whatofthewarts | (no subject)

(no subject)

Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

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"I know this must sound absurd, but-"

Pause, pause.

"I think I should like to put my arm around you."

'Cuddling' is not something that appeals to Holmes. But he feels- he's not sure what he feels, but he needs contact.

"Please."

He agrees, immediately, ready to fly apart at the seams.

"Just don't- say anything, I beg you-"

Not talking will always be the tricky part for Holmes. He's much, much more talkative than one would expect from someone like him. But once he does have his arm awkwardly around Sherlock, the events all become that much more real. It leaves him stunned, and a little shaken.

He finds he has nothing to say, anyway.

He tumbles into him, wretched and defeated by his day, by their words earlier, and the pain and shock of orgasm too.

The helium balloon metaphor wasn't so bad after all.

Several times, he opens his mouth to say something, but either the words evaporate or he remembers Sherlock's request. And he had, after all, told him he would listen.

Before long he nods off and begins to snore.

The sound shakes him out of his dazed trance, and he crawls off of him- there's a small ladder to the attic of his little cottage, and he limps up it to his bed, leaving Holmes asleep, somewhat cruelly, on the floor.

He does drop a blanket down on top of him.

What wakes him a few hours later is that a bee pops into thin air, and decides to start crawling on his face. He only barely manages not to smash it, because he remembers at the last second what the bee--alive, whole--means.

He catches it in a jar and realizes that it is, in fact, bright pink. It's still too weird to call out his own name.

"Where did you go! I have a most curious surprise for you!"

"Up here."

He answers, voice scratchy, hidden under blankets.

The climb to the attic is excruciating. He can only imagine what Sherlock must have gone through.

He makes a lot of noise ("Ow, ow, good lord, ow") before he collapses on the bed and holds the jar up for them both to see. Yup: the bee is still pink.

He peeks out, then is up, grabbing for the jar, distracted from the impulse to hide the purple and black under the blankets by the desire to see the new scientific phenomenon.

He's predictably a complete wreck.

Oh. He should have known there would be bruises--he'd deliberately hit to make them. But so many on such pale skin is a shock.

Holmes frowns and muses and fusses.

"Watson won't like this."

"I don't have a Watson."

He reminds him, looking at his bee.

"No one else will see."

"Those won't fade quickly. There is a chance he could be brought here--and if my Watson ever finds out about you, he will insist on fussing and chiding as diligently as he does for me."

"If he's brought here, I'll say I got into a fight."

He doesn't sound like he's anticipating it, though.

"And yours has no reason to come looking for me. It's fine. No one will mind."

They're Sherlock's bruises, so he lets him worry about them.

"What do you make of the bee? It seems in good health, one obvious thing aside."

"It means I'm getting closer."

He admits, smiling crookedly (swollen skin pulling) and looking up at him, amicably.

"You simply must explain your methods to me."

He props himself up on an elbow, head leaning on his hand.

"After we indulge in some ice therapy I have been working on."

Ignoring the bit about the ice, Sherlock launches into an explanation. It's a beautiful analysis, betraying the inner workings of a deeply scientific and brilliant mind, relying on several major mathematical principles that haven't yet been invented. He gestures expansively while he speaks with the swollen hand.

The new principles, the shrewdness of it, has Holmes up and pacing. He's completely forgotten that he's naked, and also bruised, and that every muscle is sore. There's too much to think about to care about any of that.

"Of course!"

And he spouts off several tangents of his own, some of them completely unworkable which he dismisses on his own.

"And I can get home," most important, devotion showing radiant in him.

"Yes!"

The victory is enough to overshadow the very brief second where Holmes wonders how on earth he'll find anything as entertaining as himself. Everything will be so boring in comparison.

"I once met your Mycroft. He said yours was a world without coal polluting the air; a world where horseless carriages completely replaced the horse. Who wouldn't want that?"

"I don't care about that."

Dismissing, immediately.

"Truly. Not about black lung or the dangers of horses?"

They cannot be the same person. ...Never mind that Holmes is wondering where his pipe is.

"No. You're just- right. I failed him."

Explaining, though he doesn't really want to think about all this again.

"It needs to be set right."

Holmes looks at him, and rubs his palms together slowly.

"When I said that, it was not because I thought you would leave it at failure. I know that I would not. Neither of us could afford to, not with Moriarty."