I call upon you").
Twice, I "left" ACD canon behind and took the liberty to use GRANADA ("The Devil's Foot" as the date for end of Holmes' drug use) and SHERLOCK (for Moriarty's and Mycroft's view on John Watson's status in Sherlock Holmes' life, in particular, the concept of a "pet") for storytelling purpose aka JOHNLOCK. Mea culpa ;)
My never ending gratitude to my beta. I would be lost in (Victorian) English without you!
Last but not least, thanks to the mods for running Holmestice. It’s been such a fun!
Recipient: magnetic_pole
Author:
a_different_equationBeta Reader:
scfranklesVerse: Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Warnings: Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction; Period-Typical Homophobia
Additional Tags: London; Slice of Life; Character Study; Angst; Hurt and Comfort; POV John Watson; Pining; First Kiss
Word account: ca. 3,000 words
Summary: There are several aspects to Watson’s personality. When the good doctor and the loyal friend are not enough to keep Holmes from craving his seven-percent-solution, Captain John Watson reappears and orders an outing to London's Hyde Park.
“Holmes, we are going out.” Distraction is in order. Mrs Hudson cooking his favourite dishes and providing him with the newest scientific articles only works so long. “Some fresh air will do you good, old boy. Us both good! Grab your coat and hat. It is decided!”
“Oh, it is decided, the doctor says. And if I refuse… what will the doctor do then? Pray tell.” Holmes sneers, putting up a facade of false bravado and mockery that I can detect the slurring tone behind.
As if the dark eyes, the hair in disarray and the nightshirt still worn into the evening hours, are all not revealing enough on their own. Yes, my Holmes has not even put proper outerwear on and abandoned shaving two days ago. It is an alarming as well as scandalous sight.
“I will find a way…” I simply say. I let a bit of my military voice from the army days blend in; subconsciously (or not) I stand up a bit straighter.
Also on AO3: In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine)
In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine)
There are days when the craving for his seven-percent-solution is so strong that I fear even a man like my Holmes cannot win this battle one more time.
Holmes had abandoned the habit for good during the case I later published under the title “The Devil's Foot”. However from time to time, demons cling to him, shadows hover above him, and ghosts whisper seductively.
When they reappear, and I have become an expert at spotting it, I have to be Holmes’ own seduction and sedative.
Of course, I would never utter it in such a base and crude way!
My Holmes would be scandalized.
Holmes might be well accustomed to the ways of the criminal classes and familiar with the shadier parts of London but when we encounter people of a certain trade… let us say: there is a difference between professional and private interest, and close the case.
My Holmes is above such things; while being a mature being with mental faculties that surpass those of most men, he is quite the innocent in that regard. I would be a poor friend - “the dearest in the world”, as he had said once, and oh, how I cherish that memory - if I mocked him for it.
As for my part: let us say that I have been in the army, and leave it at that.
My Holmes has been in the grip of a dark mood since the weekend. I cannot estimate how long he can endure it (or Mrs Hudson, or our maids, and let alone our sitting room which is in a state… dear heavens!). Constantly, he is pacing, destroying things, muttering to himself.
“Holmes, my dear man, calm yourself!”
“Calm! Oh, Watson, how I envy you. You and all the other men wandering this earth. Simply breathing, barely existing. What is your life? An endless…”
His formerly precise gestures, resembling the finest of Shakespearean actors, are turned into a second-rate performance. When he is not a coiled cobra ready to attack, he is in a weak state, fragile, like a young kitten.
Oh, what I would do to soften his distress, to ease his pain, to hold him close until the storm has passed - and then some more. Because I am only a man, and I am not above it all. How I would love to be his shelter; his comfort; his safe haven; more so even than 221B and his beloved London, the melting pot of our nation, and my Holmes’ second beating heart.
“Holmes, we are going out.” Distraction is in order. Mrs Hudson cooking his favourite dishes and providing him with the newest scientific articles only works so long. “Some fresh air will do you good, old boy. Us both good! Grab your coat and hat. It is decided!”
“Oh, it is decided, the doctor says. And if I refuse… what will the doctor do then? Pray tell.” Holmes sneers, putting up a facade of false bravado and mockery that I can detect the slurring tone behind.
As if the dark eyes, the hair in disarray and the nightshirt still worn into the evening hours, are all not revealing enough on their own. Yes, my Holmes has not even put proper outerwear on and abandoned shaving two days ago. It is an alarming as well as scandalous sight.
“I will find a way…” I simply say. I let a bit of my military voice from the army days blend in; subconsciously (or not) I stand up a bit straighter.
My Holmes reacts.
It is my last resort - apart from Mycroft, who to my relief I have never had to use in all the time we have shared rooms at 221B - when the good doctor and the ever loyal friend have tried and failed.
It is not that I am not all these personas incorporated when I - dare I say it - order Holmes around, but it is more… it is more. I do not overdo it, of course not, but when all other attempts have failed?
Now, I can witness Holmes going to his room, leaving the door ajar, and making himself as presentable as possible in his current state.
When we meet at the door, I comment: “Good”.
It is uttered warmly, yet a bit briskly still. It is not a “good boy”; it simply is. Holmes’ cheeks getting a lovely flush of pink is a welcome sight after all the paleness. And this is all. I know that there can be more but as I have said before: my Holmes is not such a man, and I am not such a man most of the time either.
Today, Holmes is too agitated to endure the buzzling parts of the city; the streets that are still cramped with people and carriages; full of noise and smell. On any other day, he would relish it but when he is in such a state? Instead of a distraction, it would cause him to be in an even fooler mood; snappish and rude; all distress; all of it would overpower his poor mind. Furthermore, people might recognize Holmes, and what an outcry there might be!
On other occasions, we have visited the ever turning tides of the River Thames, or have been on an hop-on-hop-off tour, our own invention, which means the constant visit of one performance after another - thank God, London has so many venues to offer - and one eccentric soul blends into the ocean of art, and if not, it is a good sign that Holmes is capable to criticise again.
I am aware too of the medically approved effects of a visit to a Turkish bath which could also soothe the nerves but I cannot stomach Holmes away from me - and if only for one minute - on such days.
Today, we make our way to Hyde Park.
It seems like the perfect spot for us as it is like an alternative universe to our life. As if there is one version of our life that is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in 221B, and here, during such times, another one, similar on the surface but all different below. It is all dark; twisted; wicked and strange; our world tipped on the axes. If such a word exist I would call it “neverwhere”.
Here, former honourable soldiers offer a “bit of scarlet” and the posh boys love their “Oxford Fashion”, and we blend in. It could have been us - but it did not happened; our life turned a different path when I met Sherlock Holmes on that fateful January day.
Most nights, the police looks the other way, and if today had been different, we would have known about a raid beforehand; and if it had failed, we would have Mycroft as our last resort to bail us out and apparently there is a recluse villa in France as Holmes had let slip into a conversation once when the abominable Law passed too.
We are not lucky but we are fortunate, and most days we are grateful.
There are the ever watchful eyes of the Irregulars who are never far to warn us but they would never betray us.
On other paths, only their shadows visible, women and men of all ages are on their way home, or heading towards their secret rendezvous, or looking forward to their joyous outings with friends or colleagues. If we were not in our own bubble, on our own way, I could point out a silhouette or another to Holmes and he would tell their life story. The working class knows to go to 221B when they seek help or that their employer get their case closed thanks to the Great Sherlock Holmes - in full confidence and if necessary without payment.
The public loves my stories in "The Strand Magazine". They are always altered, and who knows if one day the true story will be told? The lines between poetry and truth blur more and more; and will it matter anyway? We lived, we… loved, and that is what mattered to us.
And the truly addicted, the poor, wretched souls? The one hovering behind and under the bushes, or in the area around the gate, waiting for their next fix? If they have one clear minute, they only feel despair and loneliness, and maybe think what we all feel deep down: how lucky we are, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
Here, walking slowly arm in arm to not exhaust Holmes, we find distraction in moderation. A little sanctuary for men like us.
“Are you putting your writing skills to use, Watson? I will not say 'good' as your last publication in The Strand proved again that you have not abandoned your fanciful style. The suspect’s hair…”
“How do you do it, Holmes, how do you know once again what I have been thinking?”
“Oh, that is easy, Watson. You have been uttering trivia aloud, adding my knowledge about you being my biographer, and me being a detective who makes our living with deducing and observing people, and I might be so bold to say that I have got to know you quite well over the years, old boy, … it is child’s play. How you can still be surprised by it, that is the more obvious question.”
“How can one not be in awe of a man like you?” I reply without thinking.
I will not take it back as it is true; even though I am normally better at hiding my admiration. When I see his cheeks turn pink in the nascent moonlight, I know that he will never get as accustomed to my ways as I will to his.
It is certainly the park painted in all shades of grey, and the relief that Holmes seems to do better with every step - that makes me continue: “Holmes, do you know the story of Cherry?”
Holmes looks up. I can see his piqued interest as well his suspicion. “Please, tell me it is not some tedious story you have picked up from Mrs Hudson or the maids. If it is one of your women, spare me the details.”
“Holmes,” I warn him, only half-joking. Holmes always shows a certain reaction when women cross our way - The Woman the honourable exception. It is not the behaviour of a gentleman, even though Holmes is one and can act like one if he pleases. However, he is often simply unwilling. Moreover, I have spotted a change in his reaction since our earlier days of cohabitation. On any other man other than Holmes, I would call his attitude nowadays jealousy.
I am aware of the fact that society would consider it impossible that two men could feel more towards each other but it is possible. I know that the law only sees perversion; at best - oh, and what a perverse twist of words! - it is the satisfying of urges. However, I know that it is more than that, or that it can be, and oh, it would be for me, but it is not and that is all fine. Holmes is a peculiar man but he is mine, at least, he is in my mind, and that is the one place - so far - the law cannot reach. Therefore, I scold him with “Holmes” and address him with “Holmes” and praise him with “Holmes”, but in my mind he is “my Holmes” (and there is no place for a woman, not in my life, my bed, let alone my heart.)
I smile at him warmly, hoping that the pauses in my speech are not too revealing. Holmes might not be too perceptive when he is craving his seven-percent-solution, but Sherlock Holmes remains the second cleverest man in London. Then, I rush to carry on: “Cherry is a dog.” Oh, and now I have him because my Holmes has a soft spot for those. “In fact, it was a Maltese terrier that loved Hyde Park so much that her owners could barely bring her home after their outings. Cherry barked at every tree as if she would welcome them and inquire about their well-being personally. Cherry would jump alongside the birds, chase along with the other dogs, and stand still at the memorial as if to give silent salute to the fallen. Oh, and Cherry loved to indulge in baths in the fountain on hot summer days - much to the dismay of the owner but to the delight of the children whose favourite she was.”
“Lovely tale but to what purpose do you tell me this?”
Ah, it would be far to easy to distract my Holmes with idle chatter. “She is buried here.”
I beg your pardon?”
“Cherry is the first pet that was buried in Hyde Park.”
“A pet.”
“A dog, Holmes. You, of all people, know about the difference. Should I remind you of good old Toby?”
The blush appears again.
“I even heard that cats are buried here as well. Do not scoff, Holmes. It is a Pet Cemetery. You cannot dictate to people what they have as a pet. And you, of all people, know what people can call a pet.”
“You are not my pet!”
I am taken aback. Holmes almost shouted. I have to check if someone witnessed it but all is clear. Unclear to me is Holmes’ reaction. Certainly his cravings put things in his mind, foreign for him, and even stranger for the common mind but… “What? Who? ... Holmes… I… I do not understand…”
He is off. He frightens me.
“You are not my pet. No matter what people say, what Moriarty saw, what Mycroft implied. They are wrong. Wrong, do you hear me, Watson. You are loved but not as a pet. You are a man, and you will not die, and if you have to, you will be buried by my side - propriety be damned.”
What is happening? I feel out of sorts, wits, everything. However, my priority is Holmes. Who seems to be on the edge of breaking down.
It is not a conscious decision.
I know if someone would see us, report on us, we can lose everything, but better to lose freedom than my Holmes in this moment. We are way off the regular path; hidden from sight; I had led us subconsciously (or not) here from the beginning.
...
I put my arms around him.
For a second, my Holmes is turned into a pillar of salt.
I feel his heart beating alongside mine in a frightening gallop. His breathing has escalated during his rambling speech. I cannot make soothing sounds - even if I wished to - as Holmes is a man and not a boy, and he would be scolding me even in this state.
After a short inner battle, I press him closer to me, while hoping against hope that he will not lash out or worse, surprisingly, the opposite occurs: he lets himself loose. Even more so when I start - hesitant and careful - to rub the tense muscles of his back. I am on constant alert, more on the man in my arms than at our surroundings. Dangerous, I know, but what should I do?
In the end, I am simply a man.
He is my life. I wished to murmur “it is all right, all is right, old boy,” but it is not to be done. If I could form the words, I should not say it.
It is what dare not speak its name - therefore, I remain silent.
And even when Holmes got a sense, a glimpse of my depth of my feelings tonight, and I have once again witnessed the loyalty and a beating heart, one that holds affection, emotion, and maybe, indeed, sentiment, potentially even for me, so it will still remain unspoken.
For now, at least.
Hopefully, in future, I can add “holding Holmes in my arms” to the list when the days are dark, the storm is rising and the wind is howling, bringing with them ghosts, shadows and demons. Then, hopefully, my Holmes will find shelter, comfort, a safe haven, forever in my arms.
“Yes, John.”
His voice is raspy, a bit unsure, but there is determination to be found behind. He should not call me by my first name but there are so many things we should not do, and we do it anyway, in our professional as well as our private life. What is one thing more on the list? In particular, when it feels right, when it does no harm, the opposite in fact? We are our own men, we are each other’s fate. We simply are, and now, in twilight, we call each other by our names.
“You know again what I have been thinking, do you not, Holmes?”
“Of course, John. I am Sherlock Holmes. What kind of detective would I be if I could not read a stranger’s mind, let alone yours…”
There is already a hint of teasing and humour in his voice; still hesitant; after all, it is an undiscovered country but it feels familiar already.
Before we make our way home to 221B Baker Street, I am so bold and press a chaste kiss to his hairline.
He is still wrapped securely in my arms, so it is easy to do so at this moment. My Holmes is a taller man than myself - if he were standing upright, I would have need to stand on tip-toes or something similar. Of course, I know that I should not think or do such things, or ponder on how to repeat it under better conditions, or imagine how a kiss to his forehead, cheek or - heaven! - mouth would be like, but what should I say? I am simply a man. It is not proper…
“I do not care for proper…” He interrupts my rambling thoughts and silences me with a kiss himself.
Later, in the confinement of our rooms, he admits to me - again with a lovely pink on his cheeks - that in his mind, he calls me “his John”.
THE END
Notes:
Thank you magnetic_pole for the excellent prompt: London, slice of life & character study --- I could not have asked for better. I hope that you are going to like "In darkness, I call your name (and you, mine)"!
All information about London's Hyde Park are accurate, including Cherry the dog. You can read about London’s Hyde Park here (Lee Jackson: Dictionary of Victorian London) and here (Wikipedia), and about its Pet Cemetery (Helen Soteriou: Inside Hyde Park’s secret pet cemetery. In: The Telegraph) and here ( Andrew Day: Hyde Park Pet Cemetery. In: Historic UK).
The title ("In darkness, I call your name (and you mine)") is a remix of André Aciman/Ivory Merchant's quote ("Call me by your name and I will call you by mine") and The Bible ("In darkness, I call upon you").
Twice, I "left" ACD canon behind and took the liberty to use GRANADA ("The Devil's Foot" as the date for end of Holmes' drug use) and SHERLOCK (for Moriarty's and Mycroft's view on John Watson's status in Sherlock Holmes' life, in particular, the concept of a "pet") for storytelling purpose aka JOHNLOCK. Mea culpa ;)
My never ending gratitude to my beta. I would be lost in (Victorian) English without you!
Last but not least, thanks to the mods for running Holmestice. It’s been such a fun!
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Date: 2018-06-28 12:54 am (UTC)I loved all the details of Victorian London--the buzzing parts of the city, the noise and the smell, the theaters, the baths, the "bit of scarlet." (I remember that films from back in the 1990s, back when Granada still counted as queer tv.) All the little allusions to queer books and films.
I loved Holmes' jealousy (ugly, though understandable enough), Watson's inner struggle, and (on a much lighter note) the story of Cherry the dog, which I'd never heard before, despite being a huge fan of Hyde Park and its history.
In a word, this is perfect. Thank you so much, mystery author. I'm only sorry it's taken me so long--too long--to say so. My apologies for that. Maggie