| Primary Character: | Sherlock Holmes |
| Rating: | M |
| Spoilers: | Some |
| Warning: | m/m sex,, drug use |
| Description: | AU. Things are not the same since Watson’s marriage. Holmes’ thoughts turn to memories but in the end, only the cocaine can help him. |
It is not the same as it used to be. Holmes is not sure if Watson knows it. After all, he has spent their years together hiding the truth from his friend. For a man of his intellect it has not been difficult, at least not in one sense, to make sure he ever presented the same unperturbed demeanour. After all those years, it has become second nature to him. Hiding his true emotions from Watson. However, that was then, when Watson was still with him. Lived in the same house. Although it was a torment, such a sweet torment. To watch the other man, and to struggle to subdue the emotions that are, perhaps rightly, deemed unnatural. Debauched. When all Holmes had to do was subdue his need to touch his own treacherous flesh. As a boy, the urges had been beaten out of him. Today, he had to beat himself with his mind.
And never, not since the first day he saw Watson walk into his rooms on Baker Street, had he ever broken his promise to himself. No self abuse. No running to someone else – even if Holmes, as a private investigator knew well where those houses hid themselves in plain sight in seemingly ordinary London streets.
Now everything was different. Since that woman. Not The Woman, but That Woman had appeared. How she had appeared did not matter. What did was that despite Watson’s ever cheerful enthusiasm for almost any kind of woman, young, old, pretty, plain – this time he had gone from visually admiring and occasionally commenting on the female, to acting. It was done. Watson had courted that woman, then proposed. She had accepted his proposal. All that time, Holmes had scarcely been able to believe what was unfolding before his eyes. Watson liked women, he knew that. But that Watson should leave him – that was unthinkable. Until it no longer was. Until the day it did come to pass.
Watson did come by once in a while. That woman ‘generously’ allowed him time with his old friend. They still solved cases together. Watson still took down notes and described the cases, exaggerating and blowing details out of proportion. In the privacy of his rooms, Holmes could sometimes smile at his friend’s loyalty and enthusiasm. All that went into making Watson the man who he was. The man Holmes respected, liked – and had an unspeakable emotion for, one that could not be named.
Holmes had never known if Watson saw, realized and understood – or if he chose not to. Perhaps he truly did not see any of it. Holmes liked to think that it was so. Would it not be hard to live with such a knowledge? Being loved but unable to return that love? No, Watson could not guess what was taking place behind the seemingly placid features of his old friend.
Since Watson’s departure, the cocaine had turned into Holmes best friend. Watson scolded him, but he could not understand the need that underpinned Holmes whole existence. Especially now. In this instance, he could not indulge Watson’s will although he wished he could comply with his friend’s every wish.
How he relished the moment of fulfillment when the needle penetrated his skin and the dose of cocaine made its way into his bloodstream. Then and only then did he know he would for a short while forget the loss and the pain. The cocaine could be cruel too, of course. The drug induced euphoria might cause visions of himself lying entwined with Watson on the bed, on the floor, anywhere his overactive mind could imagine. It tricked him into becoming familiar with the sensation of Watson’s skin against his. In the end, he had come to terms with the visions and dreams and even allowed himself to derive pleasure from them. Imagining how it would feel to let his hands roam over Watson’s body. Even to kiss his lips and enjoy the contact with his tongue.
It was intolerable. He knew he must not indulge these fantasies without cocaine in his bloodstream. Now he would have to use up his precious stash of the drug. If he did not – he might still succumb to the lure of the flesh and he would not – could not – open the floodgates to that need. To aid the cocaine he starved and forced himself to stay awake for days on end. Hunger, fatigue – all could help break down the relentless need of his insatiable flesh. A man like Sherlock Holmes would not succumb to mere base physical needs. He was master of his own body, not the other way around.
What must he think of now? In what direction should he force his mind to assuage the burning need? A few moments of consideration provide the answer. That woman. How in a bizarre way he had understood Watson’s attraction to her. A woman’s body did little or nothing for Holmes, but her mind – She was not like The Woman, but – all the same – there was something. Holmes thought that if more women were like those two he might not have been suffering the all too familiar torments of the flesh. He would not have chosen marriage, but he would not have needed to guard his facial expressions so well. Would not have had to hide his true feelings. Many men put off or even chose to avoid marriage entirely. Some chased women from the lower classes to satisfy their physical needs. No one blamed such men. Holmes might find it unfair, but knew that despite his superior mental faculties, he could not change an entire society. He too, needed to exist within its framework.
Yes, that woman was intelligent, had a strong will and much integrity. How could he blame Watson for loving her, when he himself might, under different circumstances have – almost – felt the same? Perhaps he ought to be grateful that his friend for want of a better word – had not fallen for a stupid, slatternly woman as so many other men did? Class was never any guarantee for quality.
Tonight it would have to be the cocaine. Tomorrow night, perhaps the violin. If a new case worthy of his intellect were to appear, that might help too. For now, though, the cocaine.
He went to get the little case from its drawer and made the arrangements. His hands were shaking slightly as he held the syringe up to the light, expelled the tiny, but deadly bubbles of air, then plunged the needle into his arm, that was already prepared, the vein clearly visible. The wait that kept getting longer – and so – the drug hit him. His eyes shot open and he saw – Watson. Sitting down, standing up, walking away. Bending over his friend, concern in his eyes. Smiling. Laughing. Defending himself against accusations against his writing. Perhaps tonight’s visions might be merciful.
No images of naked flesh, of parts of the anatomy never glimpsed, but frequently imagined and dreamed of. No limbs entwined or lips tasted. Although – why should the drug be merciful, beyond what it was already offering? And the images whirled around in his mind, tormenting and comforting alternately. He feared he might have called out the beloved name, but no one was there to hear his voice and the building’s walls and floors were sturdy. Mrs Hudson would not hear him.
Eventually, he drifted off to a dreamless sleep. Once again, the cocaine had come to his aid. Although today he would need to procure more of the precious stuff. He would need to seek out his contact. At least it was something to do to pass the time. A day with or without a visit from Watson. The day might bring a new case or – endless hours of dull idleness, spent struggling with his treacherous mind. There was no telling beforehand.
When Holmes woke to a new day, he was once again master of himself and knew he could get through this day, just like any other day. He was the master of his mind and his body. If he chose to, he could allow his mind to peruse old cases, old mysteries. He knew he would prevail over the temptations.
FIN
© Tonica