Dinner and a show.
Continued from here...
Watson was, at least, as good as his word as far as his promise to treat Holmes to dinner went, even if the offer had been made under slightly different circumstances with slightly different goals in mind, slightly different expectations.
Little had changed between them, too, except in an unspoken sense. When they sat together on the sofa they sat closer than they had been, and there were occassional kisses between them, as light and as hesitant as that first night. Whether the excuse was more Holmes's lip or Watson's inexperience was debatable. And if it was the latter, that hurt his pride. He was no blushing virgin, no untried youth. It was the gender of his partner that was new. Surely it could not be so different?
He didn't know the answer to that.
As the week stretched on he was beginning to be just a bit overeager; despite his own unease, his own fears, he was a man of action. He had to wonder if Holmes, being more experienced, was not impatient with him, too.
But he had held onto his riches successfully, and on what had seemed an ideal night he had paid for dinner for the two of them at one of the nicer of their favourite restaurants, and they had gone to a concert afterwards. Both had been splendid. It had been a well-spent evening, despite Watson's dual eagerness and anxiety for what might happen on their return.
Coming home in the hansom afterwards was certainly a far different experience than the ride home from the boxing match. Watson let their shoulders touch, their thighs, surely contact that would look perfectly innocent to an onlooker, although he could not entirely convince himself that they would not immediately be found out and arrested.
Watson was, at least, as good as his word as far as his promise to treat Holmes to dinner went, even if the offer had been made under slightly different circumstances with slightly different goals in mind, slightly different expectations.
Little had changed between them, too, except in an unspoken sense. When they sat together on the sofa they sat closer than they had been, and there were occassional kisses between them, as light and as hesitant as that first night. Whether the excuse was more Holmes's lip or Watson's inexperience was debatable. And if it was the latter, that hurt his pride. He was no blushing virgin, no untried youth. It was the gender of his partner that was new. Surely it could not be so different?
He didn't know the answer to that.
As the week stretched on he was beginning to be just a bit overeager; despite his own unease, his own fears, he was a man of action. He had to wonder if Holmes, being more experienced, was not impatient with him, too.
But he had held onto his riches successfully, and on what had seemed an ideal night he had paid for dinner for the two of them at one of the nicer of their favourite restaurants, and they had gone to a concert afterwards. Both had been splendid. It had been a well-spent evening, despite Watson's dual eagerness and anxiety for what might happen on their return.
Coming home in the hansom afterwards was certainly a far different experience than the ride home from the boxing match. Watson let their shoulders touch, their thighs, surely contact that would look perfectly innocent to an onlooker, although he could not entirely convince himself that they would not immediately be found out and arrested.