Chapter Text
The morning of Watson's wedding, Holmes woke early and - to the shock of Mrs. Hudson - groomed and dressed with special care. Contrary to what Watson believed, he didn't want to ruin his wedding, and he didn't necessarily disapprove of Mary. That was, perhaps, the hardest part of all: she wasn't a useless trophy wife, she wasn't looking to improve her station - though Holmes often implied it to rile them - she was nothing but genuine in her affection. She was an intelligent woman, and even he was taken in on occasion by the way her eyes gleamed when they discussed a particularly thorny problem in her presence. No, the cruelest part of all was probably the painful realization that she was a worthy opponent. He had tried, and he had failed; though, in his opinion, the judge was unfairly biased. Still, what else was there, now, but to concede graciously?
Mrs. Hudson helped him into his jacket as he reached the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in a fine green dress, her carriage already waiting as she eyed him critically. Finally, she nodded at him, beaming.
"You'll make a fine best man, Mr. Holmes, handsome as can be; now you just stick to those cards -" she nodded to his breast pocket, where his dreaded speech lay in wait, "- and it will all be over before you know it." He grimaced, but managed a curt nod. She turned and hurried out the door without another glance. With a sigh, he followed her.
He hesitated just outside the door, listening to her carriage pull away. He didn't have to do this. Didn't have to watch Watson promise to be to Mary what he'd always been to him. He could turn back now, say he had a case -
"Mr. Holmes?" He jumped and spun around to see Clarky striding toward him, dressed in a fine blue suit so dark in hue it was nearly black. It fit his frame perfectly, and Holmes wondered idly how a police constable of all things managed to afford such rich attire.
Watson had invited the entire police force, nearly, though Holmes had wondered at the time what the point was. It wasn't as though Watson even considered them friends; Holmes rather suspected he simply wanted to have his marriage witnessed by as many people as possible. As though a large attendance might mitigate the enormity of this mistake, Holmes thought bitterly.
"Sir?" He pulled himself from his thoughts to see Clarky watching him with a worried frown.
"I'm fine. On my way to my dear Watson's wedding," he said, clearing his throat to cover the soft waver in his voice.
"I see," Clarky said softly. "I'm headed that way, myself. Would you care to join me in a cab?"
Holmes hesitated only a moment. "Yes, thank you," he said. "I'd rather not arrive alone," he added quietly. Clarky merely nodded and took his arm gently, raising his hand to hail the next cab.
The ceremony went beautifully, with Watson and Mary staring into each other's eyes like the rest of the room didn't exist; Holmes had turned away the moment the procession reached the front of the church only to see Clarky smiling at him encouragingly. He smiled back just as the photographer took the photo of the wedding party. Blinking rapidly, he turned back to the alter and attempted to perform his duties as best man. At the reception, he delivered a toast calculated to maximize emotional impact, timing his inflection perfectly, recalling fond memories of his dearest friend. He was slightly worried when he turned around to face them only to see tears gleaming in Mary's eyes. However, Watson stood and crossed to stand in front of him, shaking his hand firmly, eyes shining, and he was certain he would have embraced him, had it been proper. Holmes pulled his hand away quickly.
Later on, Watson drifted through the crowd, shaking hands and grinning at everyone like a fool. People Holmes had never even seen before congratulated him on his marriage, congratulated him on his thriving young practice.
Congratulated him on getting away from that strange Sherlock Holmes.
He didn't hear those last ones, of course; they were murmured too low for him to hear. Instead he saw them, in the nervous way their eyes would drift away from him, the way Watson's smile would falter and his lips would form awkward protests, glancing at Holmes as though he wished to apologize.
Of course, it surely didn't help their opinion of him that he'd spend the last half hour leaning against the wall nursing his drink, watching his friend as he made his way around the room. Several beautiful young women had approached him nervously, hinting they wished to dance. A natural consequence to having brushed his hair and donned Watson's second best best suit, no doubt. There was even a devastatingly handsome young man watching him, eyes asking a question that had he not been at his respectable best friend's wedding, he certainly would have enthusiastically agreed to.
As it was, the only offer to dance he extended was to Mary, and the way Watson beamed when they were pointed out to him more than compensated for any awkwardness they experienced as they moved across the floor. She smiled at him, cheeks flushed, and as the song ended she pulled him close for just a moment, putting her lips near his ear.
"Thank you. For everything."
He jerked back as though burned, mumbling something as he made his way back to the wall. He pressed against it like a lifeline, trying to rein in the sadness threatening to overcome him. Someone leaned against the wall next to him, pressing a fresh drink into his trembling hands. He downed it quickly and handed the empty glass back. He intended to thank the person when suddenly, Watson was standing in front of him, gripping his hand tightly, and forgot everything as the happiness written plain on his friend's face took his breath away.
"Thank you for coming, Holmes," Watson said earnestly. He brought up his other hand as well, gripping Holmes' hand in both of his. Dimly, Holmes was aware of the person next to him moving away from them.
"Of course," he said softly, squeezing his hand in return. He managed a small smile. "Of course."
The evening wore on, men and women mingling on the dance floor, the wine flowing just a bit freer than was proper. He wasn't sure when he finally slipped away, his duties as best man finally completed. Once outside, he didn't bother with the false cheer; head bowed, he walked to the street. A cab stopped in front of him, and he climbed in gratefully.
And if there was a gentle hand gripping his elbow, guiding him - well, he paid it no mind.
The cab slowed to a stop in front of Baker Street, despite the fact that he'd never addressed the cabbie. He sat there for a moment, staring up at 221B. His home. Alone. After a time the horses began to paw the ground and the cabbie grumbled at him.
"Are you getting out?" the cabbie finally asked.
"No," he said, leaning back in his seat and closing the door behind him. "There's somewhere else I'd like to go."
Hours later, the room pitched and swayed around him as the large man across from him nearly danced around him, grinning. He was beginning to question the merit of his earlier decision to have a drink or three before the match; he stumbled forward, and he barely caught a glimpse of the man's grinning face before stars exploded behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly, the faces of the crowd swirling around him, jeers and laughter echoing as he tried to catch his breath. He fell forward as the man side-stepped, crashing into the wooden divider and forcing the crowd backward. Dazed, he tried to turn around, but pain exploded in his side and he was being forced backward, up and over the wooden wall. The crowd erupted in cheers, and he lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. They surged forward once more, and for one jarring moment he was certain he was about to be trampled; then, strong arms wrapped around his chest, lifting him to his feet.
He was pulled back against a firm chest, a familiar scent enveloping him, and in his drunken state he suddenly wondered if perhaps a different form of physical exertion might finally clear his mind. He turned around in the man's arms, allowing himself to be led away from the ring.
He was pulled into the crowd, bodies pressed against them from all sides as he was dragged along. He gripped the arm of the man holding him, dark blue material crinkling under his fingers as blood and sweat soaked into it. Licking his lips, he wound his other hand around the man's back, straying below the waist and squeezing experimentally. The man let out an undignified squeak as they stumbled forward, the sheer mass of people around them keeping them on their feet. The next match started, and the throng of people surged forward, oblivious to all but the two men in the ring. Holmes chuckled breathlessly, leaning close enough to press his face to the man's neck as he was half-dragged up the stairs to the secluded room.
The man pulled him until they were chest to chest and wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him. He recognized the faint clinking of keys as he struggled to unlock the door of the small room Holmes kept there. Holmes thrust his hips forward, grinning as he felt an answering hardness press against his own erection. There was a surprised curse and a loud clang as the keys fell to the floor, but the door swung open and suddenly he was being forced inside.
The door slammed closed behind them, and he was instantly pressed between the cool wood and the hot, hard form in front of him. He squinted up at the man who was still holding him, trying to make out his features. "Watson?" he slurred. "Your moustache looks funny."
There was a soft sigh, and then the pressure was gone, the room spinning as he was suddenly whipped around and lowered into a chair. "I get that a lot, sir," came a deeper voice.
He tried to stand, but the floor pitched up at him, and strong hands gripped his shoulders. The voice said something in response, but suddenly he couldn't make out the words. He might have been alone for a while, after that; then his arms were carefully maneuvered through his shirt sleeves and he was guided out the door and into a cab. The moment he caught sight of his own bed he collapsed on it, trying to pull the man down with him. He resisted, sitting on the edge instead.
"Please," he begged, unconsciously spreading his legs wider, rolling his hips in the air, "I need..."
"You need to rest," the voice said gently. "You're not yourself."
"You can't know who I am," Holmes muttered. "I don't. Not anymore."
He didn't reply. Instead, his fingers slowly carded through Holmes' hair as the other held his hand loosely, thumb stroking over the back. He felt the bed shift just before there was a soft brush of lips on his forehead, and with a sigh, he relaxed against the mattress, eyes drifting closed.
-----
He awoke slowly, groaning aloud, rolling onto his side as he waited for the contents of his stomach to either settle or be forcibly ejected. Either it was still dark or the shades had been drawn; either way, he was grateful for the lack of sunlight beating against his eyelids in his state. He blinked and looked around warily.
There was a chair drawn up to his bedside, the man in it leaning against the wall, his head resting on his own shoulder awkwardly. He'd taken off his jacket at some point, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal pale forearms, his tie loosened slightly, exposing the hollow of his throat. Holmes glanced away quickly onto to cringe when he noticed he'd been gripping his hand in his sleep. He pulled away hurriedly.
"Constable Clark?" he asked. He jerked awake, looking around sleepily. When his eyes landed on Holmes, however, he flushed a deep red.
"Mr. Holmes!" he jumped to his feet. "Are you alright, sir? You're alright, so I'll just be going -" he babbled as he grabbed his hat and made his way to the door.
"Wait," he said, and Clarky froze, back rigid, hand gripping the doorknob. "My apologies; did you bring me home last night?"
The constable turned around slowly. "Mr. Holmes?" he asked warily.
"From the Punchbowl. I remember fighting a rather large man; after that, my time in the ring is hazy at best. Did I require assistance?"
"You don't remember anything?"
Nervousness thrilled through him at the phrasing. "Unfortunately, no. If I behaved in any way... inappropriately," he began carefully, "I do apologize."
"No! Not at all, sir," Clarky said quickly. "Nothing unexpected, given the events of the day. If you'll excuse me, I must be going." He was out the door in a flash, leaving Holmes still laying in bed and wondering what the world he had meant.
He stared at the ceiling for several minutes, debating the merits of staying in bed. For the rest of his life, preferably. His stomach finally settled, and he sat up, groaning aloud. He took in the state of his clothing: covered in blood in some places, pants ripped, shoes missing. That last one was rather strange; he glanced around curiously. Ah, at the foot of the bed. Brushed off as well, he noted with a slight smile. With a shrug, he pulled himself from the bed and peeled off his clothing, wincing whenever the dried blood clung to him stubbornly.
He washed carefully, the water quickly turning a rust color as he scrubbed the blood from his chest. He emptied the basin and finally moved to fill the tub, sinking into the warm water with a soft sigh. He ran his fingers down his abdomen, dipping down between his legs idly, teasing himself with no great urgency. He already felt strangely sated, boneless in the water, his head resting against the edge.
He reached with his other hand to cup his sac, rolling his testicles in his palm before dipping lower to brush over his opening. He gasped at the sensation. It had been so long since he'd dared - unbidden, he thought of the device he had hidden in his room years ago. For treating hysteria in women, Watson had explained when they first moved in together and he caught sight of it in Watson's bag. He'd slipped it from the doctor's room at the first opportunity, marveling at the existence of such a thing in - what he felt - was a far too sexually repressed age. He stepped from the tub, not bothering to dry off before he padded silently to his bedroom and drew it from where he'd hidden it. He bit his lip.
He'd put it away shortly after his first few experiments with it, determined to avoid indulging in this particular vice while living with Watson. At first, it was a necessary precaution - Watson had of course noticed it's disappearance, and he had no idea, for example, if Watson would be prone to bursting into his rooms - and later out of fear that his attachment to Watson would manifest during such sessions. It hardly seemed to matter now. He moved to lay on the bed, heart already hammering in anticipation.
He carefully spread the lubricant over his hand before fisting the tool and stroking it roughly, closing his eyes and trying to imagine the way a lover would react to such touches. He moved his still-slick fingers to his opening, pressing two fingers inside in his excitement and swearing at the long-forgotten feeling. He raised his knees, pressing the balls of his feet against the mattress as he rolled his hips, tensing around his fingers and whimpering aloud at the sensation. Hand shaking, he withdrew his fingers and pressed the tip against his opening.
He gasped as he slid it inside, spreading himself open almost painfully. He bucked his hips, gripping his shaft, imagining a deep voice groaning in his ear as his hand worked furiously. A spasm of pleasure went through him as he ran his thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture there over the head. He rolled onto his side and buried his face in the slightly rough fabric below him, muffling his cries as he angled the device to stroke his prostate again and again.
Pleasure was building at the base of his spine and his strokes turned harsh as he drew a deep, gasping breath. A strangely familiar scent assaulted his senses and with a choked curse, his muscles clenched around the device as he came over the bed in great spurts.
He lay there panting for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Finally, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at where he had been laying. There, on the edge of the bed, was a now hopelessly rumpled dark blue suit jacket, caked with old blood in some places and now fresh stains in others. With a groan, he flopped back on the bed.
Getting out of bed had been a bad idea after all, he decided.