Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I say, Holmes, have you seen my silver pill box? I could have sworn I had left it on my desk recently…”

“Check my jacket pocket,” Holmes replied without looking up from his experiment. “It’s in my room.”

It had been two days since the events that had led to the capture of Lydia Marlowe and the death of Moriarty. Though neither Holmes nor Watson had resulted particularly injured at the end of the case, Watson had nonetheless decreed a few days of rest, and as Holmes had several pending experiments to conduct, he had, for once, submitted to his doctor with good humour.

Watson grumbled something under his breath as he stepped into Holmes’ cluttered bedroom and began rummaging. “And what, pray tell, would it be doing in here?”

“I needed it to carry the pills for my encounter with Lydia. To trick her into thinking she had me under her spell, you know.”

“Really, Holmes!” Watson poked his head out indignantly. “Don’t you have your own?”

“Couldn’t find it.”

“Not surprising…! How do you find anything in here? And where is that bloody— Aha,” Watson exclaimed, stepping back into the sitting room with Holmes’ brown tweed jacket held triumphantly in his right hand.

He dug through the pockets, pulling out a varied assortment of trinkets with a huff.

“Please put those back when you’re done,” Holmes said, eyes still on his beakers.

“Most of this is junk, Holmes. Take this scrap of paper, for instance.” He pulled out a crumpled sheet from one of the pockets. “Probably a two-month-old receipt for some item you’ve already forgotten you bought!”

Holmes raised his eyes, about to offer a more accurate observation on the slip of paper, but a glance at it made his voice fail him. The cream-coloured sheet between Watson’s fingers was all too familiar to him.

It was not a receipt, but the note Moriarty had made him write while he was ostensibly hypnotised. A note that Watson could not, under any circumstance, be permitted to read. 

He stood up suddenly, intent on getting to it before Watson could open it. But he was too far to stop him physically, and he could not get his vocal cords to work. He watched helplessly as Watson, unaware of his companion’s turmoil, unfolded it and began reading. Holmes felt his heart drop to his stomach as he watched Watson’s smile fade and be replaced with a frown.

“Holmes…” he began slowly. “What is the meaning of this?”

Holmes cursed himself for not having destroyed it as soon as he had returned to Baker Street that evening. What was he supposed to tell Watson? 

He wished it had been a regular suicide note. That, at least, would have been easy to explain. But Moriarty, curse the man, had not been satisfied with merely getting rid of his rival by staging a suicide.

“You see, my dear Lydia,” he had explained when Lydia had questioned what he was dictating to Holmes, “I do not simply wish to destroy Sherlock Holmes the man. I want his reputation in ruins. I want his name dragged through the mud, spoken only with contempt. And what better way to achieve this than by having him confess his undying love for his companion Doctor Watson?”

The shock of what he was being asked to do had almost been enough to make Holmes give the game away, but he had managed to master himself at the last moment. He had no choice but to comply if he wanted to keep up the ruse. And so, he had copied, in a hand he hoped had not been shaking too obviously, everything Moriarty had told him to write, then stuffed it in his pocket, hoping desperately that Watson would never come across the letter.

Except now he had. 

The worst part of it was that Holmes could not decide what to do. Had it been anyone else, it would have been simple enough to say that it was a note penned with the sole purpose of fooling Moriarty. But with Watson, there was one crucial matter that needed to be considered: the letter may have been written under duress, in words that were not his own, but the sentiments expressed within were true.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with his flatmate. Rather desperately, actually. 

For the past several years, he had done his best to bottle up his feelings, only daring to uncork them late at night, in the dark solitude of his bedroom. Only then would he admit to himself how much he craved Watson’s touch, his smiles, and his praise. He would fall asleep hugging his pillow to his chest, pathetically imagining it was Watson in his bed instead. Morning was invariably agony as he struggled to banish his affection back into the pit of his stomach. There was a reason he skipped breakfast often, and it wasn’t due to a lack of appetite.

He had eventually resolved to tell Watson, if only to get it off his chest before it drove him mad. For the better part of the past year, he had been looking for a way to sound out Watson’s interest—though all his observations pointed toward it lying with pretty women rather than lanky detectives. The closest he had come to admitting the truth had been when Moriarty had tricked him into believing he held Watson hostage. But Watson had remained oblivious despite it all, and Holmes had been forced to accept that it was not meant to be. He would be doomed to living with an all-consuming attraction to his best friend for the rest of his life, it seemed.

The idea of Watson finding out this way made him sick to his stomach.

“Holmes.”

Watson’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts with a start.

“I—” he began, then stopped.

Watson stepped toward him. Holmes watched him approach warily, his heart thundering in his chest. He couldn’t read the expression on Watson’s face—which was preposterous, because he could always read Watson like an open book—and that made him unaccountably anxious. He didn’t look upset or angry, not exactly, and that only further convinced Holmes that he was missing some crucial cue. Why couldn’t he think? Watson was still advancing, and Holmes began to back up nervously. His back hit the wall with a thump, and he willed himself to take a deep breath before he began to hyperventilate.

Watson continued moving toward him, and was now close enough to strike him, if he so wished, though his arms were still down by his side.

“Holmes,” he repeated in a low voice. “I hadn’t realised… that is, I had no idea you felt this way toward me.”

He leaned in closer and Holmes closed his eyes, unable to face the still-indecipherable look in Watson’s blue eyes. He fancied he could feel Watson close the distance between them—but no, that had to be some sort of trick brought on by wishful thinking. No doubt he was entirely misreading the situation. It might be some kind of bait, to see if Holmes would give himself away. But surely Watson couldn’t be that cruel, could he?

Whatever the case, Holmes could not let him know the truth.

“Moriarty made me write it!” he blurted out.

He dared to crack open an eye and saw Watson retreat suddenly, a look of confusion upon his face. At least that he could interpret easily, he thought shakily.

“What?”

“Moriarty… He wanted to… to discredit me, in Lydia’s flat. I was supposed to be hypnotised when he made me write it so I couldn’t—I couldn’t refuse.”

“So… it’s all lies?” Watson wasn’t looking at him. 

He turned away abruptly. His posture reminded Holmes of the times he had inadvertently hurt him with a thoughtless comment. He hated seeing him like that and hated himself even more for being the cause of it.

But that didn’t make sense. Holmes hadn’t said anything hurtful this time, of that he was reasonably certain. 

Or had he?

A flicker of doubt wormed its way into his mind. Could he have misunderstood something?

“Watson, I—”

“No! No, old boy, of course it all makes sense now. A dastardly plan, isn’t it? Worthy of Moriarty, though perhaps not very believable. The great Sherlock Holmes, in love with me… Hah!” Watson straightened up and dropped the note on Holmes’ desk. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “You know, I think I’ll call it a night. It’s getting late. You ought to get rid of that before someone else sees it. They might get the wrong idea, you know. See you in the morning, old bean.”

“Watson, wait.”

He had called out almost reflexively, only aware that he did not want Watson to leave the room until he had figured out what was happening. Watson paused, hand on the doorknob, but did not turn around. Holmes’ mind was racing. Watson’s blatantly transparent attempt at levity, his refusal to look at his companion… Holmes began to feel dizzy as he reviewed the events of the last few minutes under a new light. 

“You… you were going to kiss me, weren’t you? Before I mentioned Moriarty.”

Watson’s shoulders stiffened and Holmes knew he had hit the nail on the head. The realisation made him flush. To think he had been so close to getting precisely what he wanted… and had ruined it through his own stupidity and fear.

“Holmes.” Watson’s voice was quiet, pained. “Please forget everything that just happened. I’m sorry for jumping to foolish conclusions.”

Suddenly everything was clear again, and Holmes felt the same rush of understanding and euphoria he did when all the pieces of a case finally slotted together. He felt himself break into a smile, feeling giddy with relief.

“No, Watson, I’m the fool.”

Before he could rethink what he was doing, Holmes joined Watson by the door and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

“I was afraid you’d… you’d hate me,” he confessed.

“Why should I? You only did what you had to do to stall for time. If anything, it’s Moriarty I hate.”

“He made me write the words, that’s true, but I…” Holmes’ voice faltered, doubt rushing back into his mind momentarily, and he took a deep breath to banish it once more. “I assure you, the sentiment is quite real.”

Watson finally turned to him. “It is?”

“I care for you deeply, Watson, so much so that it almost… almost frightens me. I could not bear the idea of losing you, so I never said anything, but, my dear boy—”

He was cut off by Watson suddenly pulling him in and pressing their lips together. Holmes staggered against him, bumping his shoulder against the door, and wrapped his arms around his Watson as he returned the kiss. He let himself get lost in the sensations, noting the heat of Watson’s mouth, the tickle of his moustache, the solidity of his chest against his own. Holmes had been kissed before, but never like this. He would have gladly given everything up to stay in Watson’s embrace forever, he thought.

But Watson pulled away after what felt like too short a time, and a needy whine escaped Holmes’ throat. Watson huffed in amusement.

“I can’t believe we have Moriarty to thank for this,” he chuckled as he pressed their foreheads together.

Holmes wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I’m not thanking Moriarty for anything,” he declared. “Now shut up and kiss me again.”

With a delighted laugh, Watson obliged.