errorYou must be logged in to review this story.
The Adventure of the Reappearing Rent
folder
S through Z › Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,857
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,857
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own any part of the Sherlock Holmes franchise. I don't make any money from this internet publication. In fact, I don't get anything out of writing this except some attention and an orgasm or two.
A Study in Sunlight
The Adventure of the Reappearing Rent
Chapter Two
A Study in Sunlight
Watson groaned and put his head beneath the pillow in an attempt to block out the band of late morning sunlight that slipped through the curtain. He knew from the texture of his mouth that he was dehydrated and should get up and find some water before his headache worsened but his body insisted that he should stay perfectly still until it all went away.
Cold and wet dripped down Watson's spine, startling him fully awake. Holmes, fully dressed and looking well-rested, was standing over him with a glass of water and a piece of toast.
"Good God, man!" Watson shouted and cringed simultaneously, "What on Earth are you doing in my room?"
"Bringing you something to drink. And aspirin. You got very drunk," Holmes said, smiling. "I thought there might be lingering effects of your self-poisoning."
"How considerate of you." Watson's tone bore a tinge of sarcasm. Water was unbelievably divine on mornings like these. It wasn't until he'd finished the glass that he recognized his surroundings as Holmes' room and not his own.
Holmes sat back into his chair and amused himself watching memory play merry havoc with the man's expression.
Watson was acutely aware of his half-nudity and the reason behind it. Holmes' gaze made him intolerably uncomfortable. Watson gestured that the glass was empty. "Would you mind very much fetching me another?" Anything to distract Holmes from smirking at him that way.
"Not very much," Holmes said as he stood, leaned over and refilled the glass from a pitcher. He sat back down and resumed smiling.
The aspirin left bitterness on the back of Watson's tongue that wasn't lessened by the water.
Holmes leaned back, eyes shutting. Still smiling. "I don't suppose you can fill me in as to how we got home? I took quite a blow to the head last night and I'm certain I drank more than is strictly normal for me. My memory is muddled. Would you give me some hint as to what may have been dream, and what is fact, dear doctor?"
"I was about to ask you the same." Watson lied. He remembered exactly how it felt to have Holmes' lips wrapped around his erection.
"I'm sure I can trust your recollections to be accurate in the extreme," Holmes said, seriously. "And will dismiss all the things in my own mind that do not correspond with your account as an effect of the head injury." He pointed to the scab on his brow.
"We had dinner at [restaurant] after which we walked to the boxing ring where you won six rounds. It was during the sixth that you were hit in the head. We were both too drunk to walk and hailed a cab. I remember tripping up the stairs in a good mood and sharing another drink with you before growing tired. And that is all." Watson disliked lying. Sure, little lies didn't bother him and tiny omissions were often necessary in polite conversation but this was different. This was the sort of lie that could have great impact upon their friendship. But what if Holmes, now sober, was ashamed of his behavior? Watson certainly was.
"That's all?" Holmes asked, tone slightly subdued. Well, he had offered Watson the way out. It would not do to shut that door in the man's face.
"I must have mistaken your bed for mine. I hope you didn't sleep on the floor for my sake."
Holmes' lips twitched. "You are welcome to my bed, whenever you like."
Watson's stomach made a knot that had little to do with last night's drinking. Holmes remembered, or could guess, enough to know what had happened. And he knew that Watson was not being entirely honest.
"That is generous of you," Watson got up and collected his pants, "but it won't be necessary."
"It is something I..." Holmes paused and considered his words. "It is an open offer that I make to you. Just to you."
"I've a perfectly good bed, thank you." Watson heard the edge of anger in his own voice.
Holmes looked away sharply, inspecting the ugly but serviceable oil lamp on the bedside table.
Watson went to his own room and locked the door behind him. His stomach rebelled and he vomited into the empty wash basin until it turned green with bile. The worst part of this, he thought, was that it was all his fault. He should have ignored Holmes' advances. He should not have drunk so much in the first place. He should not have bet his rent money in a game of cards. He should have rented that room on Timothy Street with the airy parlor.
Watson's bed was cold and he shivered a moment, his head aching viciously, before he was comfortable enough to doze through his hangover.
When he woke later that afternoon his pocket watch was on the bedside table, and Holmes was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Two
A Study in Sunlight
Watson groaned and put his head beneath the pillow in an attempt to block out the band of late morning sunlight that slipped through the curtain. He knew from the texture of his mouth that he was dehydrated and should get up and find some water before his headache worsened but his body insisted that he should stay perfectly still until it all went away.
Cold and wet dripped down Watson's spine, startling him fully awake. Holmes, fully dressed and looking well-rested, was standing over him with a glass of water and a piece of toast.
"Good God, man!" Watson shouted and cringed simultaneously, "What on Earth are you doing in my room?"
"Bringing you something to drink. And aspirin. You got very drunk," Holmes said, smiling. "I thought there might be lingering effects of your self-poisoning."
"How considerate of you." Watson's tone bore a tinge of sarcasm. Water was unbelievably divine on mornings like these. It wasn't until he'd finished the glass that he recognized his surroundings as Holmes' room and not his own.
Holmes sat back into his chair and amused himself watching memory play merry havoc with the man's expression.
Watson was acutely aware of his half-nudity and the reason behind it. Holmes' gaze made him intolerably uncomfortable. Watson gestured that the glass was empty. "Would you mind very much fetching me another?" Anything to distract Holmes from smirking at him that way.
"Not very much," Holmes said as he stood, leaned over and refilled the glass from a pitcher. He sat back down and resumed smiling.
The aspirin left bitterness on the back of Watson's tongue that wasn't lessened by the water.
Holmes leaned back, eyes shutting. Still smiling. "I don't suppose you can fill me in as to how we got home? I took quite a blow to the head last night and I'm certain I drank more than is strictly normal for me. My memory is muddled. Would you give me some hint as to what may have been dream, and what is fact, dear doctor?"
"I was about to ask you the same." Watson lied. He remembered exactly how it felt to have Holmes' lips wrapped around his erection.
"I'm sure I can trust your recollections to be accurate in the extreme," Holmes said, seriously. "And will dismiss all the things in my own mind that do not correspond with your account as an effect of the head injury." He pointed to the scab on his brow.
"We had dinner at [restaurant] after which we walked to the boxing ring where you won six rounds. It was during the sixth that you were hit in the head. We were both too drunk to walk and hailed a cab. I remember tripping up the stairs in a good mood and sharing another drink with you before growing tired. And that is all." Watson disliked lying. Sure, little lies didn't bother him and tiny omissions were often necessary in polite conversation but this was different. This was the sort of lie that could have great impact upon their friendship. But what if Holmes, now sober, was ashamed of his behavior? Watson certainly was.
"That's all?" Holmes asked, tone slightly subdued. Well, he had offered Watson the way out. It would not do to shut that door in the man's face.
"I must have mistaken your bed for mine. I hope you didn't sleep on the floor for my sake."
Holmes' lips twitched. "You are welcome to my bed, whenever you like."
Watson's stomach made a knot that had little to do with last night's drinking. Holmes remembered, or could guess, enough to know what had happened. And he knew that Watson was not being entirely honest.
"That is generous of you," Watson got up and collected his pants, "but it won't be necessary."
"It is something I..." Holmes paused and considered his words. "It is an open offer that I make to you. Just to you."
"I've a perfectly good bed, thank you." Watson heard the edge of anger in his own voice.
Holmes looked away sharply, inspecting the ugly but serviceable oil lamp on the bedside table.
Watson went to his own room and locked the door behind him. His stomach rebelled and he vomited into the empty wash basin until it turned green with bile. The worst part of this, he thought, was that it was all his fault. He should have ignored Holmes' advances. He should not have drunk so much in the first place. He should not have bet his rent money in a game of cards. He should have rented that room on Timothy Street with the airy parlor.
Watson's bed was cold and he shivered a moment, his head aching viciously, before he was comfortable enough to doze through his hangover.
When he woke later that afternoon his pocket watch was on the bedside table, and Holmes was nowhere to be found.