As simple as this (H/W slash)
A/N: Just a little one-shot that had come to my mind. I have just written it, in basically one go, so it is completely unbeta'd. A bit angsty, perhaps, but in spite of it being slashy, I do not think it requires a rating beyond PG13...
Summary: Things are not always the way they seem.
*ahem*
I wonder if it makes sense to anyone but me...?
~~~
It was the one thing I felt I could not ask of my friend Sherlock Holmes. Ever since the change of our relationship into something that included the physical aspects as well, he had most successfully taken care of my erotic needs. No matter how emotionally detached and aloof he might behave in public (or basically always while being fully clothed) - in the secludedness of the bedroom he is as wanton and inventive as anybody could wish for. He seems to be sensing my needs without me having to voice them, and whenever I do propose to try something new, he is always willing to indulge me.
But there is this one act I had never dared to request. It was foolish of me, perhaps, to think this way, but I could not help it. I just knew it was not like him.
Granted, I had been mistaken before. For years I had been living under the assumption, that - if ever there was one person that could physically attract him - it was most certainly not me. I had been convinced of this for years, until that day when he had devoted several hours to gloriously proving me wrong.
But this... this was different. I just could not ask him, as I could neither bear to be rejected by him, nor did I want him to perform something on me he did not feel totally comfortable with. My craving would return every now and then, but I would suppress it... and afterwards be glad to have saved my face.
That day, however, had seen the finale of a particularly nasty case, and when we both returned home, weary and still a bit distressed over the pitiful circumstances, we somehow could not yet feel that special triumph that usually accompanied us when we reached the conclusion. No. I could see it in his face. For the moment, he was simply relieved. And maybe, just like me, in need for comfort.
I felt the familiar urge again, rising from deep down inside of me, and it grew harder to ignore it with each passing minute. He had taken off his overcoat and was standing there, in our sitting room, silently gazing into mid air. He still looked slightly shaken, and strangely vulnerable, and I wanted to feel it - him - so badly.
The moment would pass, I knew. We would sit down by the fire, maybe both having a brandy, and gradually we would relax. Maybe he would play the violin for us. And later, perhaps, he would lock the bedroom door, and we would make love. This moment would pass, and I did not intend to trouble him with my foolish desire.
"Watson." His voice was almost calm, with just a tinge of unsteadiness in it.
"Yes, Holmes?"
He did not continue at once, but his posture was tense, and in his eyes was a hint of insecurity. There was something about him that made me rose from my seat.
"Watson..."
"What is it, my dear fellow?"
"I am sorry, you know. It's just..." He did not quite seem to know how to word it, but he made two tentative steps into my direction, until we were only standing one arm's length apart.
There was an endless moment in which he cast down his eyes... before he looked up again and drew a deep breath. Then he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper: "Would you... would you allow me...?"
He raised his arms and reached out for me.
And I finally understood several things. I understood that I had once more misjudged him. And that I was not alone with my longing. And so I pulled him into my arms and just held him close. I could feel his hands on my back, comforting as well as seeking comfort, and I felt his muscles slowly relaxing, not unlike my own. We closed our eyes, and I buried my face in the smooth hollow of his neck, and I knew that this was home. We stood like this for several minutes, and it was wonderful. Peaceful. Loving.
It was also hard to understand why I had believed him to be somehow above such a wish. And yet... somehow, the idea of a simple embrace had seemed to me far more intimate than everything we had done so far.
Of course, I had been in his arms before, naturally. While kissing, for example. While being in bed together. And there had been one or two occasions, when one of our cases had me wounded, and Holmes's arms had been supporting me.
But to hold each other, simply for the sake of holding each other, while the brain is not fogged with lust or the body is not too weak and there is no other reason but to feel safe and secure and being cared for... anyway, I had obviously been mistaken when I considered this a far too outlandish notion for my friend. But I did not mind.
After all, nobody but Holmes could prove me wrong in such delightful ways.
~~~
Summary: Things are not always the way they seem.
*ahem*
I wonder if it makes sense to anyone but me...?
~~~
It was the one thing I felt I could not ask of my friend Sherlock Holmes. Ever since the change of our relationship into something that included the physical aspects as well, he had most successfully taken care of my erotic needs. No matter how emotionally detached and aloof he might behave in public (or basically always while being fully clothed) - in the secludedness of the bedroom he is as wanton and inventive as anybody could wish for. He seems to be sensing my needs without me having to voice them, and whenever I do propose to try something new, he is always willing to indulge me.
But there is this one act I had never dared to request. It was foolish of me, perhaps, to think this way, but I could not help it. I just knew it was not like him.
Granted, I had been mistaken before. For years I had been living under the assumption, that - if ever there was one person that could physically attract him - it was most certainly not me. I had been convinced of this for years, until that day when he had devoted several hours to gloriously proving me wrong.
But this... this was different. I just could not ask him, as I could neither bear to be rejected by him, nor did I want him to perform something on me he did not feel totally comfortable with. My craving would return every now and then, but I would suppress it... and afterwards be glad to have saved my face.
That day, however, had seen the finale of a particularly nasty case, and when we both returned home, weary and still a bit distressed over the pitiful circumstances, we somehow could not yet feel that special triumph that usually accompanied us when we reached the conclusion. No. I could see it in his face. For the moment, he was simply relieved. And maybe, just like me, in need for comfort.
I felt the familiar urge again, rising from deep down inside of me, and it grew harder to ignore it with each passing minute. He had taken off his overcoat and was standing there, in our sitting room, silently gazing into mid air. He still looked slightly shaken, and strangely vulnerable, and I wanted to feel it - him - so badly.
The moment would pass, I knew. We would sit down by the fire, maybe both having a brandy, and gradually we would relax. Maybe he would play the violin for us. And later, perhaps, he would lock the bedroom door, and we would make love. This moment would pass, and I did not intend to trouble him with my foolish desire.
"Watson." His voice was almost calm, with just a tinge of unsteadiness in it.
"Yes, Holmes?"
He did not continue at once, but his posture was tense, and in his eyes was a hint of insecurity. There was something about him that made me rose from my seat.
"Watson..."
"What is it, my dear fellow?"
"I am sorry, you know. It's just..." He did not quite seem to know how to word it, but he made two tentative steps into my direction, until we were only standing one arm's length apart.
There was an endless moment in which he cast down his eyes... before he looked up again and drew a deep breath. Then he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper: "Would you... would you allow me...?"
He raised his arms and reached out for me.
And I finally understood several things. I understood that I had once more misjudged him. And that I was not alone with my longing. And so I pulled him into my arms and just held him close. I could feel his hands on my back, comforting as well as seeking comfort, and I felt his muscles slowly relaxing, not unlike my own. We closed our eyes, and I buried my face in the smooth hollow of his neck, and I knew that this was home. We stood like this for several minutes, and it was wonderful. Peaceful. Loving.
It was also hard to understand why I had believed him to be somehow above such a wish. And yet... somehow, the idea of a simple embrace had seemed to me far more intimate than everything we had done so far.
Of course, I had been in his arms before, naturally. While kissing, for example. While being in bed together. And there had been one or two occasions, when one of our cases had me wounded, and Holmes's arms had been supporting me.
But to hold each other, simply for the sake of holding each other, while the brain is not fogged with lust or the body is not too weak and there is no other reason but to feel safe and secure and being cared for... anyway, I had obviously been mistaken when I considered this a far too outlandish notion for my friend. But I did not mind.
After all, nobody but Holmes could prove me wrong in such delightful ways.
~~~