While bridges still burn : IX

“It was quite simple, “ Holmes exclaimed to both Lestrade and Watson, “ Five women, all murdered in the same horrendous manor, all of upper class and in the same district of the city. That narrows it down. However, what placed the icing upon the cake was this; they are all of five foot and seven inches, all have blonde curls and are all aged between twenty and twenty six.”

“Yes but Holmes, there are at least three more women of that description in that district.” Lestrade answered.

“Ah but you see, there is more.” Holmes snatched Watson's cane from him and began swinging it in circles as he paced, “One of those women is a scullery maid; our killer isn't after the lower classes. You say no possessions were taken from the bodies? I say there was. Money.” He reached for Lestrade's bowler cap but his hand was slapped away, “That leaves Madam Smithe and Madam Winchester. However, Madam Smithe is in fact twenty seven and six months.”

He sat upon a stool, placed the cane between his legs and leaned forward. His grin was manic with triumph.

“Gentlemen, our next victim is without our sights. Madam Winchester happens to be attending the theatre tonight, by her lonesome. Her husband is off pursuing his affair with the governess, no doubt.”

“How in bleedin' hell do you know that.” Lestrade spat, “You could be makin' this up for all we know.”

“Have I made it up before, Lestrade? Why should now be any different? I happen to know due to my massive intellect and observation skills. I also happen to have contacts in that area.”

“It's no secret that you've gone barmey, Holmes. I'm takin' a big risk lettin' you in on this.”

Watson cleared his throat.

“Inspector, Holmes is perfectly capable of this job. His condition is much better now, it was just a severe case of the flu.”

Holmes grinned up at Lestrade, “I have always been barmey, old boy.”

The inspector growled in frustration and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“What time tonight?”

**

There was a flaw that Holmes had not seen coming. A small loophole in the plan that had eventually lead to the untimely death of another young woman.

Watson had the blanket wrapped around Holmes' small shoulders just moments after the body was carried away. The detective was staring at the spot where the young woman had lay, his mind whirring, deciphering the fact from the fiction and how it had all gone wrong. Watson was whispering, pulling him up by the elbow and he obeyed because what else could he do?

Holmes felt weak at the knees. Lestrade was speaking but the sound was muffled by the ringing in his ears. He was being tugged out into the darkness of the street, a carriage was flagged and he was shoved inside.

There, Watson fussed over him. His speech was coming in frantic waves, the vibrations jolting through Holmes like some sort of shock.

“Come on, old cock, breathe!”

Holmes was not aware that his heart had stopped. Or perhaps he was not breathing quite enough.

“Sherlock.” Watson tapped the side of his face lightly, “Focus.”

“I-I am here, Watson.”

“You need to lift your head up and take deep breaths. Your heart rates is much too slow.”

Holmes felt his head being lifted, his eyes met Watson's and he could feel the doctor's hand grasping his.

“It's alright, Holmes. You are alive.”

“Since when did being alive make everything alright?”

Watson studied the detectives eyes for any sign of his old friend, but he found none. They were empty, void of all emotion but pain and anger. The irises were pale in comparison to what they once were and, in all truth, he looked as if he might cry. Watson was at a loss for words.

“Sherlock-” Watson started, but he knew there was nothing he could say to counter that vacancy within Holmes.

He gently wrapped his arms around the detective's frame and rested one hand in his scruffy bonce. They sat in silence. Holmes' did not react to his ally's embrace, nor did he so much as blink when the carriage made an abrupt halt at 221B. He merely sat impossibly still with his eyes focused on the seat opposite and his arms crossed neatly on his lap.

Carefully, Watson helped Holmes from the carriage. He was still unsteady on his feet but made no attempt to seek Watson as a crutch.

“This case was certainly not one of my better ideas.” Watson muttered once in the safety of Holmes' chamber.

“Well now we have a firm grasp on the obvious.” Holmes answered.

Ignoring Holmes' ill-mannered response, Watson began checking his vitals. He pinched at his wrists and neck for a pulse and checked the flesh beneath his eyes for discolouration. To Holmes it was all a blur of muffled speech and unnecessary touching.

“Must you?” He mumbled.

“Must I check that you are remotely unharmed? Yes, of course!” Watson snapped, “If you are suffering from shock do you expect me to just let you be? Because I won't.”

“I am perfectly fine.” Holmes threw his jacket to the floor and sat upon one of the arm chairs.

“Physically, yes. But your mental state is deteriorating.”

“And how might you know that, Watson? Enlighten me.”

The doctor sighed. He placed both jackets, his and Holmes', upon the back of the other armchair before sitting. Once again, Holmes was staring vacantly at the fire. He had been pushed right back to where he had began and it was only a matter of time before his cravings picked up.

“It wasn't your fault, you know.” Watson whispered.

“Hmm.”

“I'm telling you the truth, old boy. You can't save everyone. We caught the fiend behind it all, concentrate on that.”

“But one more innocent died. We had the means to prevent it and we didn't - ” Holmes pinched at the bridge of his nose,” - forget it, Watson. I would like to be left alone now.”

“I will not leave you to brood along side the fire, you must pick yourself up and move on. I will not allow you to spiral any further - ” Watson's train of thought was broken by the tapping of Holmes' fingers along side the arm of the chair, “ And your craving again.”

“Again, enlighten me with how you have come to know this.”

“You're tapping your fingers in an irritated fashion. You're chewing on your lip, in fact it's bleeding -”

“I could just be irritated by your presence even after I asked you to leave.”

“This case has knocked you back quite a bit, it doesn't take a doctor to see that. If I were to leave you now there would be nothing to stop you going onto the streets and finding your precious opium, or cocaine, or any drug for that matter. In fact you -” He was abruptly interrupted by the gentle touch of Holmes' lips against his. He said rigidly still.

Eventually Holmes pulled away and instead wrapped his arms tightly around the doctor. He began to sob, his words hoarse and muffled by tears and his head buried in Watson's shoulder.

“I-I'm so sorry.” Holmes whined.

“It's quite alright, old cock.” Watson answered gently rubbing at his back, “I'm here. It's all alright.”

“I failed, Watson. That young woman is dead because I failed to see the flaw in our plan. I would have this all sorted weeks ago if I were my old self -”

“You would still be on the drugs, I would not be here. You may even be dead. We caught the crook and , as I said before , it is not your job to save everyone.”

“Of course not. How could any one rely on me to save them when I can not even save myself.” He pulled Watson closer and nuzzled at his neck. Watson could feel the sobs shaking his entire body, “ I see no point to living if I have lost my ability to think.”

Watson wrapped both arms around the detective.

“There is always a reason to live, Holmes, a-and right now, in this moment, you are mine.”

Holmes softly kissed Watson neck and whispered something about loving him, he nipped a line along his jaw and gently pressed their lips together. When Watson didn't pull away he gently bit at his bottom lip, subtly asking for more. The doctor pulled Holmes on to his lap. He rested his hands on the man's lower back and parted his lips so their tongues touched. Holmes moaned.

“Old cock, we shouldn't do this.” Watson murmured between kisses.

“That is certainly not what your hands and mouth are telling me.” Holmes answered, “Why do you say such a thing.”

The detective dipped his head to kiss at Watson's collar bone.

“Y-you are fragile. I don't want to take advantage.”

“Nonsense.”

“I'm serious Holmes! I don't want to hurt you.”

The detective bit down hard on Watson's skin, earning himself a deep growl.

“I need you to help me feel human.”

Holmes ground his hips against Watson. His hand moved to undo the buttons of his waist coat and shirt while the doctor moved his hands to Holmes' backside. Gently Watson kissed at Holmes' neck, then his jaw.

“You are human,” he said breathlessly, “ You have never been more human to me.”

“Bed. Please, Watson.”

Holmes wrapped his legs around Watson’s waist and the good doctor carried him to the bed. He laid him upon the sheets, his hands entangled with his and they kissed. It was urgent yet sweet and unrushed. He could taste Holmes' tears and it made his heart melt slightly in his chest. He moved his hands to unbutton the detective's shirt.

“I love you.” Holmes brushed his fingers through Watson's hair, “I may never stop saying it and I never wish to.”

Watson gazed up into Holmes' hazel eyes, still raw from crying and threatening more tears. He felt his defences falling , all those months spent building walls and they were falling to ruin. But he couldn't reply, not yet.

He ripped Holmes' shirt from his body and then his own. Furiously he began to kiss at the detective's chest, he nipped and sucked and scratched at the skin. Above him Holmes' moaned and begged.

“You are so radiant, ” He commented, “ just much to thin.”

“J-just please kiss me, oh Christ Watson, kiss me.”

And he did. He kissed him again and again, his tongue exploring every inch of Holmes' mouth and vice versa. His hands held his buttocks firmly while Holmes' was hovering above his waistband.

This was not the sexual energy they were used to. It wasn't rough and bare and ready, it was slow and sweet; almost sad. Like a swan song.

Watson rubbed himself against Holmes' leg, the friction sending threads of lightening to his cock. In his moment of weakness he was flipped to lay upon the bed, above him Holmes worked at the buckle of his belt. Once unfastened he slid the trousers from Watson’s' legs, ducked to untie his shoes and threw them to the other side of the bed. His own soon followed.

Once entirely naked, Holmes laid himself down upon Watson's body. Both shivered at the touch. He kissed the doctor, sliding his tongue in and out as if he were gently fucking his lips. As the kissed deepened, he slid a finger inside of him. Watson groaned loudly and Holmes drank in the sound, twisting his finger further inside him.

“You sound wonderful.” Holmes muttered.

Watson groaned as another finger was added. He dragged his nails along Holmes' back and brought his legs up to wrap around the detective's waist.

“Sherlock - “ Watson whispered with surprising dexterity for someone with two fingers inside him, stretching him and brushing his prostate , “Please, do get on with it.”

“If you are sure.”

Holmes began to kiss along Watson's jaw line and as he did, carefully slid into him. Watson tensed himself, after all if had been a few months.

“Relax, I won't hurt you.” Holmes whispered into his ear.

Watson nodded and the detective pushed further until he was entirely buried within the doctor. Slowly he began to thrust his hips. Watson moaned, his hands gripping onto the sheets. Holmes continued to kiss along his jaw, along his neck and he occasionally nipped and sucked at the man's nipples.

He took hold of Watson's neglected cock and stroked it in time with his own rhythm. Soon enough, Watson was a squirming mess below him.

“Sherlock, christ, I'm -”

Watson moaned loudly and released his seed over his stomach. Holmes' continued to thrust, the image of Watson arching his back and tilting his head back as he came burned into his skull. Shortly, in three short movements, Holmes' gave into the heat in his belly. He gripped the doctor's hips for support and cried out his Christian name.

Once spent, he collapsed beside his friend. He was breathless and, for the first time in weeks, exhausted.