On Account of Love by Clonesgirl
Part I
The technical stuff:
RATING: NC-17 for the sex
PAIRING: Holmes/Watson
WORD COUNT: Part I: 5,310 Part 2: 6,285 Total: 11,595
WARNINGS: Slash - now you all know what that is - and flowery language
SPOILERS: None
ARCHIVE: The Motley Collection
DISCLAIMER: Characters borrowed strictly for fun, not profit. No offence intended.
BETAING: Not betaed. Apologies. If you spot any goofs please let me know.
FEEDBACK: Would be lovely.
NOTE: If you wish to link to this story it would be much appreciated if you could let the
author know.
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It was a quarter to eleven when I put down my book and decided it was time I turned in for the night. I therefore rose, finished the last of my brandy and bade Holmes a convivial goodnight.
Holmes for his part seemed to be in a brown study and did not reply, but as this was a frequent occurrence I did not take offence and turned to leave the sitting room.
"Watson, don't go."
I turned to face him once more, surprised that he had taken notice of my intention to exit the sitting room.
He stood up, put his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. "Don't go yet, Watson."
He looked up at me then and there was a certain wistfulness to his expression that was at once both charming and appealing.
I returned to stand in front of the fire. "What is it, Holmes?"
"Watson, you are a betting man, are you not?"
"Holmes, you are well aware that I have the occasional modest flutter on the nags. So?"
He looked at me penetratingly, the smile in his eyes touching his lips. "Watson, my dear friend, I wondered if you would care to have a bet with me."
I was somewhat baffled for I knew that he never gambled on horses. "A bet with you, Holmes? Well this is a rare occasion indeed! On what are we betting?"
"Oh, a mere trifling wager, my friend," he said offhandedly. "One that, if we win, will last... oh, I should say for the rest of our lives."
"The rest of our lives? Holmes, what are you talking about? This is all most mysterious. Are you going to give me a clue?"
"Indeed all will be evident very shortly but, for now, will you agree to share this small wager with me?"
"Well, yes, if you wish it, but what are we betting on? Is it the outcome of a case?"
He gave a good-natured chuckle. "No, no, my friend, but perhaps it would be more correct to inquire what are we betting with, for the stakes are very high indeed."
"Very well then, what are we betting with?" I queried. "Money?"
"No, no, no, nothing so commonplace, my friend."
"Well what then?"
"Our lives. Our future."
"Our lives? Holmes, are you serious? Are we... risking our lives in this venture?"
Again he gave a small chuckle. "No, no, no," he murmured. "Something much more valuable."
I frowned at him, becoming exasperated by his obtuseness. "Holmes, what are you talking about? And what can be more valuable than our lives? Pray tell me what are we gambling on and why are the stakes so high?"
"My friend, the stakes are high because the risk of failure is very great. On the other hand, if we win, the risks will all have been worth it."
"What are the odds?"
"I would say fifty to one."
"Holmes, those are appalling odds. This sounds like a very risky venture. Is it truly worth it?"
"Oh, indeed!" he declared enigmatically.
"And if we... should fail?" I asked uncertainly, not sure why I suddenly seemed to have a slight case of butterflies in my belly.
"Then I fear that all may be lost, my dear Watson."
"Oh, surely not!"
"I fear so, my friend, for if we take this chance, there will be no going back, for either of us."
"But you believe this gamble to be worth the risk?"
"I believe so for, if we are successful, there is everything to be gained."
"Everything, Holmes?"
"Oh, yes!" he declared mysteriously.
"And just what do you interpret as meaning `everything', Holmes?"
His expression changed to one of sad wistfulness. "Too much, my dear Watson. Too much I fear."
"Then perhaps we should not risk it," I ventured uncertainly, still pondering what his meaning could be.
"Oh, my dear friend, nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"True." I took a deep breath. "Very well then. Do you truly believe that we should take this risk?"
"Oh, indeed!"
He seemed to be appraising me, almost challenging me to back out, but this only made me all the more determined to match his courage and tenacity of purpose.
"Very well then, we shall do it, whatever `it' may be," I declared boldly.
He gave me one of those penetrating looks which I sometimes thought could see right into my soul.
"You are quite sure?"
"Yes. If you think that this thing is so important, and I have usually found your judgement to be sound, then we should do it."
When he looked at me his expression seemed almost humble now in contrast to his earlier self-assurance. "Thank you, Watson. I do not deserve your faith in me."
I shook my head and smiled at him fondly. "Tell me what we must do."
"To risk all?"
"To risk all," I affirmed.
"Very well then. Would you be so kind as to examine me?"
I gazed at him even more perplexed. "You wish me to give you a physical examination?"
"Yes."
"Now?"
"Of course."
I sighed, resigned to his demanding ways. "Holmes, you appear to be in good health. I have not heard you complain of late of any undue pain or discomfort of any kind. If you are feeling unwell it would be of great assistance to me if you would describe your symptoms."
"Oh, I shall describe them in detail, but first, Doctor, do you wish me to remove my clothing?"
"Well, if I am to give you a thorough examination you had better remove them, though what this has to do with us taking a gamble I cannot imagine!" I added with some impatience.
"Patience, Doctor, patience," he chided me. "All in good time."
I went to fetch my medical bag and when I returned to the room he was still standing before the fire only now he was bare from the waist up.
As I strode over to him he watched me with a tiny smile on his lips and it appeared to me as if he was... as if he seemed to be... Yes, he was posing for me! He stood there jauntily with his long legs crossed, his elbow on the mantelpiece and his other hand on his hip. I had often seen him stand thus but never, before tonight that is, bare-chested, his pale skin glowing in the lamplight and the flickering flames of the fire. Absently I thought what a fine figure of a man he was with his long legs and trim body.
I placed my bag on the settee and removed my stethoscope, feeling his eyes on me all the while. As I went to him he straightened and stood before me with his hands hanging loosely at his sides, however, he was far from relaxed; his breathing was elevated and he seemed to want to fidget as he at first clenched, then relaxed his fingers.
"If you would care to start with my heart, Doctor?"
"Very well, Holmes."
I rubbed my stethoscope in my hands to warm it before placing it over his heart and listening carefully. It was beating solidly, although at a considerably elevated rate.
"Hm, heartbeat somewhat rapid," I commented.
"Oh, indeed! I find that most curious."
I removed my stethoscope from my ears and placed it around my neck. "Why curious?"
"Because, my dear doctor, was it not you who said that I have no heart? I believe your words were `a brain without a heart'."
I felt chagrined. He was, of course, right.
"Forgive me, Holmes. I did not know you very well at the time I wrote that. At any rate I was referring to your emotional state, not the physical organ."
"Nevertheless, it is what you believed at the time," he said without accusation. "Do you still believe that to be true, Doctor?"
I could not look him in the eye and looked at the floor and fiddled with my stethoscope. "No, Holmes," I muttered.
"You are quite sure, Doctor?"
"Yes."
"Good. However, it is not actually the physical state of my heart that I wish you to examine, but rather the emotional state."
"The emotional..." I sighed; he was being obtuse as usual. I put away my stethoscope and decided that an apology was in order.
"Holmes, I most humbly apologise for calling you `a brain without a heart'. It was callous and unworthy of me, especially considering the friendship you have shown me."
"Thank you, Watson," he murmured softly. "It means a great deal to me to know you believe that I do indeed have a heart, concealed though it usually is," he added.
He held out his hand toward me. I looked at him somewhat puzzled as to his intentions.
"Give me your hand, my friend," he murmured gently.
I looked at him questioningly, wondering exactly what he wanted, but my trust in him was implicit, so I gave him my hand and he took it in both of his cooler ones. His hands always seemed to be cooler than my own, no matter the season. Cold hands, warm heart, I thought, and smiled.
He looked at me wondering at my sudden smile.
"I was just thinking that your hands always seem cooler than my own, and you know what they say about cold hands."
"Hah! A fallacy!" he declared. "Though perhaps in my own case there may be some truth to it."
I looked at him in wonder. "You, Holmes? Admitting to having a heart?"
He was still clasping my hand in his cooler ones. "Yes, my friend, I do have a heart." He took my hand and pressed it over the spot where his heart is. "Can you feel my heart beating, Watson?"
"Well, yes, of course, I feel it, Holmes. What are you getting at?"
"Patience, my friend."
"Oh, very well, Holmes," I muttered resignedly. I knew him well enough to know that he would tell me in his own good time and not before.
"Watson, my dear friend, do you believe it possible that I could learn to love someone?"
I looked at him in surprise. "Well, yes, I suppose it might be possible, though it seems unlikely at present given your current attitude to the fair sex," I ventured cautiously.
"The fair sex indeed!" he muttered with some disdain. "But not impossible, you think?"
"Holmes, this is all rather whimsical and theoretical. What are you getting at?" I queried.
"Can you not deduce, my friend?"
All of a sudden I felt nervous and the butterflies which had been with me for the last few minutes seemed to flutter menacingly within and my heart began to hammer in my chest. He could not possibly mean what he seemed to be implying by his words and actions. No, it was not possible. It was just not possible. Not Sherlock Holmes.
"Close your eyes," he whispered.
"Why?" I asked, more than disturbed by this strange conversation and becoming more nervous with each passing moment.
He gave the tiniest of brief smiles. "Because I wish to test a theory."
"Very well, Holmes." I obeyed him more out of habit than anything else.
I had no sooner closed my eyes when I felt a touch on either side of my jaw, and jerked my head in reaction.
"Shh. Calm yourself, dear boy. I will not hurt you."
The feel of his cool fingers as they traced the outline of my jaw down to my chin was vaguely disturbing. The next thing I knew I felt the press of soft lips against my own in a light, chaste kiss and I almost jumped out of my skin in shock!
I opened my eyes to see his large ones regarding me with such wistful longing in their grey depths that I could not mistake their meaning.
I gasped in surprise. "Holmes? Holmes, you...?"
"Yes, my dear John. It was most ungentlemanly of me, was it not, to take advantage of your trust like that. Forgive me, dear friend, but I knew not how to convey to you that my heart is yours."
I stared at him flabbergasted, my befuddled brain unable to form words. I went to say something, I know not what, but before I could form a reply he placed a finger over my lips.
"Allow me to say this now, dear friend, before my courage deserts me," he murmured. "My beloved companion through thick and thin, I have come to realise that you mean more to me than anyone else in my life ever could. As you can imagine, this has come as somewhat of a surprise for, as you well know, I have deemed myself forever incapable of such feelings and never thought to experience such in my lifetime. However, you, my dearest friend, have changed all that."
As I again went to speak he murmured, "Hear me out, my friend. I have come to know you," he continued. "Your kind-heartedness, your basic honesty and your goodness have made me realise just what a valuable and sterling companion you are. You have become a dear and trusted friend, indeed the only true friend I have ever known. For this alone I could not help but... care for you. I could spend a lifetime denying it, but what would be the point when it seems that, against my will, my heart has chosen for me?"
He paused and took a deep breath. "I know... I know that you are searching for true love, my friend. I know that there have been women in your past and that you have cared for them, but I want you to know that I... love you... most dearly, and I would be honoured if you would consent to be my partner, in all ways. I realise..." Again he paused and took a deep breath. "I realise that it would involve constant secrecy. We would be compelled to prudence at all times. I fully realise that such a relationship would not always be easy and I readily admit that I am not the easiest person in the world to live with, however, I believe that the rewards..." and here he looked at me from under his thick, dark lashes in most meaningful fashion, "would more than compensate for whatever sacrifices we might have to make in the future."
He turned away briefly to stare into the fire before once again allowing his candid gaze to again seek my eyes. "I realise that I have shocked you most grievously, dear friend, but today while you were at your surgery I carefully weighed all the factors that had to be taken into account." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "Besides, my heart would no longer allow me to remain silent."
His eyes roamed my face as though memorising my features for the last time and for a moment I thought that he might touch me again or kiss me, but he did neither.
"And now, my friend, I will bid you goodnight for I have given you much to contemplate. I ask only that you consider my proposal after weighing the feelings in your own heart. You should also know that, should your answer be no, then we shall never speak of this again and, hopefully, you will still be my friend, for I will always consider you my best and dearest friend. However, I think you should know also that if your answer is a definite and unequivocal no, then I would have no choice but to seek a compatible, and compassionate, heart elsewhere. I also fully realise that if your answer is no, then you may understandably wish to seek lodgings elsewhere and, if that is to be your choice, then be assured that I shall accept it. In that event I would not expect you to continue to live under the same roof as myself knowing what you now know. Goodnight, my friend."
With that he turned away from me and strode across the sitting room into his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving me to sink down into my armchair and mull over all that he had revealed to me on this extraordinary night.
I must admit that the first thought that came to me was that I did not love him that way. I did not desire him. I have never thought of him with desire. He was a dear friend, yes, but... a lover? Impossible! Much as I was fond of him I could not accede to his wishes for the sake of pleasing him. It would have to be what I wanted too, and I definitely did not want it.
Oh, Lord this was awful! Oh, why did Holmes have to tell me? Why could we not have gone on as we were? I was content as we were, but then he was not. Sherlock Holmes, you want more from me than I can give! I thought despondently.
What could I say to him? No matter what I said he would be hurt by my rejection, and rejection, no matter how gentle, was rejection; and if I rejected him, could I continue to live here at Baker Street knowing that he... I had to force myself to say it ...that he desired me. There, I said it. Sherlock Holmes desired John H. Watson. Of course, he said he would not expect me to continue to live here in the circumstances, but I was comfortable here and did not wish to move. But then would it be fair for me to stay here in the circumstances, forever staying out of his reach and never allowing him to have what he obviously very much needed? It would be like constantly dangling a carrot in front of somebody and perhaps rather unfair, maybe even cruel.
How often had I wished that he had a heart? And how often had I wished that he would show that heart sometimes? Well, I had got my wish and, oh, what bitter irony! Tonight Sherlock Holmes revealed his heart to me, and now I was going to break it.
Sherlock Holmes loved me. Dear God, he said he loved me! Oh, what it must have cost his pride to have admitted to something as irrational and unreasonable as unrequited love! I loved him too, but as a friend! Oh, Lord, what was I to do? He was a dear friend and a magnificent and just human being and I would do anything to avoid hurting him, but I could not fake a desire I could never feel. I could not be what I was not. God, what was I to do?
I thought of what it must have cost him to confess his secret to me. And how long had he felt this way anyway? Judging from what he said it must be some considerable time. He certainly hid it well; I never guessed; never would have known had he not told me. It would never have occurred to me that he might secretly love me as more than a friend. But then why should he not? He is a most original and unique being who regularly flouts convention and is not above breaking the law if he believes it to be in a good cause. So what if that cause happens to be keeping a roof over his head and having money to go to concerts! Concerts, exhibits, plays, museums, you name it and we have attended them together. But if I left Baker Street what would he do? If he truly loved me, and it seemed he did, then those places might remind him of me and he might not wish to go alone. I did not wish him to become reclusive on my account.
On the other hand, he said that if I rejected him completely he would seek someone else, and I can not blame him for that. And if he found someone who suited his needs would that person become his Boswell too? But that was my role! I supposed I could go back to just being an ordinary general practitioner but somehow the thought held little appeal and the thought of another taking on my role was decidedly unpalatable.
Oh, God, I did not want to break his heart! And he was so alone. All he had was his misanthropic brother whom he hardly ever saw. Oh, I wished he had other friends. He relied too much on me for company, but then why should he not? I was always here for him and I enjoyed his company, even when he was conducting those foul chemical experiments of which he was so inordinately fond; even when he left this place in such a shambles that I sometimes despaired of ever tidying it and feared that our good landlady would evict us, and with good cause; even when he was exasperating me by practicing the violin while I was trying to write up his latest case I could not stay mad at him. Better to have him play the violin than shoot cocaine into his arm! Never mind that he does not take care of himself and frequently will not even eat unless I encourage him, especially when he was on a case. He never looked after himself.
I had to face it, the man needed someone to look after him, and I had grown used to the task. Besides, if I did not look after him, then who would? Oh, Lord, but responsibility was a heavy burden! And I was not responsible for the health, well-being and emotional state of one Mr Sherlock Holmes, unofficial consulting detective of 221B Baker Street! I was not!
Oh, what was the point in denying it! I was responsible because he had come to rely on me and I had allowed it, yes, even encouraged it, because, damn it, the man was an eccentric genius and needed looking after! Why did all geniuses have to be eccentric? I wondered. Anyway, there was no one else to look after him except dear Mrs Hudson and she could not cope with him. His health could be fragile, especially when he was immersed in a difficult case; he needed somebody who could look after him; somebody who could stand up to him; somebody he would listen to; somebody like myself, a doctor.
Again I forced myself to admit the truth; that I liked to look after him, even enjoyed looking after him because I cared for him, and, yes, because it made me important to him. Also, I, too, was no stranger to loneliness. And now that I was invaluable to him? Now that he loved me? What now? I got more than I bargained for, I realised, and wondered what on earth I was going to do about it.
But I liked women. So what if it was a while since I had asked one out to dinner. When had I last invited an attractive woman out for an evening? Six months ago? No, it had been... a year! I thought at first that it could not possibly have been that long, but it was. A whole year since I had asked a woman out! What was the matter with me? What was her name anyway? I remembered; it was Miss Cecilia Dowling. She had a laugh like a hyena and the feathers in her hat had tickled me all evening. In fact I remember thinking at the time that if I had been with Holmes at least I would not have been constantly irritated by the feathers in her hat, not to mention that Holmes's conversation was vastly more interesting. I had been thoroughly uncomfortable with her. One dinner was enough. Just as well Holmes had never known about her. Nothing to know anyway. Good heavens when had I last even flirted with a pretty girl? Now Holmes, he never flirted, though he might have with Irene Adler if he had had half a chance! Not that he would ever admit it, of course. When did I even get a chance to meet any single women when I spent all my spare time with Holmes? Heavens, we went everywhere together!
I had to face it, I enjoyed being seen with the celebrated Sherlock Holmes, and if he took my arm as we strolled down the street, I felt proud. We went everywhere together and I enjoyed it immensely. His conversation was always so varied and interesting that I was never bored. I had always enjoyed music but I had never attended so many concerts in my life as I had since I had come to know Holmes. He enjoyed surprising me with dinner and tickets to a concert and he knew how much I enjoyed these little surprises of his.
Good Lord! All those dinners and concerts we attended together! He had been courting me! Oh, Lord, he had been courting me and I never even realised it! I had been too busy enjoying his company to realise... Yes, it was true. Now that I looked back I realised the pleasure on his face at my delight whenever he announced he had tickets for a concert at St James's Hall or an opera at Covent Garden or half a dozen other places we attended regularly. I had to face it; I enjoyed his company and I wanted to go on enjoying his company and being seen with him. But he wanted more...
It had always seemed so natural going places with him. We just kind of naturally fit together and I felt so comfortable with him. I knew he relied on me more than he would ever admit, and he certainly admitted it tonight! Indeed he had bared his soul to me tonight!
To think that I could have come to mean so much to him! It seemed almost inconceivable that the famed Sherlock Holmes of the heart of stone could love anyone, let alone me. But then again, if he was to love anyone I suppose it would have to be me; after all, I was the person he spent near all of his time with.
Sherlock Holmes wanted love, and I could not blame him for that. He desired to have a physical relationship with me, but I had no desire to participate in an act of sodomy. I might disagree with the law but that did not necessarily mean that I wanted to flout it. No, I could not blame him for loving me; I blamed myself for being unable to return his love in the way he wished.
I suppose in retrospect I should have expected it, and yet I had been blind, but then Holmes was a consummate actor and had hidden his feelings well. After all, he was the most unconventional of men and his taste in lovers was also unconventional for he had chosen me to love. Again I forced myself to confront the truth, namely that if a beautiful and intelligent woman chose me for her lover, I would say she had good taste. Sherlock Holmes had chosen me for his lover; did that not mean that he, too, had good taste? Well, yes, but it was hardly the same thing. I realised that if somebody found me attractive I was always flattered, so if someone of the calibre of Sherlock Holmes, who was as fine and handsome a human being as I was ever likely to encounter in my lifetime, told me he loved me and wanted me for his lover forever and a day...
I had to admit that I was flattered that Sherlock Holmes had chosen me to love, and his heart was a delicate thing. If I rejected him now how long would it be before he would once again dare to bare his heart to someone else? Oh, but I did not want to hurt him! If I could find a woman I had as much in common with as I do with Sherlock Holmes I would marry her in an instant. Was I then saying that I would marry Sherlock Holmes if he had been born female?
I sat mulling over that question for quite some time. When I came out of my brown study the fire had died down to glowing red embers and the clock said that it was twenty past midnight. At length I forced myself to answer honestly; after all it was time for truth between us and Holmes had been not only honest about his feelings, but had shown remarkable courage in revealing them to me. I could do no less for him.
Yes, I finally admitted, if Sherlock Holmes had been a woman I would have married him. We had the kind of friendship, rapport and mutual respect that could conceivably last a lifetime. In fact, to be truthful, in many ways I was an ideal partner for him, and he for me. But did I truly want Sherlock Holmes to be female? The picture my mind conjured of Holmes dressed in women's clothing was so comical and ludicrous that I almost laughed aloud.
No, I decided. I definitely would not want Sherlock Holmes to be female. I cared for him as he was for what he was and if he had been born female his interests would conceivably have been vastly different. Women, it seemed, just did not want the same things from life that men did, and I would not want him to change, not even for the sake of having a conventional and acceptable relationship. He was as he was and could not change his sex any more than I could, therefore I had to take him as he was; indeed love him as he was. So why did that frighten me so? Because I preferred to be the dominant partner in a romantic relationship? Because I preferred to be the decision-maker? The bread winner?
Yes. All of that was true. I preferred a partner who wanted all of those things from me. But I enjoyed being his comrade and biographer. I was proud when he called me his Boswell. I enjoyed his friendship and the sense of excitement we shared when on a case. There were also times when he was like a wayward child and needed someone to guide him, and I was there for him. He had often admitted to needing my friendship and my support, especially when his spirits were low, and they were never lower than when a client had literally been murdered. Those times, though rare, are the blackest of all and he will wander our rooms like a grey ghost or lie on the couch and not speak to me for days on end. Those are the times when I really fear for his health and his sanity for he will take nothing but cocaine to ease his inner torment. We both know that I am always the one to bring him out of it in the end and his black moods are thankfully fewer these days and of considerably shorter duration than when I first knew him. But I feared that if I was no longer there to help him, then those occasional black moods would overwhelm him, like they had in the past, for he was not like ordinary men. His mental condition was delicate in a lot of ways and he needed someone to look after him.
My thoughts continued to chase each other in circles and it was half past one in the morning when I gave up and went to bed, deciding to sleep on it and hope that I could make a decision one way or the other the following day.
*
