Holmes stared at the journal, aghast. Watson was in love with him? How was this possible? How on earth could Watson, ordinarily a reasonable creature, have fallen in love with him? Holmes had not meant to read Watson’s journal. He had been browsing through Watson’s desk, looking for his notes on a case they had recently finished. He had come across his open journal and started reading out of idle curiosity. What he read shocked him. Watson had prostituted himself to Holmes in order to rid him of his cocaine addiction, and in the process, had fallen in love with Holmes. Now he hid his love and heartache because he believed that Holmes would not love him back. Holmes didn’t know what he felt strongest; anger at Watson’s manipulation of him, admiration at his ingenuity of finding the perfect distraction, sorrow at his heartache, or guilt at being the cause of his misery. Well, it wasn’t as though I had not told him a thousand times about my views on love. He knows that I do not love, why does he persist in loving me? But then, if he had not cared for me so much as a friend, he would not have turned to so drastic a measure. And it did work. I haven’t used cocaine in months now, and I must admit I feel wonderful. Interfering fool. Couldn’t he have…oh no. He must have loved me even before he became my lover, else he would not have thought of such a solution. He may not have admitted as such beforehand, but a man does not risk his liberty and reputation in such a way if he did not feel so strongly. And now he will tear his heart to pieces because he knows that I will not love, cannot love…
Cannot love Watson? Did he, in fact, love Watson? No, that was not possible. He did not love the man; Watson was only a friend. His friend, his partner, his chronicler, his…
My right arm, my shield, my other half. Watson is the one I always turn to when I need assistance. He is the one I confide in; the one I tell secrets I keep even from Mycroft. He is always there when I need him, always there with his advice, his criticism, his opinions. I could not have solved half the cases I have without him. I never even think of turning to someone else anymore, why should I? He is the best part of my existence. And I’ve hurt him. I’ve hurt him with my words, my opinions, and my actions. I hurt him every time I spouted my ridiculous opinions about love, I hurt him when I accepted him as a lover, I hurt him every time I criticize him, whether it’s deserved or not. I’ve hurt him so badly he thinks of his own feelings as being of no consequence. I must love him, I must, else the thought of hurting him would not hurt me so badly.
All right, so he loved Watson. Once he admitted the fact to himself, he was amazed that he had not realized it years ago. If he had only known, had only let himself know…but there was no use dwelling on the past. The question was, what was he going to do about it now? If he came out and admitted his love for Watson, he would have to explain just why he had been so negative towards the idea of love for so long. There was also a very good chance Watson would simply not believe him, or would reject him for not admitting it much earlier. Perhaps he should just let Watson go? Gradually discontinue their lovemaking sessions, declare that he didn’t need a tutor anymore, and let him find a more sympathetic lover? From the journal entry, Watson was expecting something of the sort; it would not come as a complete shock. He could even introduce him to someone, there were several personable men of his acquaintance whom Watson could easily get along with. But would he accept anyone else after Holmes? Even if he accepted someone else, he would still be hurt that Holmes had no further interest in him as a lover. He might even leave Baker Street altogether, and Holmes’s heart would be broken. He couldn’t imagine 221b without his Watson. Either way, they were both going to be hurt. Oh, my darling John, I am so sorry. If I had only known earlier, I could have spared you all this. Now, something will have to be done, and I’m afraid you’re going to be upset. How can I tell you I love you, when I can barely admit it to myself? But I must tell you, to spare you the pain you feel. I only hope you won’t hate me for it.
Holmes was sitting by the fire, lost in thought, later that evening, when Watson returned home from his rounds. He noticed that Watson’s face was drawn and tired, and he was limping. “My dear boy, you look exhausted! You shouldn’t wander around London for so long; you look in need of a doctor yourself. Sit down now, rest yourself.” Holmes took Watson’s coat and hat and guided him to his chair by the fire. “My dear Watson, it has come to my attention that you are under an unnatural strain. You have taken to long walks by yourself in all sorts of weather; so much is evident by the state of your boots and your trousers. You have not been sleeping well lately; I can hear you pacing your floor at night. It has nothing to do with your practice; there have been no epidemics recently, no seriously ill patients, and you do not have enough of a client base to require long hours and frequent travel. There have been no telegrams or letters addressed to you from any family members, therefore, it is not a family issue. Therefore, it must be a private matter, something not easily resolved. My dearest Watson”-he kneeled in front of him, his voice suddenly soft, compassionate-“would you care to talk about it? It breaks my heart to see you like this. You know I am always available if you need me.”
“Oh Holmes, trust me, you are the last person I want to talk to about this. I-I don’t…” Watson looked down at his knees, at his clenched hands twisted in his lap.
“My dear fellow, am I that much of an ogre?”
“Oh no, no, it’s just that…well, never mind. It’s something I brought on myself, and I have to solve it myself. I just have t-to…” Watson stuttered to a stop, his face contorting. A single tear trembled and fell onto his hands. Holmes suddenly reached out and gathered Watson into his arms. “No, no, darling, please, don’t cry, don’t cry. I can’t stand it, my dearest John, please, don’t cry.” He rocked a quivering Watson in his lap, murmuring words of comfort into his ear. “Shh, there now, darling, it will be all right. I’ll help you, we’ll take care of this together.”
Watson pulled away slightly, looked at Holmes. “Trust me, Holmes, there is no way you can…Holmes, you’ve never called me John before.
“Haven’t I? I suppose that is because no one has ever fallen in love with me before.”
“Holmes! You read my…you know?”
“Yes, my dear Watson, I read your journal and I know all about it. I know that you offered yourself to me to distract me from cocaine, and that you have fallen in love with me as a result. I know that you have not told me of your feelings because you think they would not be reciprocated. My dear, you must know me better than that by now. I would not have consented to be your lover if I did not care for you. And now I find, my dear, my feelings of desire have long since turned into love for you as well. Can you forgive me for not knowing the truth for so long?”
“I…Holmes…that is, you truly love me? Truly?” The look on Watson’s face was incredulous, worshipful, luminous. “But all those times you said you were an analytical person, you had no need for love, that it interfered with clear thinking…”
“As for that, my dearest Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. In truth, there is a reason behind my continual protestations upon the subject. I offer it not as an excuse, but as an explanation. You remember when I told you of the case of the Gloria Scott? What I failed to tell you was that Trevor and I became very close during our friendship in college. We even fell in love, and became lovers. When he invited me to spend a month at his home, he was already under some strain because of our relationship. He believed, rightly, that his father would never approve of our closeness, yet he hoped that, by introducing us, he could win his father’s approval. The death of his father, and the subsequent discovery of his father’s history, had almost completely broken him. Trevor believed that it was our love, and not the mysterious message, which caused his stroke. He broke off all relations with me, fled to the tea plantations in Terai, and subsequently married. The last correspondence I had from him asked me to not have any further contact with him, as he could never separate me from his father’s death. I came to believe that I was somehow responsible for Trevor’s misery and his father’s death, even though cold logic told me that it could not be so. So you see, my dearest Watson, that my lectures against love are nothing more than attempts to steel my heart against the joys and pains that falling in love would surely bring.”
Watson reached out towards Holmes and stroked his face. “Holmes, I know I am no expert on love, but I would never blame you for anything horrible that may happen in my life. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. There are always problems when two fall in love, but we have always been able to solve our problems in the past. Surely we can continue to do so now. And in any case, we have little left to lose by falling in love, since we are already lovers.”
Holmes chuckled softly. “Right as always, my dear Watson. With someone so wise as my beloved, how can I go wrong?” He leaned forward and began to kiss Watson tenderly, passionately. “My darling John”-softly, kissing Watson on the cheeks, the forehead-“will you let me show you” now planting kisses just below his eyes “just how much I love you?” He rained kisses on Watson’s full lips, his throat, the tender skin at the back of his neck. His long, violinist’s hands massaged Watson’s strong, broad shoulders. Watson sighed, melting under Holmes’s sensual touch. His head lolled back, his eyes closed. “Oh-oh God, Holmes, I do so love you, please, please show me how much you love me.” “Of course, my dearest. Let me show you. Let me love you.” Holmes loosened Watson’s tie, undid his collar, and started opening his shirt. “But perhaps we should adjourn to my bedroom, where we can be more comfortable.”
“Oh, yes, bedroom. Yes, we should.” With great difficulty, Watson managed to get to his feet. “Please hurry, Holmes, I can’t wait very long.” Holmes wrapped an arm around Watson’s waist and led him upstairs. Once in his bedroom, they stood for a minute, holding each other close, feeling the emotions that each engendered in the other. Holmes settled Watson back on his bed, kneeled over him, and slowly continued to undo the buttons of his shirt. With every button, he kissed the revealed skin, working his way down Watson’s broad chest, nuzzling curly blond chest hair. Watson reached up and started running his hands through Holmes’s soft, dark hair and thin shoulders. Holmes now had Watson’s shirt completely unbuttoned and pushed away from his shoulders. He licked, suckled and tweaked Watson’s small pink nipples, switching between his lips and his fingers, until the small buds tightened and peaked. Watson was purring now, twisting on the sheets beneath his lover’s hands. He had his hands on Holmes’s collar, trying to undo it and get his shirt off. Holmes gently held his wrists and restrained him, kissing his palms. “Let me, dear. I can take care of it.”
“Oh, please, Holmes, I want to…let me please…”
“No, no, dearest. Tonight, I shall do all the work, and you shall have all the pleasure.” He quickly removed his own clothing, tossing everything aside. Holmes unfastened Watson’s cufflinks and slowly drew his shirt off. He licked his way down Watson’s chest to his flat belly, sucked gently at the line of hair leading to his groin, trailed his tongue in his navel. Watson was groaning, begging him for more, helpless with pleasure.
“Oh, yes, yes, please, darling, love, please…!”
“Yes, yes, of course, shh, my dearest, there now, let me…”
Holmes was bathing Watson with his tongue, tracing his ribs, his belly, the muscles of his broad chest. His long hands were kneading at his back, the firm globes of his buttocks. He continued teasing Watson for some time, until Watson arched up against him, unable to stand any more.
“P-please, Holmes, I c-can’t, please…!”
“Shh, John, it’s all right.” Holmes finally opened Watson’s trouser buttons and slid his trousers down Watson’s hips. He laid his cheek against the large, hard bulge in Watson’s drawers, savoring his heat and scent. “Ah, my sweet John, you are beautiful, perfect in every detail. How could I have been your lover for so long and not known this? Here, allow me.” With those words, Holmes drew down Watson’s drawers, revealing his erection. He wasted no more time, but took Watson into his mouth. He stroked his tongue down Watson’s length, tracing the ridge on the sensitive underside. He nibbled his way from the crown of Watson’s member down to his balls, quivering in their nest of dark hair. Those he worshiped and sucked, one at a time, before working his way back up his member. He grasped Watson’s hips and held him still while he took him into his mouth a little at a time, starting with his lips on Watson’s tip, and slowly sucking his length down his throat, until his lips rested against Watson’s balls. He slowly retreated, until only his lips circled Watson’s head, then sucked his way down again. By now, Holmes’s own member was throbbing, begging to be released. He reached down and began to stroke himself in time with his actions on Watson’s member. Once, twice he swallowed a shaking Watson. When he took him in a third time, it proved to be too much for Watson, who exploded with a scream, arching up into Holmes’s mouth. Watson’s orgasm, the taste of him streaming into his mouth, drove Holmes to his own ecstasy, as he shuddered to his release.
When it was over, Watson collapsed, spent, with Holmes lying beside him. After a few minutes, Watson spoke.
“Holmes?”
“Yes, my dearest?”
“Can…can it always be this good? I mean, not that I’m complaining about our previous times, but tonight…why?”
“I think, dear John, our act of love was so strong because we finally admitted that we do love, and not pretended to mere lust. I think I shall enjoy being your beloved, my dearest Watson.”
“Oh Holmes, I…I do love you so much, with all my heart.”
“And I love you, my dearest Watson.”
And with those words, sleep overtook the pair as they lay in each other’s arms, secure at last in their love, no longer needing to hide.