Holmes is at that level of contentment that makes him nervous. The scene is so perfect, so idyllic, that it's like the countryside -- deceptively still on its surface, which makes it prime for corruption. Try as he might, he can't find the corruption lurking in their sitting room, however. Watson's head in his lap is a pleasantly warm weight, and the quiet between them is comfortable too. It's easy to wrap himself up in it and stare off into the distance, rolling over things in his mind
( ... )
Watson gave a small start -- but only a small one. He was at least somewhat used to this sort of thing, even if he wasn't prepared for it just now. He lowered his book, looking up at Holmes with raised eyebrows.
"Not mortally," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "Fortunately, the young lady is more than equipped to help nurse him back to health. Must you start the conversation halfway through like that? It's unsettling."
There was no real ire in his tone; it would have difficult to be seriously annoyed as cosy as he was now, and he enjoyed the feeling of Holmes's fingers in his hair, an added bonus.
"Why start at the beginning when there's no need to?" he counters, as casually as before, and he ruffles Watson's hair so that he can set it to rights again. "It saves time, my dear Watson. Surely you can surmise how I reached that conclusion."
Once Watson's hair is fixed, he casts about for something else to do with his hands, and settles on a light scalp massage, gently rubbing his fingers in small circles against Watson's scalp. Sometimes it's daunting to realize that Watson is his -- that he can massage Watson's scalp if he wants to, can draw Watson into his lap, can spend hours in silence or hours in not-so-silent activity. How much he loves Watson is occasionally daunting too, but he leans into it and embraces it because what else is there to do.
Watson closed his eyes, his irritation at being deduced and dissected in such a manner fading under the soothing feeling of fingers in his hair. It was such a small and intimate gesture, affectionate and loving, tender in a way he once would have thought an unlikely act for Holmes. Through all his doubts about the wisdom of this, of the morality of this, there were moments like this where he was overwhelmed with being loved.
"I suppose," he sighed, "you have managed to work it out by watching me." There was something humbling about that. Watson laid the book down on his chest. "Most people, you realise, don't aim to save time in conversation."
Mary smiled, looking away rather bashfully. She was lucky to have Guy, she knew it. She was far luckier than she deserved, and the weight of something she had yet to bring up with him was suddenly very heavy on her mind. If nothing else, the entire conversation gave her some hope. If he was all right with his friends being a pair of sexual inverts, perhaps he wouldn't mind his future wife being... well...
She tried not to think about that too much. It still had the opportunity for disaster. She had meant to tell him before he proposed, but...
"It's more enjoyable to aspire to personality than propriety, in my opinion," Mary said. Oh, it seemed like a slightly dangerous thing to say. "At least I've found it so." She brushed a bit of imaginary lint from her skirt.
"Hear, hear," Holmes says, rather proud of Mary, and far more contented with this marriage than he would have been otherwise. Knowing Mary as he does now, he knows he would have had no choice but to like her if she'd married Watson, and that would have been a truly miserable experience.
"If all women would just share your opinion, then I might find it in myself to be interested in the species as a whole," he says with a smirk.
Watson smiled a little; he doubted much could interest Holmes in women more than he already was, and to his surprise he was faintly glad of that. It meant less people he must be jealous of, after all. He hadn't any clue when he had become so hopelessly possessive, either.
"I'm sure you would be," he murmured in a wry undertone. To their guests, in a more conversational tone, he said, genuinely warm, "I find I have very little doubt the two of you will be quite happy, wherever you go on your honeymoon."
"I do believe you're right," he says warmly, smiling at Mary. The clock alerts him to the hour, and he starts with a frown, giving her hand another small squeeze before he extracts it.
"Oh, we'd better get going. Thank you again for your help," he says as he gets to his feet, nodding at the two of them. "We'll let you know as soon as we set a date."
After closing the door behind their departed guests, Watson turned to Holmes with a raised eyebrow. He could still feel his heart pounding faintly, the sweat on his palms, the residuals of terror after having their illicit affair paraded about so casually. "I knew you had a taste for danger, but I had no notion it could take such a form as that."
He locked the door behind him, in a swift, fluid movement, and he returned to the sofa, laughing a little, out of relief, out of happiness, out of comfort. He sank down into a rough equivalent of the position he'd been in before Lestrade and Mary had arrived.
Holmes is glad to see them go, though the whole thing turned out better than he had thought it would. He isn't so very nervous, not now, not when he'd been fairly confident of Mary's opinion before he even said anything. He gets up from his chair and crosses the room lazily, no real urgency in his step.
"What danger? She was eager to see if her suspicions would true; there was hardly any malice or disgust in her curiosity." He lifts Watson by his shoulder and slides into his seat, pulling him back down into his lap. "And besides, we've already gone through that with Lestrade. You truly had no notion?"
"Are you honestly saying she suspected us?" Watson took being moved about bodily relatively well, and he settled back into Holmes's lap comfortably. He closed his eyes, feeling himself settle almost immediately. That was a strange thing, but not at all bad. "No, I didn't realise that. Is this before or after you began being ridiculously obvious?"
He let a long sigh, a comfortable one. "I never thought we would have one ally in this, you know, let alone two."
"Are you trying to deny that you were being ridiculously obvious right along with me?" he counters, threading his fingers through Watson's hair. "And yes, she was suspecting before I began being obvious in an effort to test in what vein her feelings might lie. You aren't the only person whose thoughts I can read," he says with a small smirk, and with his other hand, he smooths out Watson's tie, sliding his hand down his chest.
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"Not mortally," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "Fortunately, the young lady is more than equipped to help nurse him back to health. Must you start the conversation halfway through like that? It's unsettling."
There was no real ire in his tone; it would have difficult to be seriously annoyed as cosy as he was now, and he enjoyed the feeling of Holmes's fingers in his hair, an added bonus.
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Once Watson's hair is fixed, he casts about for something else to do with his hands, and settles on a light scalp massage, gently rubbing his fingers in small circles against Watson's scalp. Sometimes it's daunting to realize that Watson is his -- that he can massage Watson's scalp if he wants to, can draw Watson into his lap, can spend hours in silence or hours in not-so-silent activity. How much he loves Watson is occasionally daunting too, but he leans into it and embraces it because what else is there to do.
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"I suppose," he sighed, "you have managed to work it out by watching me." There was something humbling about that. Watson laid the book down on his chest. "Most people, you realise, don't aim to save time in conversation."
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She tried not to think about that too much. It still had the opportunity for disaster. She had meant to tell him before he proposed, but...
"It's more enjoyable to aspire to personality than propriety, in my opinion," Mary said. Oh, it seemed like a slightly dangerous thing to say. "At least I've found it so." She brushed a bit of imaginary lint from her skirt.
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"If all women would just share your opinion, then I might find it in myself to be interested in the species as a whole," he says with a smirk.
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"I'm sure you would be," he murmured in a wry undertone. To their guests, in a more conversational tone, he said, genuinely warm, "I find I have very little doubt the two of you will be quite happy, wherever you go on your honeymoon."
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"Oh, we'd better get going. Thank you again for your help," he says as he gets to his feet, nodding at the two of them. "We'll let you know as soon as we set a date."
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He locked the door behind him, in a swift, fluid movement, and he returned to the sofa, laughing a little, out of relief, out of happiness, out of comfort. He sank down into a rough equivalent of the position he'd been in before Lestrade and Mary had arrived.
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"What danger? She was eager to see if her suspicions would true; there was hardly any malice or disgust in her curiosity." He lifts Watson by his shoulder and slides into his seat, pulling him back down into his lap. "And besides, we've already gone through that with Lestrade. You truly had no notion?"
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He let a long sigh, a comfortable one. "I never thought we would have one ally in this, you know, let alone two."
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"Sit up so that I can kiss you vigorously."
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