Fic: You Better Stop And Rebuild All Your Ruins - 9/12
Title: You Better Stop And Rebuild All Your Ruins - 9/12
Author: RubyChan05
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Word Count: 1688
Rating: PG-13
Chapter 9
Over the next few days, Holmes tried his hardest to make Watson see sense. He tried everything from normal conversation to relating their most interesting cases to Watson. He even managed to locate some old issues of The Strand, in case seeing things in his own words jogged Watson’s memory.
Nothing worked. Watson seemed interested enough in talking to him, but the moment conversation turned to the topic of him returning to London, he clammed up. It was immensely frustrating, and for the first time Holmes truly realised how irritating he must have been himself when Watson was trying to pull him out of the various funks he’d fallen into over the years.
To make things worse, Watson didn’t even seem to be interested in talking to him because of their shared history, but rather in spite of it. Holmes frequently found himself being complimented by his old friend, in ways that couldn’t be mistaken as anything innocent. This Watson was far more open, far less restrained…any other time, Holmes would have been fascinated by the difference upbringing apparently made on a person’s personality, but in this case it was only vaguely appalling.
With each hour that passed, Holmes found it harder to reconcile this ‘Joseph Bell’ with the Watson he had known and cared about. Yet he couldn’t give up. Not now.
That wasn’t to say, of course, that the new Watson didn’t intrigue him. There was something refreshing about talking to a man with so little restraint, so few fears about society. Under other circumstances, Holmes was sure he could have been good friends with this man. Yet he couldn’t help himself; he yearned for the conversation of his old friend. It almost physically hurt, being so close to Watson and yet unable to reach him.
At one point, lying in bed with his mind working feverishly on a solution, Holmes even contemplated repeating past mistakes and seducing the new Watson into returning with him. Except that he knew from experience how that would turn out if it worked, how hurt and betrayed the real Watson would feel. What he’d done to Watson before had been the lowest of the low, a cruel manipulation of his feelings, and Holmes was in no rush to put his friend through that again;
Besides, whatever was he to do if he succeeded in tempting Watson back to London but not restoring his memory? This irritatingly stubborn version of Watson would most likely still refuse to see Mary, and Holmes would be forced to leave London in order to prevent the poor woman finding out that her husband was not only alive, but just round the corner.
He was running out of both time and ideas. And Sir Harry was being no use at all. If anything, he seemed to be revelling in Holmes’ failure to persuade Watson to leave. Watson had explained all about Sir Harry’s interest in having a male companion to discuss sports with, but Holmes was positive that the baronet wanted more from Watson now that he’d got to know him better.
Blasted man. How dare he covet Watson like that, when Watson blatantly belonged to him?
His thoughts screeched to a stop. What?
Yes, he counted Watson as his closest, if not only, real friend. And yes, of course he was attracted to him - you’d have to be blind not to be, and it had hardly been a chore dragging into bed that night.
But as he’d told Watson the next morning, he just wasn’t interested in having a relationship. Least of all with Watson, who tended to fall in love all too quickly when the opportunity arose. Before Holmes knew what had hit him they’d be acting like an old married couple.
He ignored the voices telling him they’d been doing that already.
Holmes was an intellectual. He didn’t need attentive partners messing up his thought processes and clouding his judgement. The fact that his flirtations with Irene had not come anywhere near to being a real relationship was not entirely her fault, after all.
He wanted his friend back. That was all.
* * * * * * * * * *
Joseph sighed, flicking through the pages of his book with little enthusiasm. He’d invited Mr Holmes to stay for a few days with the singular intention of enticing him into bed - there was something about the way the man looked at him that made Joseph sure he’d wanted his previous incarnation too.
Yet every time he thought he was getting close to succeeding, Sherlock deftly turned the subject round to his nonexistent return to London. It was beyond irritating.
Perhaps the worst thing was that Joseph was pretty sure he wanted more than a quick tumble between the sheets with Sherlock. The man made him laugh, made him feel like he was worth something. Being the sole focus of the detective's gaze was like being the centre of the world.
After only a few days with his old friend, Joseph wanted him to be a part of the new life he was building for himself here. They could easily keep their relationship a secret from the general public; if his previous self and Sherlock had lived platonically together in London for so many years without anyone passing comment, then Joseph was sure that they could easily accomplish the same thing living out here in the countryside.
In fact, reading the cases published in The Strand by John Watson, Joseph was amazed that they hadn’t attracted more attention from the authorities. The awestruck commentary of Watson had clearly been the words of a man hopelessly in love with his flatmate, whether he realised it himself or not.
Joseph was prepared to offer Sherlock nearly anything he wanted, in order to capture his interest. But the one thing the detective wanted from him was the one thing Joseph was not prepared to give.
Sherlock kept reminding Joseph of Mary, and he certainly felt guilty about leaving her on her own. But surely it would only be worse for her, having to live with someone who wasn’t the man she’d married? To share a bed with a stranger and spend the next however many months reminding him who their acquaintances were?
Far better, surely, to have her think he was dead and let her make a nice clean break of it. He’d send her money through Holmes, make sure she was kept out of the work house. She’d move on.
If only Holmes would!
Letting out a snarl of frustration, Joseph slammed the book shut, wincing as a few loose pages fluttered out. Gently pushing them back into place, he returned the book to its gap on the shelf and pored over some of the other titles in the library, humming under his breath as he looked for something to distract himself.
“No Mr Holmes today?” The voice came from right beside him, and Joseph nearly jumped a mile before he realised it was only Harry.
“Harry!” He gasped, pressing a hand over his thumping heart. “You scared me! But no, no Mr Holmes today. Why?”
“You’ve been inseparable these last few days.” Harry pointed out, leaning against one of the stacks. “I’ve only seen you at lunch and dinner, and even then Mr Holmes kept interjecting.”
Joseph paused, studying Harry thoughtfully.
“You don’t like him, do you?” He realised. Harry shrugged uncomfortably, looking embarrassed at having been caught out.
“Not really. It’s hard to like anyone whose sole purpose in being here is to take you away from me.” He admitted. Joseph smiled gently.
“I’m not going back to London, Harry. You don’t have to worry about losing your cricket buddy.”
“Is that all I’d be losing?” Harry asked seriously.
“What?” Before he could ask Harry what he meant, Joseph found himself being propelled backwards, pinned against the bookcase and thoroughly kissed. Frozen in shock, he didn’t respond for a good few moments. By that point his body had decided to go with the flow, and Joseph realised to his surprise that he was kissing Harry back.
Burying his hands in Harry’s hair, Joseph wondered why this felt so familiar to him…as if something like this had happened to him before. He tried to concentrate on the hands Harry was stroking along his back yet the idea remained, niggling away at him until all he could think about was how similar this was to…to what?
In his mind’s eye, he could see himself being pushed back against an old grandfather clock, kissed with a vigour that quite frankly put Harry to shame. He watched, detached, as the attacker ground his hips against his other self’s, laughing quietly as dream Joseph moaned. The man pulled back, and Joseph realised with a start that it was Sherlock.
Crashing back to awareness, Joseph began to struggle, pushing Harry away from him.
“Joseph?” asked Harry, clearly bewildered. Joseph groaned in frustration, running his hands through his hair and not caring that he was probably leaving it sticking up.
“I’m sorry Harry, I can’t. When you’re kissing me, it’s not you I’m thinking about. I can’t do that to you.” He said wretchedly, leaning back against the shelves in an attempt to catch his breath.
“It’s him, isn’t it? That Sherlock Holmes.”
Joseph blinked, looking up to see Harry smiling self-deprecatingly at him.
“I knew it. Before he turned up, I thought we were heading in the right direction. But ever since he came here, you’ve talked of nothing but him. I hoped I could distract you from him…but I see I left it far too late.”
“Harry…I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Joseph. I’m not so vain as to always expect to have things my own way. And I meant what I told you the other day - you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. This hasn’t changed anything.”
Joseph smiled, grateful to have found as firm a friend as Harry had turned out to be. He gladly took the hand Harry offered him, shaking it firmly.
“You’re a good man, Harry.”
“Yet apparently not good enough.”
Chapter 10
Master Post
Author: RubyChan05
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary
Word Count: 1688
Rating: PG-13
Chapter 9
Over the next few days, Holmes tried his hardest to make Watson see sense. He tried everything from normal conversation to relating their most interesting cases to Watson. He even managed to locate some old issues of The Strand, in case seeing things in his own words jogged Watson’s memory.
Nothing worked. Watson seemed interested enough in talking to him, but the moment conversation turned to the topic of him returning to London, he clammed up. It was immensely frustrating, and for the first time Holmes truly realised how irritating he must have been himself when Watson was trying to pull him out of the various funks he’d fallen into over the years.
To make things worse, Watson didn’t even seem to be interested in talking to him because of their shared history, but rather in spite of it. Holmes frequently found himself being complimented by his old friend, in ways that couldn’t be mistaken as anything innocent. This Watson was far more open, far less restrained…any other time, Holmes would have been fascinated by the difference upbringing apparently made on a person’s personality, but in this case it was only vaguely appalling.
With each hour that passed, Holmes found it harder to reconcile this ‘Joseph Bell’ with the Watson he had known and cared about. Yet he couldn’t give up. Not now.
That wasn’t to say, of course, that the new Watson didn’t intrigue him. There was something refreshing about talking to a man with so little restraint, so few fears about society. Under other circumstances, Holmes was sure he could have been good friends with this man. Yet he couldn’t help himself; he yearned for the conversation of his old friend. It almost physically hurt, being so close to Watson and yet unable to reach him.
At one point, lying in bed with his mind working feverishly on a solution, Holmes even contemplated repeating past mistakes and seducing the new Watson into returning with him. Except that he knew from experience how that would turn out if it worked, how hurt and betrayed the real Watson would feel. What he’d done to Watson before had been the lowest of the low, a cruel manipulation of his feelings, and Holmes was in no rush to put his friend through that again;
Besides, whatever was he to do if he succeeded in tempting Watson back to London but not restoring his memory? This irritatingly stubborn version of Watson would most likely still refuse to see Mary, and Holmes would be forced to leave London in order to prevent the poor woman finding out that her husband was not only alive, but just round the corner.
He was running out of both time and ideas. And Sir Harry was being no use at all. If anything, he seemed to be revelling in Holmes’ failure to persuade Watson to leave. Watson had explained all about Sir Harry’s interest in having a male companion to discuss sports with, but Holmes was positive that the baronet wanted more from Watson now that he’d got to know him better.
Blasted man. How dare he covet Watson like that, when Watson blatantly belonged to him?
His thoughts screeched to a stop. What?
Yes, he counted Watson as his closest, if not only, real friend. And yes, of course he was attracted to him - you’d have to be blind not to be, and it had hardly been a chore dragging into bed that night.
But as he’d told Watson the next morning, he just wasn’t interested in having a relationship. Least of all with Watson, who tended to fall in love all too quickly when the opportunity arose. Before Holmes knew what had hit him they’d be acting like an old married couple.
He ignored the voices telling him they’d been doing that already.
Holmes was an intellectual. He didn’t need attentive partners messing up his thought processes and clouding his judgement. The fact that his flirtations with Irene had not come anywhere near to being a real relationship was not entirely her fault, after all.
He wanted his friend back. That was all.
* * * * * * * * * *
Joseph sighed, flicking through the pages of his book with little enthusiasm. He’d invited Mr Holmes to stay for a few days with the singular intention of enticing him into bed - there was something about the way the man looked at him that made Joseph sure he’d wanted his previous incarnation too.
Yet every time he thought he was getting close to succeeding, Sherlock deftly turned the subject round to his nonexistent return to London. It was beyond irritating.
Perhaps the worst thing was that Joseph was pretty sure he wanted more than a quick tumble between the sheets with Sherlock. The man made him laugh, made him feel like he was worth something. Being the sole focus of the detective's gaze was like being the centre of the world.
After only a few days with his old friend, Joseph wanted him to be a part of the new life he was building for himself here. They could easily keep their relationship a secret from the general public; if his previous self and Sherlock had lived platonically together in London for so many years without anyone passing comment, then Joseph was sure that they could easily accomplish the same thing living out here in the countryside.
In fact, reading the cases published in The Strand by John Watson, Joseph was amazed that they hadn’t attracted more attention from the authorities. The awestruck commentary of Watson had clearly been the words of a man hopelessly in love with his flatmate, whether he realised it himself or not.
Joseph was prepared to offer Sherlock nearly anything he wanted, in order to capture his interest. But the one thing the detective wanted from him was the one thing Joseph was not prepared to give.
Sherlock kept reminding Joseph of Mary, and he certainly felt guilty about leaving her on her own. But surely it would only be worse for her, having to live with someone who wasn’t the man she’d married? To share a bed with a stranger and spend the next however many months reminding him who their acquaintances were?
Far better, surely, to have her think he was dead and let her make a nice clean break of it. He’d send her money through Holmes, make sure she was kept out of the work house. She’d move on.
If only Holmes would!
Letting out a snarl of frustration, Joseph slammed the book shut, wincing as a few loose pages fluttered out. Gently pushing them back into place, he returned the book to its gap on the shelf and pored over some of the other titles in the library, humming under his breath as he looked for something to distract himself.
“No Mr Holmes today?” The voice came from right beside him, and Joseph nearly jumped a mile before he realised it was only Harry.
“Harry!” He gasped, pressing a hand over his thumping heart. “You scared me! But no, no Mr Holmes today. Why?”
“You’ve been inseparable these last few days.” Harry pointed out, leaning against one of the stacks. “I’ve only seen you at lunch and dinner, and even then Mr Holmes kept interjecting.”
Joseph paused, studying Harry thoughtfully.
“You don’t like him, do you?” He realised. Harry shrugged uncomfortably, looking embarrassed at having been caught out.
“Not really. It’s hard to like anyone whose sole purpose in being here is to take you away from me.” He admitted. Joseph smiled gently.
“I’m not going back to London, Harry. You don’t have to worry about losing your cricket buddy.”
“Is that all I’d be losing?” Harry asked seriously.
“What?” Before he could ask Harry what he meant, Joseph found himself being propelled backwards, pinned against the bookcase and thoroughly kissed. Frozen in shock, he didn’t respond for a good few moments. By that point his body had decided to go with the flow, and Joseph realised to his surprise that he was kissing Harry back.
Burying his hands in Harry’s hair, Joseph wondered why this felt so familiar to him…as if something like this had happened to him before. He tried to concentrate on the hands Harry was stroking along his back yet the idea remained, niggling away at him until all he could think about was how similar this was to…to what?
In his mind’s eye, he could see himself being pushed back against an old grandfather clock, kissed with a vigour that quite frankly put Harry to shame. He watched, detached, as the attacker ground his hips against his other self’s, laughing quietly as dream Joseph moaned. The man pulled back, and Joseph realised with a start that it was Sherlock.
Crashing back to awareness, Joseph began to struggle, pushing Harry away from him.
“Joseph?” asked Harry, clearly bewildered. Joseph groaned in frustration, running his hands through his hair and not caring that he was probably leaving it sticking up.
“I’m sorry Harry, I can’t. When you’re kissing me, it’s not you I’m thinking about. I can’t do that to you.” He said wretchedly, leaning back against the shelves in an attempt to catch his breath.
“It’s him, isn’t it? That Sherlock Holmes.”
Joseph blinked, looking up to see Harry smiling self-deprecatingly at him.
“I knew it. Before he turned up, I thought we were heading in the right direction. But ever since he came here, you’ve talked of nothing but him. I hoped I could distract you from him…but I see I left it far too late.”
“Harry…I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Joseph. I’m not so vain as to always expect to have things my own way. And I meant what I told you the other day - you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. This hasn’t changed anything.”
Joseph smiled, grateful to have found as firm a friend as Harry had turned out to be. He gladly took the hand Harry offered him, shaking it firmly.
“You’re a good man, Harry.”
“Yet apparently not good enough.”
Chapter 10
Master Post