The Adventure of the Reappearing Rent

Watson had made a fine mess of his ordinarily tidy room and his good shirt with the black buttons was nowhere to be found. It was a quarter to six and he was going to be late for a dinner party that one of his more affluent patients had insisted he attend.

Perhaps Mrs Hudson had mixed up the laundry. "Holmes, have you seen my white linen shirt? The one with the ebony buttons... What in God's name are you doing to Gladstone!"

"It's just de-worming medicine," Homes said, patiently moving a sheet of newspaper as the dog waddled around. Slovenly though he might be, dog shit on the floor was not permitted. "An old wives remedy, but it seems to work."

Watson gagged at the stench and opened a window, "Could you at least take him outside?"

"I'm concerned that the force of the bowel motion will cause prolapse," Holmes said. "He's straining quite hard, and the alley is filthy. Don't you have a dinner to go to?"

"Yes, actually. Have you seen my shirt?"

"You have eleven shirts," Holmes pointed out. The dog flopped to its side, exhausted, and Holmes tossed the mess out the window. "This one might have been yours, but I fear I've ruined this cuff with liver."

"That is my shirt!" Watson grabbed Holmes' wrist and inspected the stain. "Damn it Holmes! I can not believe you! Give it back to me this instant."

"It's not as if you can wear it now," Holmes said, jerking his hand back and looking affronted, "Unless you're going to claim you had to stop on the way for a spot of surgery."

"That is not the point." Watson grabbed the lapel with one hand started unbuttoning with the other, "It is mine and you are going to give it back to me now because you had no right to take it in the first place."

"I think you just want to strip me for your amusement," Holmes said, swatting at Watson's wrist.

"Think what you like." he scoffed.

"I'll put it back in your rooms tonight, go find another shirt so you can enjoy your social mountaineering."

"You'll take it off now before you manage to ruin it further." Watson tried again to work the buttons loose.

Holmes batted his hand away with almost careless ease. "I won't. You've got my best smoking jacket, anyway. It's hardly a fair trade."

"Your best smoking jacket is so encrusted with dirt that if it were ever properly laundered it would fall apart!" Watson, frustrated, grabbed the lapels and shook Holmes as roughly as he could, "Dammit Holmes! Give. It. Back."

Holmes seized Watson's wrists. "What the devil's gotten into you?" he snapped, forcing Watson's hands apart. It made a button pop, the man had a good grip. Watson was startled into sobriety by Holmes' shout.

"Ha." Watson gave a short humorless laugh, "Ha ha." his agitation, he realized, had started long before Holmes' refusal to take off his shirt.

"Is this about that bloody trial?" Holmes asked, straightening his stained cuffs, eyeing Watson warily. "Or that idiot of a patient you have that ignores your advice and mixes his medications?"

Yesterday, a young man, Peter Wellington, the son of a wealthy family, had been put on trial for 'indecent acts with another man' and received only one month of imprisonment. Of course the judge, notorious for condemning men to the maximum of two years hard labor, had been bribed or otherwise coerced into delivering such a light sentence. It had been the headline of at least two papers and the talk of the city. Every one of Watson's patients that afternoon had mentioned it and Watson had gone through the day muttering a trite line about Sodom and how all men receive their due in time. It had frayed his nerves.

"Would you believe that it's both?" Watson confessed, "The man looks straight at me and says 'They should have hanged him, like they did in the old days. If I ever caught one of those buggers I'd hang him right there.' I knew he was talking to hear his own voice but-" he stopped abruptly. "I really should be going."

Holmes sighed. "Will he be attending the dinner party?"

"I would be surprised if he didn't."

"Then you'd better give me the rent now. I know it's not due until next Monday, but he's going to annoy you, you'll go drinking and then you'll end up with another pawnbrokers mark on your watch."

"If the rent is due Monday then you'll get it on Monday." Watson's lips were a thin line beneath his mustache. "Now if you will excuse me I have to find a shirt that you haven't worn. Preferably one you haven't even touched."

"At this point there's very little you own that I haven't touched," Holmes said, in what he undoubtedly thought was a reasonable tone of voice. If he had been within striking distance Watson would have hit him.

Holmes grinned, bright and wicked. "So you agree?"

Watson made no reply. He continued to his room and rifled through the unkempt pile of clothing at the foot of his bed in search of his second best shirt. It had an ink stain on it. God willing his vest would hide it.

***

Holmes had been right about the dinner party, of course. Watson had managed to enjoy himself for a while by conversing with a lovely young woman named Deborah. She had been seated next to him in what he assumed was an attempt at matchmaking on the hostess' part. It was after dessert when the men retired to the parlor that Watson's nerves started to fray. The subject of the evening was, of course, the trial.

What started with a general consensus that the judge had been bribed quickly turned into a battery of jokes in bad taste. Watson drank and smoked and laughed right along with them, of course. All the while wondering if his guilt wasn't plainly writ across his forehead. He had cried off early, claiming the need to visit a patient.

Walking home, Watson slowed as he passed a cluster of men playing dice on the sidewalk. He had a few loose coins and fancied a throw or two. Just when he was about to join them Watson remembered Holmes' smug smile and changed his mind. He would not give Holmes the satisfaction of being completely accurate! He shoved his hand deeper into his pocket and hailed a cab.

Watson was feeling a bit victorious as he inserted his key and turned the knob. However, is rising spirits were curbed by the sight of Holmes sprawled across the floor in a stupor; still wearing Watson's best shirt which was now stained across the front with ash and soot. An empty cobalt bottle lay near his hand.

Watson resisted the urge to kick him and settled for prodding his ribs, none too gently, with the end of his cane. "You are buying me another shirt. I ought to make you buy half a dozen shirts, you slob. Do you hear me Sherlock Holmes?" When he got no response he felt like a bully. "Ah damn." Watson attempted to squat beside Holmes but ended up sitting down with a thump. He checked the man's vitals just to be sure he wasn't dead.

"No such luck." he murmured, not really meaning it. He used his cane to draw his medical bag over and withdrew a vile of smelling salts. Watson was going to give Holmes a very large piece of his mind and Holmes was going to be conscious enough to hear it, by God.

Holmes came to with a groan and pushed the jar away. "Cease the torment. I heard you," he grumbled, sitting up slowly. "I hadn't lost consciousness, but it was temporarily restful," he said, words slurring only slightly.

"What in God's name did you get up to in the," Watson glanced at his pocket watch, "scant four hours I was away?"

"Pirelli's Miracle Elixir," Holmes gestured to the empty bottle. The snake oil would not do most of what the label claimed but it was still extract of coca leaves, and he certainly knew what that did. "And a bird dropped something down the fire place. Also, I was working out a way to detect the difference between a mere smear of dried mud, and the stain of old blood."

"No doubt you used one of my shirts for the experiment." Watson groused, picking at the loose thread that had once held a button in place. He stopped when the half-open shirt gave him a glimpse of a nipple.

Holmes shrugged, a movement dangerous to his modesty as the shirt was barely on a shoulder to start with. He tugged it back up thoughtlessly. "Not at all. I used a shoe."

Watson was not going to be baited into asking whose shoe. He frowned and brushed distractedly at a spot of soot.

"I am proud of your restraint," Holmes said, shifting to lay back down. "Incidentally."

"Don't patronize me."

"It's still true. I had half thought that in your state you would haul off and hit someone," Holmes said, eyes shutting. "Though fear probably halted you there."

"Do you mind? Your nose in my thoughts is discomfortable." Watson frowned at the juxtaposition of 'disconcerting' and 'uncomfortable'. If he hadn't been limp-boned with drink he would have gotten up and left Holmes on the floor.

"I am not in your thoughts, my dear doctor. Though I could hazard a guess or three," he chuckled. "I suspect discomfatable is an excellent word for your night. I feel that way quite often, particularly today. The opposite sex does that to me as well though I have had no female clients today."

Watson raised an incredulous eyebrow. "The great Sherlock Holmes is intimidated by the fairer sex?"

"If you are not then you do not have half the sense I credited to you," Holmes said. "I have no use for them."

"Obviously." Watson muttered under his breath. "And here I'd assumed it was your eccentricity that kept you from courting. God knows you've had some lovely clients."

Holmes snorted. "As you have often commented. No, my common sense keeps me from all manner of courting."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Holmes said. "Disinterest and self preservation."

"Self-preservation?"

"Although I suspect half a night in jail might be the worst I would face," Holmes went on, tone changing to thoughtful as if he'd forgotten that Watson was there, and was now talking to himself.

"You're not making any sense, Holmes." Watson decided that if he was going to have a nonsensical conversation he was going to do it laying down. He laced his fingers behind his neck and stared at the ceiling. "Is that a bloodstain?"

"Possibly, but I think, from the edges, that it is, in fact, a splash of cherry cordial," Holmes said after a moment. "Real blood would be darker by now. Am I not making sense?"

"Maybe you are making sense and I'm just a bit inebriated."

"Nnn." Holmes said, eyes shutting. "I do not think I had that elixir correctly decoded. There was more than mere cocaine in it."

"You drank the whole bottle?" Watson reached over Holmes' chest for the bottle and peered at the label. It recommended two tablespoons dissolved in a generous glass of water as an instant cure for headaches, all manner of pains, coughing, bags under the eyes and liver spots. "Holmes, I'm amazed that you're conscious at all."

"I hear that from so very many doctors," Holmes said, bringing hand up to brush Watson's arm as it passed.

"You're just not human." Watson mused, "It's the only explanation I can come up with."

"I have heard that from so many priests," Holmes said, then laughed hollowly.

"Ha! I knew it!" Watson elbowed him in the ribs. "So you admit that you're a devil!"

"And what does that make you, then, as my constant companion?"

"The wretched mortal that you torment for sport."

"Oh, it's hardly sporting," Holmes said, turning to prop onto one elbow and smile. "Not anymore than kicking a puppy."

"Your analogy if flawed. I am perfectly capable of kicking back."

"Albeit feebly, with that leg of yours," Holmes said, laughing and falling forward, a little, head hitting Watson's shoulder. He adjusted himself until the other man was a pillow. "Though a punch might work. You could surely wrestle me down any day."

It did not matter which way Watson turned his head, Holmes' hair still tickled his jaw. Watson could smell sweat and soot and the barest traces of soap. "I am not a pillow, damn you." but there was no conviction behind the chastisement.

"I told you once I was already damned," Holmes muttered. "Repetition does not add to that truth." Watson was comfortable, and he smelled good, and he was probably not drunk enough to be seduced. Which was a shame. Holmes swallowed down the taste of a memory.

"Sometimes I wonder if we aren't already in hell." Watson murmured, suddenly feeling a tad melancholy. His breath blew a part in Homes' hair, revealing a smudge of dirt on his scalp.

"It is a very Greek hell, then. Hades, with Tantalus forever waiting for fruit held just out of reach."

"Do you ever feel as though everyone knows exactly what you are?" Watson would not be having this conversation if he weren't drunk. Nor would he be having this conversation with anyone other than Holmes.

"They don't know. No one can see into another like that."

"You do it often enough."

"Well, almost no one." Holmes said, giving Watson's stomach a pat.

Watson meant to brush Holmes' hand off but only rested his own atop it. "The nerve of you, approaching me like that." He knew, as soon as it was out of his mouth, that Holmes would take advantage of the slip.

"I tend to neglect to fail to recall what we wordlessly decided to forget," Holmes said carefully lacing his fingers with Watson's.

"Hm?" Watson's expression was the picture of false innocence. Holmes' fingers were very warm and Watson was only a little reluctant to curl his fingers over them in return.

"You were hard to resist then as now," Holmes said. He sighed. "It is, if anything, more likely that what I am is written in much clearer letters than the words on you. So I will be your weather cock, dear doctor. When the tide turns enough they come for me, you will know it is time to contemplate taking your practice to France."

"If that was meant to comfort me, you've missed the mark." Watson absently traced the rough edge of a nail with his thumb.

Holmes shifted a bit closer, "If I were to approach you now, in a manner which I certainly have not before, would I be refused?"

Watson turned his head to face Holmes. They were close enough that their noses bumped together unexpectedly. Watson could not think of any words that could sum up his indecision so he simply kissed Holmes before his nerve dissolved. Holmes' mouth tasted faintly of tobacco, alcohol and a myriad of herbs that were theoretically the Holy Grail of cure-all solutions.

Holmes made a soft noise and shifted to lay next Watson more fully and smiled at the thought of a future filled with first kisses, since surely by tomorrow this wouldn't have happened.

Watson was almost reluctant to displace Holmes' smile with another kiss. He pressed his hand along Holmes' jaw and curled his fingers through dark sideburns.

Holmes let him, eyes shut. Nothing so confrontational as eye contact. He leaned his head into the touch, hand slipping up Watson's chest to touch neck, jawline, ear.

Watson manoeuvred so that he ended up above Holmes with a knee firmly between the man's thighs and resumed kissing with more fervor.

Holmes arched under him, instantly alive and writhing, hands gripping at hair and shoulder with a surprised grunt. Pleased, yes but still surprised.

Watson breathed heavily across Holmes' cheekbone He peppered little kisses over his brow and down his nose before reclaiming Holmes' lower lip. His hands were busy with the shirt, eager to have bare flesh to touch.

If Watson was drunk, Holmes didn't much care. He was sober enough to be startlingly competent at undressing another. "John," half a kiss too an ear, then. "I have a request. It may be extreme."

Watson's fingers hesitated over a scar over Holmes' ribs. His experience told him that it was quite possibly a knife wound.

"And if you refuse then you can forget that I made this request but for the night... Well, for a portion of it," Holmes realized with a mild shock he was hesitant. He kissed Watson again. "I'd like to play the role of your woman, for the night."

In Watson's mind here was a sticky little line between gross indecency and mortal sin; moral compromise and sodomy; and Holmes had just asked him to cross it. "I-" Watson shook his head.

Holmes sighed, disappointment not so heavy while warmed with an embrace like this. "Then forget I asked," he said, petting Watson's face.

"We could-" Watson interrupted himself with more kisses. It was not easy for him to voice this sort of desire and he could only imagine that Holmes had struggled with his request, "-like the Greeks..."

"Watson, do I look like a young Greek boy to you?"

"Of course not." Watson frowned, perplexed.

"That method was invented by men who didn't have to give their partners any real stimulation," he said, almost grousing, really.

"Oh. Well," Watson stammered, "I hadn't thought of that." His experience with men was rather limited and his first foray into homoerotic situations had seen him on his stomach with a cock between his thighs. Watson had been younger then and easily pleased. "What about-" but his mind could not supply anything else.

"You really don't indulge often do you?" Holmes said, going still a moment in thought. He had a book about this somewhere he was certain of it. Perhaps it would make an excellent gift. "Let us move to the bed." A slightly wicked grin. "And I will think of a compromise?"


"Agreed." Watson said without hesitation, though the expression on Holmes' face made him a little nervous.

Holmes got to his feet, with only a slight sway that moved along his body like the winds in a field. "And try to remember that I'm not fragile."

"I- What, of course you're not! I've seen you box, if you recall." It took Watson a considerable amount of effort to get up. He was just a hair more drunk than he'd thought.


"Certainly not. That's night's a blur," Holmes said cheerfully, before reaching out, gripping Watson's arm and dragging him to the bed. It was fortunate that it wasn't very far away.
Watson tripped over the edge of the rug and bumped into the mattress reflexively grabbing Holmes' shoulder. They ended up a tangle of limbs, half-sitting. Holmes grinned, placed a hand to Watson's chest, resplendent with chest hair, and gave a shove.

Holmes' smiles, as rare as they could be, were unbelievably catching. Watson laughed and threw his arms around Holmes' waist, "I'm no pushover," and tried heaving him bodily to the side.

This, Holmes thought, laughing back and craning his neck to nip at a shoulder, was much better. He pushed and twisted back. Watson was enjoying the tussle too much to notice that Holmes was going easy on him, though he did spare it a second thought when he managed to get Holmes into a firm headlock with a fistful of dark hair. "Say uncle." Watson breathed laughter over Holmes' neck.

"Mm, never," he said, craning his head back. Reaching a hand up to tug at Watson's ear. "Try harder."

Watson pressed his mouth to the curve of Holmes' jaw in the hopes that a momentary distraction would give him the upper hand, and shifted, releasing the headlock so that Holmes fell backwards, guided by the hand still twisted in his hair.

It half worked. Holmes pinched a sizable portion of flesh that happened to include Watson's nipple.


"Ow!" he cried, vengefully returning the affliction with a cruel little twist.

It made Holmes cry out then laugh and give Watson's ear a gentle cuff. Watson threw himself bodily against Holmes with enough force that, for a moment, he wondered if he wasn't playing too roughly. Holmes' grin assured him that he wasn't and he pressed his knee deliberately into Holmes' stomach. Watson's hand still tangled in the man's dark hair. "You'll never cry uncle?"

Holmes shoved back, up, thrashing and grunting. Still smiling around bared teeth. "It will take more than what you'd be willing to do, My dear Doctor."

Watson twisted his fistful of hair and shoved Holmes back hard enough that the thump was clearly audible. Before the man could recover, Watson was sitting on his chest with his knees digging into Holmes' armpits. "Perhaps." he said with a triumphant, breathless grin.

Holmes jerked his head against the grip. "Undoubtedly. You're too good a person." It was almost an insult.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Holmes didn't respond, well not verbally. It was easier to dig blunt and slightly dirty nails into Watson's ankles.

Watson hissed and grabbed one of Holmes' wrists, jerking it above his head where the knuckles rapped against the baseboard, "What's the matter with you?" Then Watson noticed the lusty gleam in Holmes' eyes and it made sense. "Really Holmes," it was almost a scold.

"Stop me then," Holmes said, arm straining. It was a bad position, and if he'd brought his other arm up, brought two fingers hard into Watson's arm there, just below the elbow on the inside. Twist his wrist, elbow up into the neck... Holmes made himself stop, smiling again. "If you can." His tone made Watson shudder with apprehension. If Watson had been inclined to think that Holmes was letting him get the better of him, then now he was entirely sure of it. It was an odd feeling, particularly since he was so firmly positioned on top. Watson shifted so that his calves pressed into Holmes' shoulders and sat down higher up on Holmes' chest. Of course, this meant that his semi-erect cock brushed against Holmes' stubble-covered jaw.

Holmes twisted his neck, trying to look at it and grinned when he couldn't manage to focus on it. He could, if he tried, stick out his tongue and just barely brush the head. But he simply looked back up at Watson, eyes laughing.


"Well." Watson said, plucking up something that wasn't as much courage as lust, "Aren't you going to do anything about it?" He shifted his hips and his cock bumped against Holmes' chin.

"Like what?' Holmes said, absolutely failing at feigned innocence.

Watson groaned, "You're going to make me spell it out aren't you?"

"If you can still spell things correctly in your current state," Holmes said, rubbing his cheek to Watson's cock a moment. The texture sent a little thrill across Watson's skin. "I'll be most impressed."

"F. E. L. L. A. T. I. O." Watson snarked, "Or, if you prefer I. R. R. U. M. A. T. I. O." it was actually easier for him to spell the words than pronounce them properly.

"P. U. L. L. M. Y. H. A. I. R." Holmes rattled off, at least twice as fast. "And I'll think about it."

"Don't think too hard," Watson might have been talking to himself, though. He combed his fingers of both hands through Holmes' hair, seized and tugged.

It was a visceral noise that Holmes made, and for once, it didn't sound as if he'd run it past any internal censor. Vowels committed sins of grammar in that sound, and more importantly, his mouth opened.

Watson made a very similar sound as Holmes' lips closed over his erection. Watson tugged experimentally at Holmes' hair to discover if he could influence the motion of his head. He was almost surprised to find that he could. Holmes let his neck relax, made his tongue move and tried not to grin so broadly.

It was almost too much for Watson. This was the sort of thing he had guiltily fantasized about since his first encounter with Holmes. But no amount of imagination could make his own hand feel as devastatingly sensual as this. Each brush of lips and teeth made Watson gasp and he had to consciously hold his hips still and move Holmes' head rather than giving in to the desire to thrust and possibly choke him.

He showed so much self control, in fact, that Holmes was certain there was some unspoken rule proclaiming it his responsibility to break the look of concentration on Watson's face. So he hummed, he moaned, he swallowed as best he could, and he made a variety of noises that in all likelihood were filtering down to Mrs. Hudson. His hands searched for anything to grip and pull at and settled for twisting in the sheets because Watson had him more or less immobile.

Watson could not understand how Holmes managed to be so loud with his mouth full. Not that he cared too much at the moment. Every moan was a tingle of vibration that went straight to his core. Each swallow drew him that much closer to abandon. Watson's focus dissolved so stealthily he hardly noticed when he flexed his fingers into a new patch of hair, the jerky movement of his hips.

Holmes noted each marker of slipping restraint with a glee that could be classified as rapturous or ungodly. Perhaps it was both. If Watson's theological grasp was correct, then this was most certainly the devils own work. Though Holmes resented the implication that the devil was controlling him. As if he ever worked for free. Holmes hummed again, flicking a glance upwards.

It was the simple, and slightly redundant thought that Holmes' enjoyed having his [i]cock[/i] in his [i]mouth[/i] that finally undid him. Watson's hips jerked as if they'd suddenly gained a will of their own and he breathed groans. His fingers, unseen, turned white against Holmes' scalp. Watson would have been distressed to learn that Holmes would have described him as beautiful.

Flushed and panting, Watson moved to sit down across Holmes' thighs and encountered the irrefutable evidence of Holmes' enjoyment. Holmes twitched beneath him and laughed breathlessly.

Watson leaned down to kiss him, all lips and mustache. His stomach quivering with the aftereffects of his orgasm and the anxiousness he felt about returning the favor.

Watson was still more than a little inebriated. "Are you still too sober to penetrate me, dear doctor?"

For half a moment, Watson imagined that it would be nice to keep his hands in Holmes' hair while pleasuring him but the thought was quickly drowned out by a nervous twinge that bordered upon fear of the unknown. "Sobriety has nothing to do with it."

Holmes sighed and writhed upward. "Stay there then. Hands and kisses, if you please."

"I thought I might..." Watson murmured, unable to voice his intentions, and kissed Holmes' collarbone. He kissed the dip between his pectorals and shifted down. He hesitated at Holmes' abdominals, his lips hovering over the dark line of hair.

"It's not necessary," Holmes said, but his voice betrayed him a little. "I'm very close already," finger's were gripping Watson's shoulders firmly enough to turn his nails white.

Watson's breath came out raggedly, "I want to," Because it didn't seem like an even trade. Because he'd never done it before and he was curious to know what it was that Holmes enjoyed most about it. Because just thinking about it made red hot butterflies fill his stomach and flutter down to his groin. He curled his fingers around Holmes' shaft and placed an open-mouthed kiss on the tip, his tongue exploring the taste of sensitive skin.

Holmes reached up over his hand, fingers gripping at the carpet. Back arching, a little. Trying to focus on letting Wilson. Experiment a little before coming in the mans face and THAT image wasn't helping.

He opened his eyes to find a focal point int he room, and found himself starting at the dog.

"Go away," he hissed at it, giving it a smack.

Watson chuckled, grateful for the brief respite from the heady mixture of anxiety and lust, It was as if a spell had been broken; the hot butterflies in Watson's stomach simply dissolved and all that remained was honest curiosity and the desire to pleasure his pleasurerer. "It's no use, you know. He'll come right back. Just ignore him."

"That's not the point. The number of things I can look at still maintain enough control not to ejaculate in your face," he swallowed thickly, "As pleasant as that sounds," coughed, "are limited enough without your damn dog giving me the hair eyeball," and flicked the dog's nose hard enough to send it trotting away with an unhappy snort.

Watson didn't make a reply because his mouth was thoroughly occupied. He tried to suck the entire length in, as Holmes had done, but the back of his tongue rebelled. His second attempt resulted in a very disheartening reaction from his gag reflex.

"Doctor, all things in moderation," he managed, groaning.

"You certainly make this look easy," Watson coughed, wiped his eyes and returned to sucking on as much as filled his mouth with his hand massaging the rest with determination.

"Prac taa- ahh tice," Holmes retorted, then gave up on words. All words. Including 'look out' and 'I'm coming' which might have been useful to Watson.

Holme's ejaculation hit the back of Watson's throat and, for one horrible moment, Watson was nauseous but he managed to swallow. It wasn't the flavor that threw him off, (he prescribed worse tasting things on a regular basis) just the suddenness of it.

The peculiar expression on Watson's face gave Holmes the mental image of a furry caterpillar on a twisted bit of leather, and as soon as Holmes was able to breath in, he let it out again in a laugh.

Watson frowned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What have I done to amuse you?"

Holmes shook his head, sitting up to tug at Watson's shoulders. "Absolutely nothing, my good man, and everything."

"I don't know which is more exasperating," Watson stifled a yawn by burying his face in Holme's neck, "when you're deliberately vague or when you provide every minute detail of your elaborate reasoning."

"Mm, well, when you work out which you prefer, feel free to write it in a letter."

"A letter? Are you going somewhere?"

"No but a hard copy for you to refer too would surely end your confusion on future occasions."

"Hm." Watson mumbled into Holmes' collar bone, "But I'm rather fond of the ability to change my opinion of your antics to suit my mood. Right now your quirks are amusing. They'll be annoying again in the morning, I'm sure."

"Oh, let's not talk about the morning. You'll be due a case of regret by then and I'll be forced to have a convenient loss of memory. I really loathe the mornings."

"Let's not, then." Watson agreed, already feeling the downward pull of self-recrimination. He disentangled himself from Holmes and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the need to distance himself but hesitating to do so.

Holmes reached out and placed his hand on Watson's thigh. "It's not the morning yet. I'll wake before you do, it'll have been a..." his lips twisted into a wry smile, "It'll have been a bad dream."

If his body hadn't felt leaden with alcohol and post-coital weariness, Watson told himself, he would have gone and slept on the settee. The more obvious solution would have been to send Sherlock off to his own room but Watson did not have the patience it would take to do so. Instead he flopped back onto his mattress and stared at the ceiling as though it might offer him a simple solution to his inner conflict.

Holmes wasn't foolish enough to curl close. He wasn't strong enough to turn away, either, opting for his side, hands tucked in as if in a sort of prayer until he actually fell asleep. Then he melted into a loose-limbed sprawl that rolled into the dip created by the weight of the doctor's stockier and therefore heavier body.

The waving tentacles of the man-o-war jellyfish could not have wrapped tighter around prey than Holmes clung to Watson.

Watson was awake for what seemed an eternity, unable to quiet the warring factions of Morality and Hedonism. For one particularly dark moment, Watson imagined Holmes embrace was like a sea anchor during a storm, weighting him down as the waves threatened to overturn the boat and cast him into the depths of hell. The next minute he thought of Holmes as the life preserver that kept him from sinking into the depths of despair and loneliness. Eventually, lulled by the rhythm of Holmes' breathing, he drifted into deep but discontented sleep.

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! Sorry I took so long to update this. I don't know how long it will be before the next update. Possibly I'll just prod Momo into posting her fic, to which this RP was the impromptu prequel.