He was ashamed to admit that he awoke most mornings with an erection for the man. Even now that he was back in the house, in such close proximity with the man, the dreams hadn't ceased; they had become more frequent. The sight of Sherlock in such a vulnerable position, quite frankly, made him want the detective more than ever.
He couldn't deny it, no matter how he wanted to, but he wanted Holmes. He couldn't tell if it were love or just lust, but he ached for Holmes, every bone in his body cried out for him.
Most nights, if not every night since he had held Holmes in his arms, Watson's dreams were more intense, a mixture of their pleasure. Some mere memories and some concoctions of his own mind.
Holmes took him from behind, his stomach against the arm of the couch. Moaning and gasping, from both him and Holmes. Especially Holmes. That long, slow moan that made him hard instantly, the lack of control in his vocal cords. He had ejaculated all over the material on the couch and, almost immediately after, Holmes growled in his throat and dug his nails into Watson's thighs as he reached climax.
It was a memory, and a beautiful one, for after the passion there came the peace. They lay in each others arms, upon the floor, by the fire, and just basked in each others company. Holmes had whispered in his ear, for the first time, that he loved him and Watson's heart did some sort of dance in his chest. They slept like that, side by side, on the tiger skin rug.
After he awoke from the dream, he was so hard it hurt. He could hear Holmes moving and wrecking in his own rooms and thinking of the man only made him worse. Shamefully, he wrapped a hand around his erection and began to slowly stroke himself. The images of Holmes, vulnerable and wanting, and the sounds he made as he spent. Holmes muscles, his voice, his tears, his smell; he wanted it all. His mind moved to fast, the heat built up deep in his belly until he knew he was close. He clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his cries and thought of only Holmes' smile as he came.
**
Since his recovery from the aliment, brought on by the drugs, Holmes spent his time in his rooms or wandering the halls. Mrs Hudson and Watson often heard him at night in the scullery making tea or looking for morsels of food. Within the two weeks he had often been asked to come out for a walk or a bit of fresh air, but each time he refused; he was content, in his room with his experiments and loyal dog.
However, he ignored any visitors but Watson or the landlady. When he was asked to assist a case, mediocre that it was, he told them he was too busy with other things. The men at Scotland Yard didn't press.
" He needs a case." Watson pinched at the bridge of his nose and gave the landlady a pained look, "Why is he doing this?"
"Why does Mr Holmes do anything?" She answered.
"Why indeed."
There was a crash and clatter upstairs. Watson rose from his seat and, cursing, strode to Holmes rooms. The door was not locked so he saw no reason to announce his entrance. The drapes were pulled shut, the fire lit and one of the tables was over turned. The writing desk to be exact. Holmes was sitting cross-legged beneath his dining table, his back to Watson and Gladstone in his lap.
Watson watched him for a moment. He could hear short shallow breaths and he could see the man's shoulders shaking; Holmes was weeping. Feeling his heart break once again, Watson knelt behind him and took him into his arms.
"Did you knock over the writing desk?" He asked quietly.
Holmes sniffed and lay back against him.
"Yes. The blasted thing frustrates me."
"Why?"
He hesitated.
"I honestly have no idea. I just needed to destroy something beautiful."
"Like your writing desk?"
"Precisely."
The sat in silence, Holmes' head against Watson's shoulder. The doctor stroked the older man's hair, he took in his scent, studied his movements and prayed to God he knew what to say next. Holmes was still weeping, but he tried to hide it. He bit at his lip and fiddled with the threads on his ratty old dressing gown, but despite his efforts, Watson knew.
"Why are you crying?"
"I- I do not know, Watson."
"Yes you do. I care. Tell me."
That was when the sobs caught in Holmes' throat. He pulled himself to Watson's chest and wept uncontrollably. His whole body shook. Watson rubbed rings into his back and whispered small words of comfort into his ear.
"I-I do not want to live. Even with you here, nothing is right. I - I ruin every god forsaken thing I touch. Nanny was right, I am full of poison."
"Holmes', I feared from the beginning that this depression would persist. And, I regret to say that all we can do is wait it out."
"Let me die."
"I will not let you die, Holmes! I care about you! I am trying, I truly am, but even if I do not love you yet I do honestly, really care! Mrs Hudson cares, Gladstone cares. Mycroft and your dear old mother and father care, Holmes. Do not let a little thing like depression bring down the greatest detective the world has ever seen."
"It - this is not little. This is agony." Holmes looked up into the eyes of his once-upon-a-time lover, "But for you, and only you, I will try."
"You will do more than try. You will."
Watson hugged him to his chest. He was terrified, if he was truthful. He had seen great men who had fought with him in war kill themselves from depression. He had seen the way their eyes lost all spark, the way nothing meant anything any more. Workings of the mind was not his area. But, for Holmes, he would do anything to stop him from suicide.
"Lets get you into bed, sleep may help."
"I don't use the bed any more."
Watson frowned.
"What, why not?"
"I sleep in your chair."
"Why in God's name would you do that? You'll give yourself a bad back!"
"It smells of you. A bad back is a small price to pay."
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